Jenny Pox (The Paranormals, Book 1) (23 page)

“Give her a crank,” he suggested.

Jenny carefully inserted the key into the steering column.  She put her foot on the brake and turned the key.  The car grumbled for a few seconds, then coughed its way to life.  She revved the engine.

“Well, lookie that,” Merle said. “I finally made the interior look pretty.”

Jenny blushed.

“You think you can handle that car, Jenny?” her dad asked.

“
Oh, yeah.” Jenny felt giddy, like she was buying the car, not borrowing it for a couple of nights. “This is great.”

“
Tell you what,” Merle said. “I’m spending Christmas with my sister’s family in Pensacola.  Why don’t you keep her on through the holidays?  I’ll be gone before you bring her back, anyhow.  Won’t be here to take the keys.”

“
Do you mean it?” Jenny asked.

“
All the same to me,” Merle said. “Just be careful.  And don’t be driving it drunk.  Back seat’s big enough for you lay right down and sleep it off.”

“
I won’t,” Jenny promised.

“
All right,” Merle said. “Now, let’s go see if we can find her a back tire, and take her down off that jack.”

The gate at Barrett House was open, guarded only by the stone lions perched on their columns.  Jenny eased the Lincoln through onto the long brick driveway.  It was as wide as a boulevard and lined with huge ornamental dogwood trees, each tree filled with glowing webs of tiny white lights.  As she drew close to the house, she passed the cars already parked along the driveway—new cars, some of them Mercedes and Cadillacs, nearly all of them black.  The old Lincoln wouldn’t fit in, but she was glad not to be arriving in the rusty Ram.

She reached the big turnaround, and got an up-close view of Barrett House.  Her first impression was of a mausoleum, all stonework and dark brick, like the bank in town.  Tall but narrow windows on the first floor looked out on the world like suspicious eyes.  The windows on the upper two floors were larger, but not by much.  The third floor was completely dark, so the house faded away into the night above.

She pulled up at the front, where a young man in a tuxedo emerged from the columns of the semi-circular portico jutting out from the house.  The portico was topped with curving wrought-iron balustrades on the second and third floors, accessible from the house through narrow arched doorways. 

Jenny didn’t know what to do, so she waited.  The valet grinned and opened the door for her.  He was cute, only a couple of years older than her, with longish dirty blond hair.

“
Hi,” Jenny said. “Do I just leave the keys in here for you?”

“
That will be fine, ma’am.” He took her hand, which was sheathed in a long black glove, and helped her out of the car, not that she really needed it.  “I think this is my favorite car tonight,” he whispered to her.

“
Thank you.” Jenny looked toward the double front doors, which were propped wide open.  Light and warmth rolled out from the inside, along with the sounds of murmuring voices, clinking glass, live musicians playing a slow instrumental of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”  A sudden fear struck deep into her.  She didn’t belong here, and she would no doubt be ejected on sight.

Jenny watched the valet climb into her car and give her a thumbs-up before driving away.  She gathered her sheer black wrap closer around her shoulders as if it would give her protection.  Keeping her eyes straight ahead, Jenny walked uninvited through the doors of Barrett House.

The first room was two stories high, an entrance hall with a wide, curving staircase that hugged its way around the wall, lit by a huge chandelier and scattered lamps and candles, but it still managed to feel dark and oppressive.  The walls were heavy wood paneling, black or a very deep brown.  There were thick rugs on the parquet floor, thick embroidered draperies around the windows.   A few middle-aged people in suits and cocktail dresses held a low conversation near the steps.

Paintings looked down on her, generations of Barrett men, most of them wearing dour expressions and severe black bankers’ suits.  The oldest was a man with a huge white beard, dressed in a Confederate officer uniform, seated by a table with a stack of leather-bound books.  A grim-looking woman in a dark, big-skirted antebellum dress and much jewelry stood behind him with one hand on the back of his chair.  Nobody in any of the portraits looked very happy, but Jenny supposed that was the style in those days.  Now, you were always supposed to lean your heads together and pretend to be deliriously happy whenever anybody snapped a picture.

