The Vanishing

CHAPTER 1

Havenwood, present day

When I awakened that first morning at Havenwood, for a moment I had no ideawhere I was. As sleep receded and I drifted back from wherever one goes indreams, I sensed I wasn't in my own familiar nest of pillows. When my eyesfluttered open and I caught sight of the dark red walls, not the subdued yellowof my bedroom at home, I shot up and looked around, trying to get my bearings.

The bed where I lay, and had presumably spent the night, had an ornately carvedwooden headboard and a thick, embroidered comforter. A matching dresser with apink marble top stood on one wall. My gray sweater was slung over a chair in thecorner. A bank of windows was draped with a heavy curtain, and in the fireplaceacross from the bed, coals were still smoldering from the night before. It alllooked vaguely familiar, but distant, as though I had dreamed about this room inanother place and time.

I curled back down under the covers when I remembered that these sorts ofblackouts were not a new sensation. I'd forgotten conversations, events, evenwhole days since the scandal and its horrible aftermath took over my life. And,truth be told, even before that.

It began to come back to me, bit by bit, as I knew it would. Images, like aslide show in my mind. Jeremy. A gunshot. The funeral. I squeezed my eyes shuttight, trying to hold back the flood of memories. Wasn't the medication supposedto help with this? That was its purpose, wasn't it? To muddle the mind, to blurthe edges of reality just enough to make life endurable despite all manner ofhorror and heartbreak.

I shook those thoughts out of my head and roused myself, pouring a glass ofwater from the pitcher on the nightstand before padding across the thick woolencarpet to the windows. I drew back the curtain and felt the warmth of themorning sun shining on my face despite the chill coming from the panes. Outside,I saw the remnants of a manicured garden, now covered by new-fallen snow, and awide expanse of yard spilling into a forest beyond. The green of the enormouspines contrasted with the whiteness that blanketed everything as far as the eyecould see. Cutting through it all, a road followed a river that meandered out ofsight. Somehow, it felt like home, even though it was no home I had ever known.

I had been on that road the night before, I knew with sudden clarity. In a car.After the flight! Ah, yes, I thought. I remember. A wave ofexcitement washed over me when I remembered whom I'd be meeting, in just a fewminutes. I could scarcely believe I was here.

Mr. Sinclair had arrived on my doorstep a few days earlier with an invitation.Now, as I recall that first meeting, shaking his hand for the first time, Iremember the feeling of warmth when his skin touched mine, a fiery glowilluminating his eyes with a definite familiarity, though he was a stranger tome. Or maybe my memories are colored by what happened after that day, byeverything I know now. Time and experience have a funny way of altering one'srecollections of the past.

There was a quick knock at the door. I snapped my head around to see a womanentering the room.

"Oh, ma'am! You're up! I was just coming to wake you for breakfast."

Had I seen her the night before? I wasn't sure. Her round, smiling face, grayhair, and kind blue eyes might have belonged to anyone, and her gray maid'suniform seemed to be something out of Central Casting.

"If you'd like to freshen up before joining Mrs. Sinclair downstairs, towels andeverything else you need are in the bath." She pointed to a door I hadn'tnoticed.

She crossed the room and opened the closet to reveal my clothes, all hanging inneat rows. "Is there anything I can lay out for you?"

I looked from her expectant face to my clothes and back again. "No, I canmanage, thank you—" I said, grasping for her name. I couldn't bring it tomind.

"Marion," she said.

"Marion."

She gave me a quick nod. "Right, then. Please be in the breakfast room in thirtyminutes. Mrs. Sinclair likes things on a schedule; that's one thing you shouldknow right off."

"The breakfast room?"

"Oh, of course. It was quite late when you arrived last night, and this housecan be so confusing for ... newcomers." She opened the door and gestured outinto the hallway. "Follow this corridor around to the left until you reach thegrand staircase. Take that down to the first floor. You'll see the living roomon your right and the foyer in front of you, with the archway to the dining roomon your left. You'll find the breakfast room adjacent to the dining room." Shehesitated a moment. "You're on the third floor here in the east wing," she said."The Sinclairs' suite of rooms is on the second floor in the west wing. I'dadvise staying away from those. Mrs. Sinclair likes her privacy when she's inher rooms."

I thanked her, perching on the edge of the bed as she closed the door behindher.

Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair. I struggled, trying to unlock the memory. I knew thisgame—I was supposed to think of the last thing I remembered to help pieceit all together. I played it often enough throughout my life. In a flash, Iremembered rummaging through my travel kit on the plane looking for my bottle ofpills. Had I taken too much of my medication? Was that the reason my memories ofthe night before were so fuzzy? I shuddered at the thought of it.

