Read Online A Place Apart by Paula Fox - Free Book Online

it.”
    So that’s where we went, up the long hill, and then instead of continuing toward school, we turned left, toward the Matcha River, and walked into the fresh, sweet smell of the water. We passed a long driveway which led to a great stone house with shuttered windows.
    â€œThat used to be ours,” Hugh said, waving a hand at it. “But my mother sold it after my father died. The Todds once owned this entire hill. Look! See the three small windows on the top floor? Those were my rooms, up there right under the roof. My father read to me every night.”
    â€œPapa read to me, too,” I said.
    â€œOne night, there was a big storm and it drowned out his voice, but while the rain beat down he drew a story for me with my crayons, and after each drawing was done, he’d pass it to me.”
    â€œDo you still have them? The drawings?”
    â€œThey’re lost,” he said. “And I’ve forgotten the story they told.”
    We had nearly reached the river by then. And I saw a house unlike any other I had ever seen. The most amazing thing about it was the three balconies that hung right over the river. “That’s the new house,” Hugh said. The remembering, eager sound was gone from his voice now, and he didn’t seem much interested in his new house, which he’d brought me to see.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” I said.
    â€œIt’s a freak,” he said, and then he told me it was a copy of an Italian villa—an architect back in the 1920’s had built seven or eight such houses in various New England towns.
    On one side, there was a huge garden and white painted iron benches with feet like the feet of animals, and there was a fountain, and near the house, a swimming pool. Where the garden ended, with trellises and climbing vines, a small wood began.
    We walked in the front door, and we passed rooms that looked as though no one used them but were filled with a kind of furniture quiet, and a smell of wax everywhere. I thought of Ma’s seashell and jar-cap ashtrays as I touched a heavy glass bowl where an amber pipe rested. In niches in the walls were Oriental statues which Hugh said were carved from different kinds of jade. Silky cloth embroidered with flowers covered great wing chairs. The rugs were like beds of flowers, too. And on the walls hung paintings of soldiers, and horses, and rivers bending through tall, slender trees. On a mantel, I saw a clock, and its face was made of tiny squares of blue and white china, and in each square I saw a different scene of people skating, or windmills, or a town square from long ago.
    â€œIt comes from Holland,” Hugh said. I could have looked at it forever.
    We walked through French doors and stood on a stone terrace overlooking the swimming pool. There was no water in it. A few frogs jumped around a drain hole, and a black and orange butterfly wove back and forth across the pool like a shuttle on a loom.
    We went inside again, and I went back to the clock. “It’s so lovely,” I whispered.
    â€œPoor little rich boy!” Hugh’s voice suddenly boomed. “Here is the house of the poor little rich boy!” At that moment a door opened and a small woman came in and looked at us. She was wearing a long dress. Its color was a kind of buttery yellow, and the ruffle around the neck cast a pale-yellow glow on her face.
    â€œHello there, Hugh,” she said in a low, pleasant voice. “This is my friend Victoria, Mother,” he said.
    She touched my hand with her small, cool one. I was suddenly aware that my shirt was sticking out of my jeans and I wanted, frantically, to stuff it back inside.
    â€œHow nice to meet you, Victoria,” she said. “Hugh has told me about you. I hear you are writing a fine play.”
    I mumbled something and stepped back, wishing I could hide behind one of the big chairs. And I felt persecuted. That play again! I wished I’d never begun