Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

I see." She wasn't inclined to ask why he favored this means of communication. Maybe it was an old Southern custom. Realizing that her voice had been less than welcoming, she added, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks." He stepped back. "I just wanted to tell you that you can have that box of papers. Does fifty bucks seem fair to you?"

"I'd have paid more," Karen admitted, her mood miraculously improved.

"So I gathered. I'll deliver it this evening, if you like. Or you can call Lisa if you want it earlier."

"This evening will be fine. Come in and I'll give you a check."

He retreated again until he was backed up against the wooden rail that enclosed the landing. "That's okay, you can pay on delivery. I want to finish up some things at the house. It's supposed to rain tonight."

"I'll follow you there if I may."

"Sure." He hesitated; she could see courtesy and curiosity vying for precedence. Curiosity won. "Anything in particular you're after?"

"I was hoping I could have a look at the cellar."

He obviously didn't like the idea, but after a moment he said, "I guess this would be as good a time as any. The water should have subsided by now, and if it rains again tonight . . . It's a filthy mess, though. Wear— uh—something old. And boots, if you have them."

He hadn't looked directly at her except for the first startled acknowledgment of her sudden appearance. Amused, Karen went to her room and exchanged her lace-trimmed pale-blue, rosebud-embroidered robe for jeans and sweatshirt. The robe was another of the follies she had committed under the influence of Joan and Sharon; she wore it, in private, because it would have been a waste of money to buy another, more practical garment. It must have given Cameron a false impression, especially after the pink frilly gown she had worn to tea. He had been embarrassed, bless his innocent little heart. Or perhaps he had feared Mrs. Fowler would see them in what she would certainly interpret as a potentially compromising position. If she could see Mrs. Fowler's window. Mrs. F. could undoubtedly see the apartment from that same window, and it wouldn't surprise her to learn that Mrs. Fowler kept a pair of binoculars on the windowsill.

Her present ensemble ought to convince Cameron her wardrobe was not limited to business suits and frilly frocks. She studied the effect in the mirror as she applied lipstick. The jeans had a patch on one knee and the color had faded to a blue almost as pale as that of the robe, with streaks of yellow paint still showing from the time she had redecorated her apartment. The sweatshirt featured the President of the United States, in glowing blue neon, playing a blue saxophone. How was that for making a statement? She slid her feet into sneakers, pulled her boots from the closet, collected her purse and the briefcase, and went out. She could have sworn she saw the curtains of Mrs. Fowler's bedroom window twitch.

The air was heavy with moisture and warm enough to make the sweatshirt unnecessary. She might be glad of it later, though, if the cellar was as damp and chilly as cellars often were.

Cameron had left the gate open. Not until she reached it did Karen realize the pillar of smoke she had seen came from the vicinity of the house. Apprehension dried her mouth as she pushed her car along the drive at a speed that endangered the muffler, the tail pipe and a few other important appendages. Had her premonition of fire been born of concern, not about the apartment but about the house? Subconsciously she must have noted its vulnerability—the time-dried wood, the paint cans and other flammable materials . . . Not the house, she prayed silently. Please, not the house. Not yet. I'm not through with it.

The fire was outside the house, not inside. A column of flame rose skyward from a blackened pile in the cleared space before the steps. Karen slammed on the brakes, and Cameron Hayes came around the corner of the house carrying an armful of broken branches. He stopped and stared, and then ran toward her. She was already backing away. When she stopped the car, at a safe distance from the blaze, he thrust his head in the open window.

His expression led her to expect a blistering reprimand. Instead he took a deep breath and said, "Sorry. I should have warned you I intended to burn trash."

"My fault, I was driving too fast. I was afraid the house had caught fire."

"And that you'd see me on the roof, screaming out curses, like the first Mrs. Rochester?"

Karen's face grew warm. She hadn't even considered danger to him, she had been too concerned about the house. Apparently he took the blush for maidenly confusion, for he went on, "Your lecture on Gothic novels aroused my curiosity. As you have probably deduced, I've been reading Jane Eyre."

So had she. In her present mood she was abnormally sensitive to coincidences—if that was what they were. "Why that book?" she asked.

"Because it was there, I suppose. In the bookshelf."

The answer was so obvious she was ashamed she hadn't thought of it. Bronte's masterpiece was a classic, often assigned reading for high school or college English courses. Cameron hadn't struck her as the sort of man who kept his old schoolbooks, but one never knew.

"I hope you enjoyed it."

"More than I expected," he admitted. "The first part was kind of boring, but it livens up after Rochester appears on the scene. Though what she saw in him—"

"He represented freedom, escape from the narrow confines of a woman's world, communion with an original, expanded mind—"

" 'Original' is right. He pretends he's in love with another woman, lies to her about his crazy wife—"

"Nobody's perfect."

He gave her a startled look; then his face dissolved in laughter. "That's an original, expanded way of looking at it, I suppose. Okay, I can