“That the long winters here are good for storytelling,” he said. “I told you, there are lots of foolish stories about the springs.”
A dark place, I thought as we followed the dirt road from the center of town up into the hills. There were no houses up here—only trees and rocks, low stone walls that had toppled in places. The air got cooler as the trees grew thicker, seemed to almost overtake the road. The whole time we were traveling, we thought we must be lost—that there couldn’t possibly be a luxurious hotel out here. The dirt road grew narrower and narrower, more and more rutted and muddy from spring floods. The wheels caught in the ruts, making it sway this way and that; it felt as if the road itself was pulling our car along. I was afraid we’d sink too deep and get stuck. We did not pass another motorist, or the coach from the hotel, which was good because the road was far too narrow for two cars.
“Maybe we should turn back,” I suggested, but just then we saw a hand-painted white board nailed along the roadside telling us the hotel was just ahead. We crept along at a snail’s pace, the trees thickening, the forest seeming to swallow us deeper and deeper. We passed another white sign. I began to wonder if it was some sort of trick, if we were being drawn to our demise. Silly, really, but my fear was getting the better of me.
“Maybe this isn’t right,” I said.
“It must be right. We’re following the signs,” Will said, gripping the wheel too tightly. “Besides, the road’s too narrow. There’s no way to turn around.”
But then, the trees thinned, and the building appeared like a vision from a dream; it actually took my breath away. I squealed like a schoolgirl, clutched Will’s hand in excitement. And he squeezed back, seeming as excited as I was. The hotel was in a clearing completely surrounded by forest. There were two large hills looming behind it, so green against a sky so blue that it all looked like the backdrop to a play. The building was as grand as the brochure had promised—three floors, painted pure white with a lovely wraparound porch. It seemed to glow against the backdrop of lawn and trees, like a moon in the night sky. Directly in front of the building was a fountain surrounded by luscious flower gardens. Off to the right was the rose garden, set in concentric circles with a gazebo at the center walled with trellised roses. And the best part—peacocks roamed the grounds! They strutted to and fro, crying out and flashing their spectacular tail feathers.
Will pulled the car up the circular drive of crushed stone. The bellboy took our luggage, and we made our way to the front desk to check in. The lobby was beautiful! Polished wooden floors and counter, landscape paintings on the walls, and a gorgeous cut-glass crystal chandelier. The curtains were of heavy red velvet. The desk clerk helpfully pointed out the tennis court, the walking paths, the arboretum, and the springs on a drawn map of the grounds.
“Can we go to the water right away?” I asked Will. The map showed the springs behind the hotel at the edge of the woods.
The clerk shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the springs close every day at five for the safety of our guests.” He looked away, seeming suddenly nervous, almost frightened. Then he seemed to recompose himself. He turned back and smiled right at me. “They’ll reopen tomorrow morning at eight.”
Will seemed almost more disappointed than I was to hear this bit of news. “Oh, that’s too bad. Is the water piped into the hotel truly from the springs?”
“Oh yes, sir. You’ll be drinking it and bathing in it the entire time you’re here.”
* * *
The first thing we did when we got up to our room was pour two glasses of spring water.
“Cheers,” Will said, clinking his glass against mine.
The water was clear and cold and tasted slightly metallic. The rusty tang lingered at the back of my throat like blood.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Do you feel any different yet?”
I laughed. “I don’t think it works like that.”
He frowned, finished the water in his glass. “Tastes a bit like nails.”
Our room was on the second floor, at the front. There was floral wallpaper, an enormous canopy bed, and a private bath with a claw-foot tub. We had a balcony overlooking the fountain and gardens. As Will led me out onto the balcony, I had the oddest sensation. Not déjà vu, exactly, but something akin to it. The feeling brought with it a sense of vertigo. I swayed slightly, and Will steadied me with an arm around my waist.
“Easy there,” he said. “That was water we drank. You can’t be tipsy.”
“It’s this place!” I said. “It’s like something out of a storybook! I feel like… like I know this place.”
Below us, a peacock cried out. The sweet, heady scent of the rose garden drifted its way up.
He kissed my head. “You’ve been studying the brochure for days.”
“Not the way it looks,” I struggled to explain. “The way it feels. Like we’re meant to be here. Like coming home when you’ve been away a long time.”
Will gave me an odd look. “You have the most fanciful thoughts sometimes.” He kissed me again, on the lips. I kissed him back, let myself melt into him, his arms around me solid and sure, holding me tight while the world seemed to spin around us.
chapter five
June 16, 2019
I told the funeral home we were thinking of a short service there, Wednesday. Do you think that’s too soon?” Aunt Diane asked, clawing at the steering wheel. She looked stylish as ever: coppery red hair in a neat bob, beige purse matching her heels. Navy dress pants and a silk blouse. Even her manicure looked perfect.
“No,” I said, not having any idea whether that was too soon or not. I tried to imagine myself being ready for Lexie’s memorial service in just a few days, and it felt impossible. But even if we waited weeks, I knew I’d never be ready for it.
My head ached and my stomach was queasy. In the past twenty-four hours, I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink but coffee and the little bag of free pretzels on the plane. I’d offered to rent a car, but Diane had insisted on coming to get me in her black Lincoln Navigator. It was nearly a two-hour drive from the airport to Sparrow Crest, an hour on highways, the rest along back roads. I remembered the long three-hour drives from our house in Massachusetts to Brandenburg each June, the trunk loaded with bulging suitcases, stuffed animals, our bikes on the roof rack. Our father would be driving, fiddling with the radio, always looking for just the right road-trip music—anything to help him forget where he was going. And Mom would sit quietly, watching the scenery, her face getting and more tense the closer we got to Sparrow Crest. I knew once we arrived, Gram would invite them in for dinner, but our parents would make excuses, talk about bad traffic, an early morning, anything to get out as quickly as possible. They never stayed, just dropped and ran with lots of I love yous, have a good a summer, behave for your grandmother. My parents both hated Sparrow Crest. More than hating it, they seemed wary of it. Our mother said it made her cold, held too many bad memories. Our father said it was obviously haunted and creepy as hell. “Have a good summer in Dracula’s castle,” he’d whisper as he kissed us goodbye. “Watch out for the bats.”