Keepers Of The Gate Page 9

  Jayson’s brows furrow. “And there were no busted pipes,” he explains, rising from his knees. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a person trailed puddles into Twyla’s room.”

  Absorbed in thought, Sky lowers her nose into her pajama sleeve. “No, it wasn’t a pipe,” she agrees in a quiet voice.

  Twyla notices her sudden silence. She’s withholding information. And why did she sniff her sleeve? “Well, someone spilled water on the stairs, that’s the only explanation.”

  Skylar turns her head and gazes into the fireplace. The slight nose hook, sharp cheekbones, and dimpling of her chin when she’s contemplative, reminds her of Papa Ian’s profile. Where Sky inherited Ian’s features, Twyla’s a carbon copy of Grams, right down to her slight build.

  “I swear there was… never mind,” Sky mumbles, tilting forward. “Ow! My back,” she groans, slumping into the chair.

  Twyla hastens toward the sofa and grabs a decorative green pillow. “This might help,” she says, easing Sky forward in the chair and tucking the pillow beneath her tail bone.

  “Ah…” Sky sighs and settles into the chair. “Yes, that’s better.”

  Twyla walks to the mantel and turns her posterior to the fire, lifting one damp-socked foot at a time to the drying flames. She studies Sky’s face, wagging her foot behind her in contemplation. “Did you see someone in the stairwell?”

  “I don’t know. There was an image in the mirror, but my eyes are tired from lack of sleep. It was probably nothing,” she explains with a dismissive wave of her hand, lowering her gaze to the hearth.

  Jayson struts across the floor to the window, staring at the mounting storm.

  Sky gazes at his bare feet and up at her daughter’s stiff face.

  With Sky’s curious glare, Twyla’s positive she suspects Jayson slept in her room.

  “It’s snowing hard, but I’ve driven in worse storms than this. The hospital isn’t far, we should give it a shot,” Jayson exclaims.

  Sky sighs. Brushing her hair aside, she lowers the pillow further. “Please, I’m fine. No broken bones, only a headache and a sore backside. I’m sure after a soak in the tub, I’ll be good as new.”

  Twyla sits in the damask armchair on the other side of the fireplace, where Tessa and Ian used to recline after a stressful day. A place where they’d talked, read and enjoyed Tessa’s special drinks. Sky and Charlie redecorated the suite with items from their last home. But Skylar insisted the two armchairs, fixtures since the marriage of Grams and Papa, should stay.

  Many Moons of long nights, the name of winter in the Iroquoian lunar calendar, pop into her mind. She’d sit on the floor beside Grams and Papa, listening to folklore for hours. Now, whenever she yearns for them, she visits this space, believing their essence remains ingrained in the wood, fabric, and frames of their favorite chairs.

  The kindling crackles, sending a spark into the flue. Flickering flames lick at tinder, conjuring the tale of Blazing Arrows, the warrior who discovered fire after witnessing a streak of lightning across the sky, a blazing arrow that set two balsam trees aflame. The warrior introduced fire to his Iroquoian village and was forever known as Blazing Arrows. It’s been ages since she thought of the story. Grams told that folk tale because of her fascination with fire as a child, a fleeting obsession she never understood.

  Twyla rubs the chair’s arms with an inaudible sigh, then gazes at Skylar. She must be uncomfortable meeting Jayson with unkempt hair and dressed in her favorite worn pajamas. She’s one for giving good first impressions, especially for Twilight’s guests. Sky stares at the fire with a crinkled face, deep in contemplation. Twyla recalls the scene from her bedroom window with mounting curiosity. “Mom, I saw you outside earlier. Why were you digging near that tree?”

  Surprised, Sky whips her head around with an audible crack of her neck. “Ooh,” she mumbles, grasping and turning her head side to side as if to realign the neck bone.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah,” Sky replies, staring sideways at her daughter. “What else did you notice in the backyard?”

  “Nothing. Did something happen?” Twyla suspects it did from her dash on to the porch. But she’ll never admit it in front of Jayson. Strangers’ incredulous responses perturb her to no end. Twyla tightens her lips, confident she’ll tell her in private. But Jayson’s aware of Sky’s spectral encounters. In fact, his fascination with the paranormal stunned her when she mentioned Mom’s experiences. Nevertheless, she respects Sky’s privacy and doesn’t press the topic.

