Cast a Pale Shadow(22)

Both pairs of eyes pierced hers and in her moment of flustered silence, she saw Nicholas' soften and sadden. She closed her own eyes against them, afraid to see what change her words might bring, regret or relief. "No, I'm going home. With Nicholas." Nicholas took her hand and squeezed it, tugging her away to break the circle of tension.

"I'll be watching you, Nicholas Brewer," Edmonds barked after them.

"Fine, but do call for an appointment first, Doc," Nicholas snapped back with a complacent grin "My wife and I will try to squeeze you in."

The easy-listening station on the car radio emitted a slightly staticky stream of Andy Williams, Peggy Lee, and Acker Bilk. Without really listening to it, she let the music soothe her. Between each song the deep and mellow voice of the announcer intruded to sell Chevrolets or vacations in the Ozarks, give a weather report, or wish a happy birthday.

"And now, from out of the past, the powerful pipes of pint-sized Teresa Brewer singing 'Let Me Go, Lover'."

"Teresa Brewer," Trissa murmured.

"Hmmm?"

"Teresa Brewer. That's me now, I guess. Teresa Marie Brewer. Sounds okay."

Nicholas glanced sideways at her, then mirrored her smile. "Sounds just fine to me." His smile faded a bit as he looked back at the road. "Do you understand why I had to lie now, Trissa?"

"You had no other choice."

"I don't want you to think I had some other motives. That stuff between Edmonds and me, don't pay any attention to it. He suspects we're not married, and it galls him that he couldn't prove it. I had to rub his nose in it. Can you understand that? It's what men have to do sometimes, just because they're men and don't know any better. I should have thought. Your reputation--"

"Don't worry about my reputation. It's silver plate at best, worn down to base nickel in some spots already, I'm afraid." She tried to sound lighthearted but managed only wistful.

Nicholas frowned and pulled the car to the curb, provoking a honk from the old Mercury wagon behind them. Surprised, Trissa looked around them. "Are we there already?"

"No, we have to talk." He reached down to cut off Teresa Brewer's belting voice in mid-chorus, and turned to face Trissa. "I have to tell you that I know I was wrong to call you my wife and I regret it. Anything would have been better -- sister, niece -- I don't know. I should have used my head. I never meant--"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter anymore." There was a strange exhilaration welling up inside her, as a butterfly might feel as it emerged from its cocoon and reached for the sun to dry its wings. "Oh, how far are we from your place? Let's hurry. I feel like I'm becoming a whole new person."

"I was getting to like the old one pretty well." Nicholas slipped the car into drive and steered it back into traffic.

"You didn't really know her. You're lucky, trust me." She flicked the volume back up and hummed along while Dean Martin sang about how you're nobdy 'til somebody loves you. "You know, Nicholas, I think we're stuck with this husband and wife thing. For appearances sake only, of course."

A bemused grin crinkled his cheek. The one that faced her as he kept his eyes on the road was unblemished by their mishap and had the most charming dimple. "Of course."

"I'm thinking about your reputation now," she said earnestly. "What will your neighbors think when you bring me home? I look nothing like your sister except for our matching bruises. And niece sounds very fishy to me. Nope, wife is best. Trissa Brewer. It has sort of a ring to it, don't you think?"

"Music to my ears. I notice you didn't bring the flowers I sent. Didn't they arrive before you left?"

"The flowers? Oh, you sent the flowers? Thank you." She couldn't help it. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "They were beautiful. I broke the vase. But they were beautiful. Now that I know they were from you, it makes them all the more beautiful."

"I'm glad."

Trissa smiled contentedly and turned her head toward the window. "Oh, I know where we are now. My great grandma lived down that street. There's a little park with a fountain. She died when I was seven, but I remember playing in that park. My brother Lonny took me there when we visited her. Having little kids around made her nervous."