I made my way into the bathroom, where I did indeed find a stack of fluffytowels on the vanity, just as Marion had said, along with my own travel kit. Idug up the pill bottle, then considered pouring its contents down the drain. Butinstead, I put it right back where it had been. Blackouts might be a troublingside effect, but sometimes forgetting is a blessing. What is it they say aboutignorance?

After standing under the stream of hot water washing away the night's sleep, Idried my hair, quickly pulled on jeans and a black turtleneck, and opened thedoor out into the hallway slowly, wondering what awaited me.

The hallway was so long and dark, I couldn't even see the end of it. Thishouse must be massive, I thought, following the corridor as it turned left,then right and right again. As I began to descend the "grand staircase," asMarion had called it, I saw a living room on one side of the stairs and thearchway leading into the dining room on the other, just as Marion had described.The rooms in my view were filled with heavy antique furniture, overstuffedchairs and ornate lamps that looked like they had been standing in their placesforever. The whole effect reminded me of a museum, or a palace, and it smelledvaguely musty, as though the ghostly memories of other lifetimes hung in theair.

As I walked on, I saw that the ceilings were sky-high, and the walls were linedwith paintings in gilded frames, portraits, mostly, of people from another time:women in long dresses, children sitting beside them; men in suits or huntingclothes. The largest portrait, which hung above the mantel of the floor-to-ceiling fireplace in the living room, was of a man wearing a kilt, bagpipe inhis hand, a wolflike dog curled at his feet. He was standing in a landscape ofrolling hills and heather. Something about this man's eyes entranced me, and Istood there for longer than I should have, lost in imaginings that dissipated inmy mind as soon as they formed.

I shook my head. How long had I been standing there? I was expected atbreakfast! I couldn't be late on my first day, so I hurried along, my footstepsechoing on the foyer's marble tiles. Where was this so-called breakfast room? Istopped and turned in a circle just in time to see a man—Mr.Sinclair—descending the staircase. His face broke into a wide smile.

"Julia!" he said as he finished the last of the stairs. "How did you sleep? Yourroom was comfortable, I trust?"

His grin was so welcoming that I couldn't help but smile back.

"My room was lovely," I said, sliding my arm into the crook of his when heoffered it. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair."

"I thought we had dispensed with that 'Mr. Sinclair' rubbish yesterday." Hepatted my hand.

"Adrian," I said.

He led me through the dining room, down yet another hall, and, finally, througha doorway to the breakfast room, where an elderly woman was sitting at a roundtable in front of a wall of paned windows. Outside, the creek was babblingalong, not yet frozen by the cold temperatures, and the sunlight was bouncingoff snow-laden pine trees. A pair of bright red cardinals flew into view andperched on a snowy branch. The whole effect reminded me of a Currier and IvesChristmas card I had received the previous year.

"Mother, this is Julia," Adrian said, motioning toward me. "You were asleep whenwe arrived last night—the flight was late. And the drive after we landedwas quite something, with this new snow. I really must put the Bentley away forthe winter. It's time for the Land Rover, I'm afraid."

"Julia, dear," the woman said, folding her hands and beaming at me. "What apleasure to see you at last."

I took a deep breath before speaking. I could scarcely believe I was in the sameroom with this woman, let alone conversing with her.

"No, the pleasure is all mine! It's such an honor to meet you. I'm thrilled tobe here!"

I took a seat across from her and fumbled with my napkin, not quite sure of whatto do or say next.

Adrian poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the sideboard and gesturedto me. I nodded, and he poured me a cup as well.

I could see the resemblance between mother and son immediately. Two dots on atimeline, with nearly the same face, one generation apart. They seemed familiarto me somehow, in the way that sometimes happens with complete strangers. Adrianwas older than me—late forties, early fifties, perhaps. His dark hair wasgraying at the temples, and fine lines around his eyes betrayed years oflaughter. He wore a dark, tailored suit and a yellow tie, dressed for a workday.

His mother seemed at once utterly ancient and completely youthful. Her deeplylined face, powdery makeup, and rather haphazardly applied lipstick contrastedwith her dancing, bright green eyes. Late seventies, early eighties? Older thanthat? I couldn't tell.

She reached one hand across the table and covered mine with hers. "I'm thrilledas well, Julia, dear," she said. "It will be a wonderful treat to have you withme at Havenwood when Adrian takes his leave today. We have so much to talkabout!"

My stomach was doing flips, but I managed a smile as I savored my first sip ofcoffee. A maid, not the same one who greeted me in my room, clattered throughthe door carrying a tray, set it down on the sideboard, and began serving abreakfast of eggs, sausage, oatmeal, fruit, and toast. Seeing all of that foodmade me realize I was famished, and I wondered when I had last eaten anything.

As we took our first bites, Adrian chattered on about the new snow and his hopesthat the gardener had turned the roses. Suddenly, the enormity of what I haddone seemed to settle in. I realized, as I sat there eating my breakfast withthese two relative strangers, that my life, on that morning, was completelydifferent from what it had been the morning before. What my future held, I hadno idea. But I knew one thing for sure: I was here at Havenwood to stay.