  “We’ll talk later when my head’s not pounding.”

  “Are any of your guests doctors?”

  “Jayson, yes, that’s a great idea. Dante Whelan’s a doctor.”

  “A surgeon,” Skylar clarifies.

  “Even better,” Twyla says, rising from the chair. She hastens toward the hearth and shoves her feet inside Skylar’s boots. “Jayson, stay with mom. I’ll fetch Dr. Whelan.”

  “No, it’s way too early to disturb them. Let them enjoy the last morning of their stay. I can wait till later.”

  “They’re awake, I saw them at the window earlier. From the looks of the storm, they’ll have one more morning to sleep late,” Twyla says, marching toward the door in clunky boots two sizes too large.

  “Twyla, don’t… you’re so darn impetuous.”

  Ignoring her protests, Twyla rushes through the stairwell door and glances at the mirror, wondering what Sky saw. From her peculiar expression, she suspects she knows the water’s source.

  Twyla exhales raw emotions Skylar’s fall evoked, the same pain she’d experienced, finding Grams unresponsive in bed. She’ll never forget Grams’ warm, ragged breath misting her face as she leaned over and brushed hair from her eyes. An unbearable pain wrenched her heart with her last wheeze. She’d recognized death but prayed it wasn’t. Seated at her bedside, she’d waited and hoped she’d open her eyes, even though she’d seen her last breath. Grams’ wise, brown eyes would never smile at her again. Two experiences with death are enough. Neither she nor Charlie could survive another loss so soon after Grams and Papa.

  In the office, Twyla grabs the skeleton key from the wall hutch, a phone niche from olden days, repurposed to store mail and the guestroom keys. She heads toward her whistling dad, pulling sweet-smelling scones from the oven in the kitchen. “Dad?”

  “Hey, Twinkles, are you and Jayson joining me for breakfast?”

  “He’s upstairs with Mom,” she says with a calm exterior.

  “With Sky? Why?”

  “Don’t get alarmed. Mom’s OK. She took a tumble on the stairs…”

  “What!” he screeches, wide-eyed.

  “Dante Whelan is a doctor…” Before she can say she’s fetching him now, the skillet drops on the counter with a loud, wobbling thud, and Charlie rushes from the kitchen.

  Twyla exits on to the porch, at once wrapping her arms around her shoulders. She doesn’t think of grabbing a coat with the Carriage House only a few feet away. But she’s wary of the icy steps and snow mounds covering the path. Brutal wind sweeps around the porch, whistling a faint tune in her ears. A flute? No, it’s just the gale. With the second sound, she twists her head toward the lakeshore, noticing much thicker mist than earlier. The melody plays from the lake. It must be the wind hissing on the water.

  A forceful gust prompts her off the porch, shoves her across the snow-obscured walkway toward the Carriage House. She glances at the lake when the flute sounds again. It can’t be the wind. Is it coming from the caretaker’s cottage? But George doesn’t play the flute. Quickly, she opens the door, brushing and stomping snow from her hair and boots.

  Inside the cozy lounge, she pauses and does a double take when she passes a mirrored wall, reflecting a stranger’s image. The image blurred, but it wasn’t her jean-clad figure, but a woman with waist-length, raven hair, not her shoulder-length cut. The Whelans are the only ones in the Carriage House, and Cristal’s hair isn’t that long. Twyla searches the room, realizin
g the woman had reflected not behind, in front or beside her but with her. No, it can’t be. I’m mistaken.

  “Hello, anyone there? Cristal?” she calls out, although the woman appeared nothing like her. So, who was it? And there’s just one couple in the Carriage House. Twyla peers at the mirror, now showing her petite image. I didn’t imagine it.

  She stalks through the lounge and dining room, into the kitchen, searching for the disappearing woman. At the kitchen island, she scans the lower floor’s towering rafters, tall, arched doors, and casements. The original structures of a colonial horse stable, now a charming, two-story cottage comprising four bridal suites plus living, kitchen and dining areas, made surreal from opaque light flooding floor-to-ceiling windows. Twyla checks the back entrance, finding the door bolted. She shakes her head, recalling the woman’s image. Could it have been Cristal? No, she shakes her head again.

