Blood Canticle - Anne Rice [98]
“I see,” she said. “You can’t make them think like owners of the place.”
“Exactly,” he said. “I’ve given them every opportunity,” he went on. “Every type of advancement and profit sharing as well, but they want me in residence. They want my authority. And Tommy wants it. And then there’s Tommy sister Brittany to think of, and Tommy’s mother, Terry Sue. They’ll be coming frequently to visit. They’ve become part of Blackwood Farm because of Tommy. Someone has to be at the very heart of this house to receive them. And Jasmine wants me to be that heart, not only for herself but for my son, Jerome, and I’m not sure that I can continue to be the Master of Blackwood Farm as I would have been if only—.”
“The answer’s simple,” I said.
“What is it?” Quinn asked, startled.
“Nash Penfield,” I said. “You make him resident curator, to run and maintain this property on your behalf and on behalf of Tommy and Jerome.”
“Resident curator!” Quinn’s face brightened. “Ah, that sounds brilliant. But would he take the job? He’s finished his Ph.D. He’s ready to start teaching.”
“Of course he’ll take the job,” I said. “The man spent years in Europe with you and Aunt Queen. You described it as a luxurious journey.”
“Oh, yes, Aunt Queen broke the bank,” replied Quinn. “And Nash did seem to make the most of it in the best ways.”
“Exactly. I suspect Nash is thoroughly ruined for ordinary life. He would love nothing better than to be curator here, to maintain the Easter and Christmas traditions for the sake of the parish, and whatever else you want, while earning a high salary, having a gorgeous bedroom and ample time to write a couple of books in his academic field.”
“Perfect,” Quinn said. “And he has the style and the grace to pull it off. Oh, this could be the answer.”
“Run the idea by him. Suggest that in his idle hours he could begin to build a proper library on shelves put up on the inside walls of the double parlor. And he could write a short history of Blackwood Farm, to be printed up for the tourists, you know, with architectural details and blueprints and legends and such. Throw in the limousine and driver twenty-four hours a day, and a new car of his own every two years, and a deep-pocket expense account and paid vacations to New York and California, and I think you’ll have him.”
“I know he’ll go for it,” said Mona. “Downstairs he was desperate to intervene when the sheriff was acting like an idiot. He just didn’t feel he had the right to do it.”
“Precisely,” I said, without looking at Mona. “It’s a dream position for a man of his gifts.”
“Oh, if he only would,” said Quinn, with mounting excitement, “that would be key. And I could come and go from this room, with you and Mona, anytime that I wanted.”
“It’s far more interesting than what awaits Nash elsewhere,” I said. “And he can play proper host to Tommy’s mother, Terry Sue, and exert a guiding influence on little Jerome, maybe tutor him, in fact, and you don’t have to tell him how to treat Jasmine and Big Ramona; he knows. He adores them. He was born in Texas. That’s the South. He isn’t some ignorant Yankee who doesn’t know how to speak two civil words to a black person. He respects them completely.”
“I think you’ve hit on it,” Quinn said. “If he were ensconced in Blackwood Farm, it would work. It would work for a long time. Jasmine would be ecstatic. She loves Nash.”
I nodded and shrugged.
“That’s a grand idea,” said Quinn. “In time I’ll tell them Mona and I were married in Europe. They won’t protest. It will be perfect. Mona, you really think he’ll go for it?”
I refused to look at her.
“Quinn,