She hadn't been in this part of town in years. Though it was just a few blocks south of St. Mark's, her high school on Page and Academy, for four years the limits of her world had extended to the bus stop on that corner and not a block beyond. The big, old houses and solid, brick apartment buildings row upon row down the streets branching off Kingshighway Boulevard seemed less intimidating than they once had to a little girl, but they were no less impressive. Kensington, Enright, and Delmar slipped past and the high rises, hotels, and hospitals loomed as they approached Forest Park.

Trissa caught her breath as Nicholas turned down Lindell, whose mansions faced the park, then, amazingly, right on Lake Avenue in the very midst of those mansions to Westmoreland Place. Westmoreland and its neighbor, Portland Place, were two of the remaining private place streets of the city, enclaves of the rich and the great brick bastions they erected. The private streets were established in the late eighteen hundreds to shield the high and mighty from the riffraff of common traffic.

Massive stone and iron gates guarded Westmoreland and Portland Place from entry at the main thoroughfares of Kingshighway and Union. Riding down those streets as a child, Trissa remembered gazing down the private places as long as the moving car allowed, wondering what it would be like to be a cherished child growing up there. She imagined the great black gates swinging open to admit her, her chauffeur joking with the guard, and both of them calling her Miss Trissa.

She had never known this Lake Avenue entrance existed, and as the sheltering trees that formed a canopy of budding branches overhead began to seal off the noise and bustle of the city, she thought Nicholas might be driving her to some hushed and secret world. She scooted forward in her seat to get a better view of the huge and stately houses that they passed, built in brick or stone to resemble Tudor manors, Georgian mansions, or Italian piazzas, styles that reflected the changing fancies of the rich over the years this place was in its prime. In her starry-eyed daze, Trissa barely noticed that some showed signs of neglect as their owners grew old and died, servants became too expensive to keep, and estates became entangled, wrangled over by children and children's children.

"Here? You live here, Nicholas?" she whispered as he pulled up the drive of a white stone fortress flanked by round towers with conical, slate roofs, lacking only fluttering banners to mimic a miniature Romanesque castle.

"Only when I'm in town," he yawned. "So hard to find a decent place for the polo ponies in the city."

For just a moment her eyes went round with wonder until she realized he must be teasing her. "Come on, where do you really live?"

"Here. Really. I rent a room upstairs. Some of the houses on this street take boarders now to make ends meet. It's against the deed restrictions but the owners are very discreet and clever in finding ways around that. Officially, I'm listed as the gardener, I think, though I couldn't tell a weed from an orchid." He leaped out of the car and hurried to the passenger side sweeping the door open with a flourish. "Welcome to Portland Place where the haughty hobnob with the hoi polloi. May I carry you across the threshold of our humble abode, Mrs. Brewer?"





Chapter Eight





Though he usually used the rear entrance and the back stairs to his room, Nicholas escorted Trissa to the front. He wanted her to get the grand sweep of the foyer as the original owner intended for his honored guests. He only regretted that it was not those few moments in the early morning when the sun poured through the stained glass panels of the front door to set the grand staircase shimmering with rainbows. But that would be a revelation for some other day.

Right now it gave him joy enough to feel her hand so confidently in his as she followed him down the flagstone walkway, through the overgrown side garden, and up the steps to the arched stone porch that sheltered the front entrance. The massive oak door, carved with thistles, had bold, brass hardware and a lion's head knocker tarnished to verdigris. Dwarfed by the door, Trissa tilted her head back to admire the stained glass transom and panels on either side of the door, which repeated the thistle pattern of the carving in shades of amethyst and emerald. Nicholas set her suitcase down and pushed his key into the lock. The rusty mechanism gave reluctantly and the door groaned open. He turned expectantly toward Trissa.

"You're not really going to carry me over?" she asked with surprise.

"If you will allow me that honor." Before she had a chance to decline, he quickly added, "For appearance' sake only, you understand," and he effortlessly gathered her in his arms. "Now close your eyes." When she did as he asked, he leaned against the door to shove it open and whisked her over the threshold. "Open them," he whispered.