The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [139]
“Private property.”
“What—the whole cliff top? I don’t think so.”
“Think what you like, but it’s true. Too many cracks and gaps in the rock to have folks wandering up and down the cliffs, killin’ ’emselves fer pictures. The park put in a lookout a few miles up the road. You can have a look-see from there.”
“But . . .”
“Come along now,” he said, patient but determined, as he moved to meet her at the south-side entrance.
Reluctantly, she took the first and then the second step down, looking back over her shoulder, pondering the strange pull she felt toward the little ramshackle structure that even its owner didn’t seem to have much use for.
“It’s been here a long time but . . . it was originally built for something else, wasn’t it?” She didn’t want to know how or why she knew this—especially in light of the fact that it looked perfect in its current location.
“Yes, miss.” He led the way to a gap in the woods and an obvious path to the other side. “Miss Ruth’s wedding canopy.”
“Miss Ruth. Mr. Craig’s . . . sister?”
“His mother, God keep her. Last Mumford, she was.”
“Mumford? Like the dam?”
“And the mine and the town I was born in.” He stopped where the path started. “Good to meet you, Miss Bonner.”
“Ivy.”
He nodded. “Miss Ivy, then. You find you need somethin’ just give a call to the house and I’ll come a-runnin’.”
“Thank you, Gus. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Will do. You do the same.” He tipped his head at her, turned, and walked away.
She watched him lumber off, but then her gaze gravitated back to the gazebo.
In general, Ivy was not an impulsive person in spite of the 180-degree bend in her nature to be expressive and artistic. She was logical and cautious and a bit of a perfectionist in most everything she did—and very aware when she was, well, out of sync with herself. So resisting the urge to return to the gazebo once Gus was out of sight was . . . jarring. As was the driven compulsion to remove sketch pad and pencils from her pack as soon she got home and the feverish style of her strokes as she made first a rough draft, then quickly sharpened and polished it until she was satisfied she had a true image of the wedding canopy—draped in gossamer white silk with a bumper crop of pendulous purple wisteria flowering from thick vines in the eaves.
It was stunning . . . literally, in every sense of the word. Beautiful and shocking.
She tossed the pad away from her as if it had burst into flames. Silk and wisteria? How could she have possibly known that? Her imagination . . . ? Then why not radiant white satin and bold red roses with just as much certainty?
Her eyes stung with tears of frustration and anxiety. She closed them and lay back in the chaise to breathe deep and search for calm.
What was happening to her? The nightmares . . . hallucinations . . . and now this insane obsession with a gazebo. Was she insane? She thought about it—would a crazy woman question her sanity? She chose no. Otherwise she’d have to call and explain everything to her mother, listen to the litany of roots and powders and extracts to ingest or rub or soak in, and then drive herself to the nearest asylum.
After a few more minutes she was able to convince herself that it was all stress. Yeah, stress! It had to be. Her eyes popped open and she groaned over how foolish she’d been. She picked up her sketch pad, smiled at the drawing of the gazebo, and went inside to make valerian root tea . . . a lot of it.
That night the nightmare started in the gazebo. She was happy; more content than she’d been in a long, long time—looking forward to the future. Dark clouds rolled in from across the lake. Lightning sparked and thunder rumbled. Fat drops of rain made hard-hitting noises on the ground first and then on the roof above. A clean, fresh summer storm. Gradually she noticed that night, too, was coming. The land around her safe haven was turning to a thick, sloppy mud . . . but she didn’t care. Slipping her hands into the front pockets of her jeans, she stepped down into the rain. The wind blew in gusts