  She ascends the stairs to the second floor, pauses at the bridal suite, pondering Cristal’s odd behavior at the window earlier. Why didn’t she wave back? Was she looking at something else? Twyla raps three times on the wooden barn door.

  The door slides open to a furrowed-browed Dr. Whelan with tousled hair and sparse black stubbles along his handsome jaw. Even unkempt, he’s a commanding figure. His fastened flannel robe hides his chest hair and periwinkle boxers. Adolescent desires she’d held for her teenage crush stir when his grayish-blue eyes meet hers. She grins with a flitting gaze inside the room at Cristal in front of the window.

  It wasn’t her downstairs!

  “Twyla?” Dr. Whelan queries, deep forming crinkles between his brows.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early. Mom had an accident. She took a nasty tumble on the stairs…”

  “Is she OK?” Cristal asks, turning toward the door, alarmed. Without make-up, she looks younger than her 40 years as she clutches a gold cross around her neck. Her odd stare analyzes every inch of Twyla as if seeing her for the first time.

  “As far as I can tell…” Twyla says self-consciously under Cristal’s scrutinizing eyes and turns her gaze to Dr Whelan. “But she hit her head hard against the wall.”

  “Did she have a fright? I mean, did she trip or slip?” Cristal asks, recanting her words.

  “She slipped on puddles in the stairwell. It’s the oddest thing. We can’t figure out how water got on the stairs.”

  Cristal’s worried gaze flits to her husband.

  He catches her curious stare.

  Twyla recognizes their furtive glances. She’d cast many at Jayson in public places, fleeting looks laden with meaning only they understood.

  “Twyla, give me a second to dress and I’ll be right there,” Dr Whelan says, rushing toward the ensuite bathroom.

  11

  Call Me Dante

  The sight of Dr Whelan in Papa Ian’s armchair evokes teenage memories of him seated in the same chair seven years ago. On rare occasions, he’d showed up for a closed-door meeting. Private gatherings only Cora, the chef, could breach to serve Tessa’s special drinks. One hectic summer weekend when Twyla was 16, she’d assisted Grams in the office with guest relations. Cora entered the office, glanced at her with a perky smile, and declared to Tessa, “He’s arrived.” Grams sprang from the chair with zeal. “I’ll be in the family suite, but no interruptions unless it’s of dire importance,” she’d said, hastening from the office.

  A while later, a persistent patron called, demanding to speak with Tessa. Twyla placed the call on hold and rushed up the rear stairs on to the family suite’s private balcony. She wavered at the entrance, surprised to hear the voices of Dr. Whelan and Old George. She’d thought it odd Tessa included the caretaker in a private meeting.

  Mindful of Grams’ strict instructions not to disturb her except in dire circumstances, she dithered on the terrace, gnawing at her lip, and listened to their meeting a moment. She considered whether the demanding customer’s request was urgent enough to interrupt what had appeared a serious conversation. Indecisive, frozen on the balcony, she was startled when Grams’ angry tone rose while the three men listened in silence. When Grams’ raised her voice further, she’d tiptoed closer to the door, angled her head, and peeked inside the room.

  “He’s a corrupt man with ulterior motives! The Keepers of The Western Door Society requires a formidable leader whose values align with our mission. We need an individual who understands our people and honors our culture. A person with your character, Dante. I wish you’d reconsider.”

  “Dante, I mean no disrespect,” Ian had said, “but KWD has strict guidelines. I agree you’d be a valuable addition to the group, but with your busy schedule at the hospital, when would you find the time? The Keepers need a full commitment to our mission, and foremost, your allegiances must be with KWD. Everyone in this room knows who you are, your genuine spirit. You’re an upstanding man who’s been important to the Newhouse family for centuries. You will make an influential leader if you choose.”

  Twyla assumed Papa was speaking figuratively. Nobody lives that long.

  “Dante, I hope you’ll consider my offer.”

  Old George concurred with Tessa. “My friend, brother, fellow warrior, I hope you will join us again.”