A massive granite chimney dominated the front room, reaching up two stories and presumably on through the third floor and roof.  One thick log burned inside the fireplace.  The fireplace and chimney gave the house an even heavier, almost medieval atmosphere, with the raw firelight and the smell of wood smoke. 

A young woman in a black and white catering outfit offered to take Jenny’s wrap, and Jenny declined.  A young man in a similar outfit passed through the room carrying a tray of glasses with red wine, and he swerved a little to offer Jenny one.  She gladly accepted.

There were three tall, arched doorways leading out of the front room, their heavy oak doors propped open.  Straight ahead, the receiving hall shrank into a dark central hallway that burrowed away under the stairs.  To her left and right were huge lighted rooms where people gathered in little groups, drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvres from the caterers.  The live music sounded from the door on her left.  

Each of the heavy oak doors was reinforced with iron bands and a big brass lock.  The doors were all propped open for the party, but clearly the whole house could be locked down if desired, like a castle under siege.  Or a prison.

The young woman noticed her confusion and said, “The ballroom’s to your left.  Dining room to your right.  Are you sure I can’t take that for you?”

Jenny shook her head and walked toward the ballroom.  She felt unsteady in her new high heels--Jenny was more of a sneakers girl.  The heels clacked and echoed on the dark wooden floor, sounding loud to her ears, despite the string and bell music tinkling through the house.

She entered the ballroom, another dark-paneled space with another chandelier, crowded with scores of people.  There was a large, empty dance floor in front of the quartet.  A thirteen-foot Douglas fir strung with gold and red beads and miniature white lights stood in the corner behind the band.  Most of the people were on this end of the ballroom at little clusters of tables and chairs close to the bar.  The crowd was much older than Jenny, and many silver heads turned to evaluate the young lady who’d entered the room alone, the men with curiosity, the women with suspicion. 

Jenny felt terribly exposed.  Her habit was to look down at her feet and let her hair shield her face.  Now she forced herself to look back at everyone, even raising her chin an inch.  She gripped her slender little black purse (one of her mother’s) tightly in her fingers, but she tried to keep her nervousness hidden.   

Jenny had, after much effort,  managed to tailor the dress to fit her without ruining it in the process.  She’d driven to Apple Creek to buy the shoes, and the gauzy black material for the wrap, which she’d made herself.  She’d also purchased make-up and perfume, which had been the hardest part.  She must have spent an hour in the cosmetics section at Belk, looking at catalogs, studying herself in the mirrors, sniffing little scent testers.  A friendly lady at the glass counter had offered to apply the makeup for her, and Jenny regretted having to say no.  It would have made things much easier. 

All of that had cost most of her savings.  She’d cut her own hair, as always, but this time did it very carefully, following some magazine pictures, instead of just hacking off anything below her shoulders.  She made a pin for her hair, too, with live mistletoe braided, twisted and glued into a spiral shape.  The small green and white plant didn’t match the rest of her outfit, but she liked it.

Jenny gave her best smile to the people looking at her.  This seemed to break their interest, and they turned their attention back to their own little groups.  Her worst, most paranoid fear, that someone would immediately point at her and yell that she didn’t belong, or that she would be thrown out on sight, faded away.  Thank God, she thought, that people were so self-absorbed.

She moved deeper into the room, trying to look casual and very much not an intruder, hoping to get lost in the crowd.  She recognized people here and there.  There was Mayor Hank Winder and his wife, Cassie’s parents, who owned a timber processing center somewhere down the road.  Police Chief Lintner was there, talking with Dick Baker, a lawyer and real estate agent known for his bathroom advertisements.  Dick Baker was the father of poor Wendy, the girl who’d run offstage in tears during her failed bid for student council.  There were plenty of people Jenny didn’t recognize at all.  Maybe they were from outside Fallen Oak.

