Envy(30)

Finally he said, “Come on in.”

She pushed open the glossy black front door and stepped into a wide foyer. He emerged from one of the rooms opening off it, wiping his hands on a stained rag. He was dressed in khaki shorts and an ordinary chambray work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Both articles of clothing were rather baggy and as stained as the rag. On his feet he wore a pair of sneakers that had seen better days.

He glanced beyond her. “You came alone?”

“Yes.”

“Mosquitoes are getting in.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She turned and closed the front door.

“No deputy sheriff along for the ride?”

His voice contained a trace of admonishment. She felt an explanation was called for. “I resorted to calling the sheriff’s office out of desperation. I asked Deputy Harris if he knew anyone living in his county who went by the initials P.M.E. I had no idea he would conduct a search, and I apologize for any embarrassment that caused.”

He harrumphed, but whether to accept her apology or dismiss it, she couldn’t tell. She was just relieved that he hadn’t cursed her and ordered her out. He wasn’t as intimidating as she had anticipated. He was older and less physically imposing than his telephone voice had suggested. The drawl was there, but not the brusqueness.

However, he wasn’t being overly friendly. His blue eyes were regarding her warily.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived,” she said, hoping to disarm him with her honesty. “I was afraid I wouldn’t even be invited inside.”

He gave her a once-over that made her rethink her decision not to take the time to freshen up in Savannah. Now she wished she had at least changed clothes. Her traveling suit had been seasonably lightweight for New York, but was too heavy for this climate. It looked citified and grossly out of place. It was also wrinkled from rides in taxis, planes, and a boat.

“You’re a long way from Manhattan, Mrs. Matherly-Reed.”

His remark more or less summed up everything she’d been thinking. “More than just geographically. Except for the golf carts, St. Anne could be in another century.”

“The island is primitive in many ways. The people who live here want to keep it that way.”

From that she inferred that she was an outsider whom they would have rather remained outside. Feeling self-conscious and wanting to divert attention away from herself, she took a quick look around.

A commanding, unsupported staircase swept upward from the floor of the foyer, but the second story was dark. A dozen questions about the history of the house sprang to mind, but, not wanting to press her luck at having gotten this far, she merely said, “The house is extraordinary. How long have you lived here?”

“A little over a year. It was in total disrepair.”

“Then you’ve already done a lot to it.”

“There’s still a lot to be done. In fact, I’ve been working on a project in the dining room. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much.”

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then he turned and made his way back into the room from which he’d come. The crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling was swinging slightly. He caught her looking at it.

“One of the first renovations was to install central air-conditioning. The vent blows directly on the chandelier and causes it to sway. At least that’s what I choose to believe.” He gave an enigmatic laugh, then motioned toward the fireplace.

The ornately carved mantel had been stripped down to the naked wood and was being prepared for refinishing. “It’s become more of a project than I had counted on,” he admitted. “Had I known how many layers of varnish and paint former owners had applied, how painstaking and time-consuming it was going to be to strip it all off, I would have hired a professional to do it.”

She moved to the mantel and reached out to touch it, then hesitated and looked back at him. “May I?” He motioned for her to go ahead, and she ran her fingertips over the intricate carving of a flowering vine.

“The owner who built the house kept a detailed diary of its construction,” he explained. “A slave carved that mantelpiece as well as the balustrade of the staircase. His name was Phineas.”

“It’s lovely. I’m sure it will be even lovelier when you’re finished.”

“Parker’s expecting it to be. He’s a perfectionist.”

“Parker?”

“The owner.”

She dropped her hand and turned back to him. “Oh. I assumed you owned the house.”

He shook his head in amusement. “I only work here.”

“That’s awfully generous of him.”

“Generous of who?”

“Of Mr. Parker. That he opens his home to you and lets you write here.”

He stared at her with perplexity for a moment, then began to laugh. “Mrs. Matherly-Reed, I’m afraid that you’re operating under a misconception here, and it’s entirely my fault. Obviously you’ve mistaken me for Parker, the man you’ve come to see. Parker Evans.”

It took a second for her to process, then she smiled with chagrin. “Parker Evans. Middle initial M.”

“You didn’t know his name?”

“He didn’t tell me.”