  Dante had risen slowly, contemplatively, and strolled toward the balcony with his head down. “Tessa, I appreciate your offer, and I’d love to give my support in other ways. I’m honored you have such faith in me, but, as Ian said, my commitment lies with the hospital.” He’d sighed and rubbed his forehead. “What you told me last time…” he’d said, pacing four steps with a head shake and his hand on his chin. “To be frank, I’m skeptical of this Mingin and doorway. Do you realize how impossible it sounds?” he’d asked, catching Twyla’s eyes at the door.

  He’d winked, and she’d scampered toward the stairs, never hearing Tessa or Ian’s response. Lost in clandestine words, she’d forgotten the demanding customer on the phone. Warrior. Centuries. Doorway. Mingin. An Iroquois warrior who’d lived centuries ago and whom Tessa had mentioned often. She’d tried to put the pieces together but nothing made much sense. That same afternoon around the inn, Dante winked at her again. She’d blushed with a rush of guilt, but she was thankful he hadn’t mentioned her eavesdropping to Grams and Papa.

  The next day, when she’d asked about the Keepers of The Western Door, Grams shot her a surprised glare and asked, “Where did you hear that?”

  “I was… I don’t remember,” Twyla stammered, noting her sharp squint.

  “It’s just a club for Geneva’s Native Americans,” she replied.

  “But Dr. Whelan isn’t Native American.”

  Deep grooves formed between Tessa’s brows as she stuffed a Twilight Ends brochure into an envelope, smoothing the seal flap with her fingers. “Dante’s mother is Iroquois. He’s one of us, mixed-blood as you are, sweetie, but that doesn’t make him or you any less Iroquois,” she said, then clarified further, “Dante’s mother married an Irishman, and he inherited more of his father’s qualities than his mother’s. And you took after me more than your mom or dad.”

  The engraved dogwood tree on her gold ring sparkled as she sealed the envelope. The tree, flanked east and west by two warriors and wolves, recalled the myth of Hawenneyu, the deity of all gods and his sun-tree guarded by two dogs. The canine sentinels could lick a wound, curing or killing its target.

  “Was Dr Whelan a soldier?” she asked. It had to be what Old George meant by warrior.

  “Twyla, were you eavesdropping on my meeting?”

  “I… It… I didn’t mean to, it was accidental, and I didn’t hear much,” she’d stammered, crossing her arms as Grams gave her a sharp look.

  Grams had sighed. “It’s OK, honey, but don’t do it again. Those meetings are for members only. We’ll never mention KWD again, okay?”

  “Yes, Grams,” Twyla had replied, but she always wondered about the remarks from Ian and Old George.

  The long-forgotten weekend reminds her of Iroquois clan mother’s influenti
al power to choose sachems and warriors for their tribes, a role that suited Grams’ strong personality.

  “Oww…”

  Skylar’s moan pulls Twyla back to the present crisis.

  “Come on, let’s get you into the bedroom,” Dante says.

  “Ooh, that smarts,” Skylar says as Charlie and Dante lift her from the chair.

  Twyla follows into the bedroom as they seat her on the king-sized four-poster bed.

  Charlie and Twyla watch from the corner while Dante examines Sky.

  “Does that hurt?” he asks, touching her head and neck.

  “No, just my head throbs,” Sky replies.

  Twyla fixes her gaze on Dante’s olive complexion and blue eyes, a mixture of Irish-Iroquoian heritage. On closer scrutiny, subtle hints of Native American lineage appear in his facial contours, the slight slant of his cheekbones seen in her people. But no one could mistake him for a Native American – a dark Irishman at most.

  The KWD gold band glints as he moves his hand along Skylar’s shoulder. The same band Grams and Papa wore. Had Dante accepted Grams’ offer? She’s never noticed the ring on his finger until now.

  He catches her gawking as she’d done as a lovesick girl. She grins and glances at Skylar, aware he’d known of her girlish attraction, but had never let on, always treating her as a father does a daughter. She recalls teenage fantasies of marrying Dante, living happily ever after at Twilight, a pipe dream with zero probability, given the age difference. When he married Cristal, she was heartbroken. Over the years, the childish infatuation developed into admiration, respect for his devotion and support of Grams and Papa. With time, she’d embraced Cristal as his wife.

  Dante puts Skylar through a battery of sensory perception tests, checking for head trauma. “No blurriness, coordination’s good. Any ringing in your ears?”

  “No more than usual,” she says, throwing Twyla a glance.