Jenny reached the open, unpopulated expanse of the dance floor, crossed along the edge of it, then walked back along the opposite wall, still looking for any sign of Seth.  Instead, she found herself moving right toward a knot of four people, and she went into a panic.  It was Mr. and Mrs. Jon S. Barrett III, both of them looking salted and ruddy by long exposure to the sun.  Jenny remembered that they stayed in Florida for months at a time.  Graying, balding Mr. Barrett had the broken-capillary red nose and cheeks of a serious drinker, like Jenny’s dad, and held a glass of whiskey, while most of the guests had wine.  He and his wife dressed in dark, formal clothes that looked like they had grown organically out of the mansion around them.

She imagined them pointing at her, demanding to know who she was.  To make things much worse, they were talking with Dr. and Mrs. Goodling.  Ashleigh’s dad wore a brown, fairly realistic toupee, and his hair was unnaturally dark for his wrinkled face.  Mrs. Goodling looked about twenty years younger than him, though it was hard to tell because her face had been stretched into Barbie doll smoothness by plastic surgery, and her hair was many layered shades of dyed blonde.  She wore diamonds at her ears, neck and fingers, outdazzling the restrained pearls and gold worn by Mrs. Barrett.

Jenny tried to avoid them with a sharp turn, but Mr. Barrett must have noticed the lost, panicked look she’d been trying to hide.

“
Hey there, young lady,” Mr. Barrett said, and his wife frowned. “Can I help you?”

“
Oh, hello, Mr. Barrett,” Jenny said, making herself smile. “And Mrs. Barrett, you look so lovely.” Jenny hoped this was the appropriate kind of thing to say.

“
Why, thank you,” Mrs. Barrett said. “I think that dress is just adorable.  I do apologize, but I’m having a little trouble with names tonight.  Forgive me.”

It took Jenny a few seconds to realize Mrs. Barrett was asking Jenny’s name.  She panicked again.  If she said the truth, they would know she was Darrell Morton’s daughter, someone they hadn’t invited.  Fortunately, Mr. Barrett spoke before Jenny could think of anything to say.

“No, let me guess,” he said. “Luke Bamford’s daughter.  Liza May.  Am I right?  Liza May Bamford?”

Jenny smiled very wide.

“I knew it,” Mr. Barrett said. “She looks just like Darlene, doesn’t she, Iris?”

“
Is that right?” Mrs. Barrett eyeballed Jenny. “We haven’t seen you in, well, it must be six years?  Eight?”

“
I’m not really sure, ma’am,” Jenny said.

“
Listen to that,” Mrs. Barrett said. “There are a few polite ones left.”

“
Well, she’s a gorgeous young lady now, isn’t she?” Mr. Barrett drank from his whiskey, ignoring his wife’s arched eyebrow. “Have you met my son, Seth?”

“
Our daughter Ashleigh is Seth’s girlfriend,” Mrs. Goodling told Jenny, in a pleasant, honeyed voice that Jenny found uncomfortably familiar. “More than three years now.  They’re very serious, aren’t they?” she asked Mrs. Barrett.

“
I believe so,” Mrs. Barrett said.

“
To be honest, I’m still looking for Seth…and Ashleigh and everybody…I only just arrived,” Jenny said. “Are they nearby?”

“
The kids are upstairs on the back veranda,” Mr. Barrett said. “They think we don’t know they’re getting drunk up there.”

“
Jon!” Mrs. Barrett gave the preacher’s wife an apologetic look.  “How is your mother, Liza May?”

“
Oh, just fine, ma’am.  She’s never been better.  She loves the holidays.”  Jenny made herself shut up.

“
That is amazing,” Mrs. Barrett said. “I heard she was confined to her hospital bed not three weeks ago.  Well, you know how people get things wrong.  Don’t you?”

Jenny wanted to slap herself with both hands.  Dr. Goodling, who hadn’t said a word, now looked openly suspicious of her.

“So I just go upstairs, then?”  Jenny pointed her finger off in a random direction.  She gave Mr. Barrett a big smile, since he was the only one who seemed to like her.  Thank God for strong whiskey.

“
You’ll want to head on out through that door and down the hall,” Mr. Barrett said. “You can’t miss the back stairs.  Get yourself a drink first.”