Read Online The Spirit Wood by Robert Masello - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Masello
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announced, before opening it, “This is where your grandfather slept.” Her solemnity reminded Peter of his visit, many years before, to Washington's Mount Vernon home.
The room, however, was in no way reminiscent of that visit; this room was something out of a Newport mansion: a huge pale-blue square with another enormous fireplace, a vaulted ceiling that swept upward like a tent from all four corners, and against one wall, occupying almost its entire length, a king-sized, or perhaps even larger, canopied bed. Four thick, polished mahogany bedposts, each as ponderous and odd as the Bernini columns in St. Peter's, twisted upwards to support a drooping canopy made from heavy, floral-patterned fabric. The bedspread, hanging down on all s sides, was made of the same cloth, as were the cushionson two wing-backed armchairs at the far end of the room.
“The master bath is over there,” said Leah, pointing to a door to one side of the fireplace, “the private study is through there,” indicating a shadowy chamber on the opposite side of the room, “and here,” she said, flinging open a pair of French doors between the armchairs, “is the terrace. This is where Mr. Constantine used to like having his lunch.”
Meg was the first to venture out onto it; just below, the back of the statue of the dancing satyr presented itself, and below that the hill, with its gazebo, gently descended to the water and the distant boathouse. Dense trees and brush filled in the vista on either side. “I'd have thought this was the perfect place for breakfast,” said Meg, turning around with her hands resting on the cold stone balustrade.
“Mr. Constantine wasn't usually up that early,” said Leah with a faint smile. “He was a . . .”—she searched for the word, as a foreigner might—"night bird.”
“Night owl,” Peter instinctively corrected under his breath.
“Yes, night owl,” Leah repeated, as if conscientiously adding it to her vocabulary. “Thank you.” Peter was embarrassed at his pendantry. “Well, I don't know what your plans are,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, “but if you need me for anything else, I'll be around. I think everything in the house is unlocked—and probably tagged, too.” She directed a polite smile at each of them in turn. “It was nice to have met you,” she said, and breezed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her without looking back. She left the faintest scent of something Peter could not identify—something fresh and verdant, like pine needles, or was it more like cedar?—on the air.
“It's pretty hard to believe, isn't it?” said Meg.
“What?” Was it a flower? Lilacs?
“That she's Nikos's daughter. She's so pretty, and graceful, and even kind of refined.” Meg had disappeared into the bathroom, investigating.
“They have the same coloring.”
“That's about it,” Meg replied, her voice sounding as if she had entered a long-sealed tomb. “Peter, you've got to see this.”
She was holding back the curtains—two layers of them—that surrounded a round, marble sunken tub, large enough to accommodate two or three people easily. The gold faucets, shaped like leaping dolphins, sparkled in the pink light from an electric chandelier directly overhead, and were reflected in the floor-length wall mirrors that alternated with panels of aqua-colored tiles. “Welcome to Caesar's Palace,” she said.
“You think this is what Las Vegas is like?”
“This, I think, is what Las Vegas aspires to,” she said, her laugh booming, uncharacteristically, against the cold, flat surfaces of the room. She flipped one of the dolphins’ tails, and a torrent of hot water gushed into the tub. “Ummm, that would feel terrific right now,” she said, running her hand under the water. “I feel like I've still got burrs stuck all over me.”
Peter looked around the room, saw the oversized bath towels neatly arranged on the rack, the fresh cake of soap sitting in
The room, however, was in no way reminiscent of that visit; this room was something out of a Newport mansion: a huge pale-blue square with another enormous fireplace, a vaulted ceiling that swept upward like a tent from all four corners, and against one wall, occupying almost its entire length, a king-sized, or perhaps even larger, canopied bed. Four thick, polished mahogany bedposts, each as ponderous and odd as the Bernini columns in St. Peter's, twisted upwards to support a drooping canopy made from heavy, floral-patterned fabric. The bedspread, hanging down on all s sides, was made of the same cloth, as were the cushionson two wing-backed armchairs at the far end of the room.
“The master bath is over there,” said Leah, pointing to a door to one side of the fireplace, “the private study is through there,” indicating a shadowy chamber on the opposite side of the room, “and here,” she said, flinging open a pair of French doors between the armchairs, “is the terrace. This is where Mr. Constantine used to like having his lunch.”
Meg was the first to venture out onto it; just below, the back of the statue of the dancing satyr presented itself, and below that the hill, with its gazebo, gently descended to the water and the distant boathouse. Dense trees and brush filled in the vista on either side. “I'd have thought this was the perfect place for breakfast,” said Meg, turning around with her hands resting on the cold stone balustrade.
“Mr. Constantine wasn't usually up that early,” said Leah with a faint smile. “He was a . . .”—she searched for the word, as a foreigner might—"night bird.”
“Night owl,” Peter instinctively corrected under his breath.
“Yes, night owl,” Leah repeated, as if conscientiously adding it to her vocabulary. “Thank you.” Peter was embarrassed at his pendantry. “Well, I don't know what your plans are,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, “but if you need me for anything else, I'll be around. I think everything in the house is unlocked—and probably tagged, too.” She directed a polite smile at each of them in turn. “It was nice to have met you,” she said, and breezed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her without looking back. She left the faintest scent of something Peter could not identify—something fresh and verdant, like pine needles, or was it more like cedar?—on the air.
“It's pretty hard to believe, isn't it?” said Meg.
“What?” Was it a flower? Lilacs?
“That she's Nikos's daughter. She's so pretty, and graceful, and even kind of refined.” Meg had disappeared into the bathroom, investigating.
“They have the same coloring.”
“That's about it,” Meg replied, her voice sounding as if she had entered a long-sealed tomb. “Peter, you've got to see this.”
She was holding back the curtains—two layers of them—that surrounded a round, marble sunken tub, large enough to accommodate two or three people easily. The gold faucets, shaped like leaping dolphins, sparkled in the pink light from an electric chandelier directly overhead, and were reflected in the floor-length wall mirrors that alternated with panels of aqua-colored tiles. “Welcome to Caesar's Palace,” she said.
“You think this is what Las Vegas is like?”
“This, I think, is what Las Vegas aspires to,” she said, her laugh booming, uncharacteristically, against the cold, flat surfaces of the room. She flipped one of the dolphins’ tails, and a torrent of hot water gushed into the tub. “Ummm, that would feel terrific right now,” she said, running her hand under the water. “I feel like I've still got burrs stuck all over me.”
Peter looked around the room, saw the oversized bath towels neatly arranged on the rack, the fresh cake of soap sitting in
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