CHAPTER 2

How did I find myself living at Havenwood, a place I hadn't even known existedthe day before I arrived there? The answer is it found me. Three months after myhusband's funeral, Adrian Sinclair came calling.

Just answering the door had been quite a feat. I had done nothing but driftaround the house since I buried Jeremy, not wanting to talk to anyone or goanywhere. And that, I supposed, was a lucky thing, because nobody but reporterswanted to talk to or see me, either.

All of our friends had abandoned us when the allegations came to light, whenthey realized the full extent of what my husband had done. From the first storyin the newspaper hinting at what was to come, they began distancing themselvesfrom us. They stopped calling. Stopped returning my calls. I'm not sure if theythought I was involved in the whole sordid business, but the truth is I was justas much a victim as they were. I was left with nothing—no husband, nomoney, no friends or family to lean on for support.

It was just a matter of time until my house was gone, too. I was reading theforeclosure notice from the bank when Adrian appeared on my doorstep, standingthere in his dark overcoat and hat. I assumed he was another reporter, tryingfor an interview with the grieving widow of the man who had bilked hundreds ofChicagoans out of their life savings. The Midwestern Bernie Madoff, thenewspapers called my husband. What they called me was no better.

"I have no comment," I said, eyeing the man through the door's glass pane. "I'veasked you people to leave me alone. Please."

"I'm not a reporter, Mrs. Bishop," he said to me, smiling slightly. "Nor am I apolice officer, an investigator, or a bill collector. I'm not going to issue youa summons or serve you notice of anything. I've come to ask for your help."

This was new. I squinted at him, wondering if he was some sort of religiousfanatic. "What kind of help?"

"I have need of your services. And I believe you're in need of ours."

Definitely a religious fanatic, then.

"I'm really not interested," I said. "Please go away."

"I've traveled a very long way to find you, Mrs. Bishop," he said. "Please. Letme say what I've come to say."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"I've come to offer you a job."

I didn't know quite how to respond to that. Apparently the look on my face saidit all, because he said: "This is a serious offer that I believe will benefitboth of us. Won't you please let me in and we can discuss it?"

With nothing to lose—what could he possibly take from me that wasn'talready gone?—I sighed and opened the door.

I led him into the living room and motioned to the sofa. "Something to drink?" Iasked as he took off his coat and laid it over the arm of one of the chairs."Tea? Or something stronger?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," he said, and I detected a slight Englishaccent buoying his words. "There's a bite to the wind out there. Winter is onits way."

As he settled onto the sofa, I shuffled into the kitchen and turned on thekettle, glad he hadn't followed me. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Ihadn't had much energy for housework since Jeremy died—what was the point?I pulled a box of tea bags and two cups from the cabinet, dropped a few of thebags into a pot, filled it with boiling water, and put the whole mess onto atray.

Back in the living room, I set the tray down on the coffee table in front of thesofa. "I hope you like hibiscus tea," I said, pouring him a cup. "It's all Ihad."

"That'll do just fine, thank you." He smiled, lifting the cup to his lips.

I sunk into one of the armchairs and crossed my legs, eyeing him. "So. What isthis all about?"

He nodded and cleared his throat. "As I said, I'm here to offer you a position."

The earnestness on his face told me he wasn't joking. "Listen," I began,reconsidering the decision to let him inside the house. I pushed myself up frommy chair. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. I think this was a mistakeand you should go."

"Please, just hear me out," he said. "Give me five minutes. If, after that,you'd still like me to go, I'll simply leave and never bother you again."

I settled back into the chair, studying him warily. "Five minutes."

"My name is Adrian Sinclair." He stopped to take a sip of his tea. "I live withmy mother at our country estate. Havenwood."

The sound of that word, "Havenwood," crackled through my mind. I had heard itbefore. I just couldn't place how, or when.

"It's near the Canadian border not far from Lake Superior's north shore inMinnesota," Mr. Sinclair went on. "My mother is elderly, of course, and infairly good health, but she does have episodes."

"Episodes?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if to take me into his confidence."Times in which she is not entirely lucid."

"I see," I said, but I really didn't. I had no idea what any of this had to dowith me.

"I travel on business often, and I'm going away again very soon," he continued."Of course, we have several servants, but they're busy tending to the house andgrounds, and what my mother needs in my absence is a full-time companion.Someone who can keep an eye on her, especially on the bad days. She has beenknown to wander. With winter coming on ..." He looked at me with expectant eyes.

I let what I thought he was saying to me sink in.

"You want me to be her companion, is that it?"

"Yes. Live in, full time."

I snorted. "But that's ridiculous. You don't even know me."

He didn't respond to that. Instead, he just went ahead with his pitch. "Theestate is quite lovely, I assure you."