system—thatis, the
house’s
malfunctioning sprinkler system—he had an idea that Delia’s sprinkler system was in tip-top shape … now there was another thing he needed to take up with God, if they’d ever let him get close enough. One of the benefits of age was supposed to be a certain easing of the more frantic carnal imaginings and yet here he was having sinful thoughts about Delia Cotton’s sprinkler system. Haggard slowed to a halt, the sinful ideas dying slowly away as he stared at the entrance to Delia’s estate. The wrought-iron gates were wide open. Delia always kept them closed.
Always.
He braked the Packard in the entrance and extracted his long, lean frame from behind the wheel, straightening up with an effort and peering over his glasses at the big house up on the rise, a tall, bent old man wearing tan slacks and a plaid shirt, gardening boots, with a tanned, hawkish face, a crest of snow white hair, and clear blue eyes with a fan of deep wrinkles at each corner.
He was looking at
another
puzzle.
Delia’s house, called Temple Hill, was a classic High Victorian mansion, with a wide curving porch running all the way around the building, gingerbread carvings and gables and turrets here and there, and very fine stained-glass windows in all the rooms.
Tonight these rooms were shining like red and violet and green jewels in the fading light. It looked like Delia had turned on every light in the entire house. It stood out in the blue evening like a cruise ship on the far horizon.
As he was wondering about the open gate and the house all lit up like this, he heard the sound of music floating down the grassy hill-side—a deep resonant droning melody, a cello or a viola or perhaps an organ.
The sound, although very graceful and moving, was also very loud, and loud was one of the many modern innovations that Delia did not approve of.
Gray stood there for a moment, taking it all in and wondering what the hell Delia was up to, and then he got back into the Packard and rolled up the cobblestone drive, parking the car in the wide turning circle a few yards from her front steps.
The front door was wide open and the hallway was filled with shimmering light from the massive crystal chandelier that dominated thefoyer. The cello music flowed out of the house in a river of honey-colored sound.
He stood there beside the car for a moment, wondering if he had been taken back in time to those buttermilk days before the goddam Nips hit Pearl and he’d gone to serve with the First Infantry, a distant age that was, in his long memory, a glowing bygone era full of balls and cotillions and picnics along the Tulip with leggy girls in gauzy dresses and wide straw hats and baskets full of fresh strawberries, a time of light and music that had filled all the old homes in The Chase, until the war opened up under everybody’s feet and they all fell into the fire.
But tonight Delia’s rambling old Victorian stood open, full of lovely music, an invitation to a dance.
Gray called out Delia’s name a couple of times but doubted that she could have heard his voice over the cello sonata that was pouring out of every window and streaming through the doorways.
He sighed and straightened up his shirt and smoothed out his slacks and walked unsteadily up the steps to the open door, hesitating at the threshold. He was aware that his breathing had become difficult and the skin and muscles across his shoulders were tightening as if he were expecting an assault. He shook that off with an effort, gathering himself, and knocked heavily on the frame of the door.
“Delia? You home? Delia, it’s Gray.”
No call.
No movement.
Just the music ebbing and flowing all around him, like an undertow now, pulling him in. He came slowly down the hall, walking, out of habit, to one side of the long Persian runner that Delia hated to see abused by a gardener’s shoes.
He reached the door to the music room, which seemed to be the source of the
house’s
malfunctioning sprinkler system—he had an idea that Delia’s sprinkler system was in tip-top shape … now there was another thing he needed to take up with God, if they’d ever let him get close enough. One of the benefits of age was supposed to be a certain easing of the more frantic carnal imaginings and yet here he was having sinful thoughts about Delia Cotton’s sprinkler system. Haggard slowed to a halt, the sinful ideas dying slowly away as he stared at the entrance to Delia’s estate. The wrought-iron gates were wide open. Delia always kept them closed.
Always.
He braked the Packard in the entrance and extracted his long, lean frame from behind the wheel, straightening up with an effort and peering over his glasses at the big house up on the rise, a tall, bent old man wearing tan slacks and a plaid shirt, gardening boots, with a tanned, hawkish face, a crest of snow white hair, and clear blue eyes with a fan of deep wrinkles at each corner.
He was looking at
another
puzzle.
Delia’s house, called Temple Hill, was a classic High Victorian mansion, with a wide curving porch running all the way around the building, gingerbread carvings and gables and turrets here and there, and very fine stained-glass windows in all the rooms.
Tonight these rooms were shining like red and violet and green jewels in the fading light. It looked like Delia had turned on every light in the entire house. It stood out in the blue evening like a cruise ship on the far horizon.
As he was wondering about the open gate and the house all lit up like this, he heard the sound of music floating down the grassy hill-side—a deep resonant droning melody, a cello or a viola or perhaps an organ.
The sound, although very graceful and moving, was also very loud, and loud was one of the many modern innovations that Delia did not approve of.
Gray stood there for a moment, taking it all in and wondering what the hell Delia was up to, and then he got back into the Packard and rolled up the cobblestone drive, parking the car in the wide turning circle a few yards from her front steps.
The front door was wide open and the hallway was filled with shimmering light from the massive crystal chandelier that dominated thefoyer. The cello music flowed out of the house in a river of honey-colored sound.
He stood there beside the car for a moment, wondering if he had been taken back in time to those buttermilk days before the goddam Nips hit Pearl and he’d gone to serve with the First Infantry, a distant age that was, in his long memory, a glowing bygone era full of balls and cotillions and picnics along the Tulip with leggy girls in gauzy dresses and wide straw hats and baskets full of fresh strawberries, a time of light and music that had filled all the old homes in The Chase, until the war opened up under everybody’s feet and they all fell into the fire.
But tonight Delia’s rambling old Victorian stood open, full of lovely music, an invitation to a dance.
Gray called out Delia’s name a couple of times but doubted that she could have heard his voice over the cello sonata that was pouring out of every window and streaming through the doorways.
He sighed and straightened up his shirt and smoothed out his slacks and walked unsteadily up the steps to the open door, hesitating at the threshold. He was aware that his breathing had become difficult and the skin and muscles across his shoulders were tightening as if he were expecting an assault. He shook that off with an effort, gathering himself, and knocked heavily on the frame of the door.
“Delia? You home? Delia, it’s Gray.”
No call.
No movement.
Just the music ebbing and flowing all around him, like an undertow now, pulling him in. He came slowly down the hall, walking, out of habit, to one side of the long Persian runner that Delia hated to see abused by a gardener’s shoes.
He reached the door to the music room, which seemed to be the source of the
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