Chapter 31

Mason had been looking forward to this day for so long that he couldn't believe it was actually here. So engrossed was he in the anticipation of meeting his sister that he forgot to watch his speed. He glanced down-the speedometer had crept above sixty. He let up on the accelerator.

He'd allowed Gillian out of the basement long enough to bake a cake. She'd done a decent job, he had to admit. At least she was good for something.

She'd broken riis heart, that's what she'd done. Reacting that way to his photographs. His photos were a part of him, they were a part of who he was, and up until that point everything had been going so well.

She'd hurt him. Hurt him deeply.

Girls were worthless. That was the bottom line. He would have to tell Jo that he was never going to find the right girl for him because the right girl didn't exist. They were good only for baking cakes and having babies, and he didn't want any kids and he could order a cake from the bakery.

Girls were deceitful. So full of lies. They were packages that looked enticing, alluring from the outside, but when you opened them up they were full of maggots.

Except for Jo. Jo fell into a completely different category. She was a saint. She was perfect. She was beautiful inside and out.

When at last she stood before him, he was so glad to see her that he lifted her into the air and hugged her. She laughed, not in the mean way Gillian had laughed, but in delight and joy. She loved him. She'd always loved him, and oh, how he could bask in the warmth of that love.

On the way home he talked her ear off, telling her everything that had been going on while she'd been gone, telling her about his roses and how he'd taken good care of the house. He yakked and yakked and yakked.

Should he mention Gillian? he wondered when the conversation reached a lull. Should he even let Jo meet someone he wasn't going to keep? Someone who might disappear the way Seymour disappeared?

But it would be good to demonstrate to Jo that at least he'd made an effort to find a mate. That he'd kept his promise to her and that he'd been serious about it even though it hadn't worked out.

Was it anybody's fault that neither of them had known he was simply destined to be a bachelor? What was wrong with that, anyway? What is wrong with that?

Maybe Jo would extend her visit. Maybe once she was back, once she saw the house, she would want to stay longer. To hell with the people in town who'd snubbed her. She didn't need anybody else. Neither of them needed anybody else. Not as long as they had each other.

When they got home Jo went to her bedroom, saying she wanted to lie down awhile.

That was okay. It gave Mason time to get things ready for her party. While she was resting, he set the table.

Three places.

He decided to allow Gillian to participate. At times she could conduct herself with propriety, and surely with his sister gracing the house Gillian would be on her best behavior.

He got out the china and silverware. He put party favors at each setting. In the refrigerator was soft-serve ice cream from Dairy Queen-Jo's favorite after homemade. When he was little, she used to make homemade ice cream. He would turn the crank until he thought his arm would fall off. Jo always said the hand-cranked kind was the only kind to make if you were going to the trouble. Mason liked being able to do something, and the machine wasn't noisy like the electric ones. Those could send a person running out of the house.

He lit candles for atmosphere and put on a record- Mahler's arrangement of Schubert's Quartet in D Minor, "Death and the Maiden." Then he went to see if Jo was awake…

Music woke her.

It drifted into the basement and oozed through the stone walls. Gillian sat up in the blackness. She had no idea if it was day or night, no idea how much time had passed since she'd visited Mason's photo gallery. He'd allowed her upstairs once since then. That had been to bake a cake for his sister's welcome-home party.

The light above her head came on. A moment later Mason unlocked the door and threw it open. He was dressed in a black suit with sleeves that were too short. His hair was wet and combed back off a white forehead. "Party time!" he announced with puppylike enthusiasm. "How do you look?" He pulled her under the light and examined her.

She hadn't eaten since the pork chop dinner, and she'd been using the corner of the room as a toilet, but his mind was too caught up in other thoughts for him to find fault with her. "Come on," he said in a bubbly voice, swinging her arm.

"What time is it?" she asked, stumbling along behind him.

"Late. We have to hurry."

"I'd like to know the time."

He checked his watch. "Six-thirty."

"In the evening?"

"In the morning."

The exertion caused sweat to break out over her body, and the stone walls swam. "Mason-just a minute." She leaned her face against the clammy wall and closed her eyes, afraid she was going to pass out.

"Come on." He tugged at her arm. "My sister's waiting."

His sister. Gillian had momentarily forgotten about his sister. His sister. Her time in hell was almost over.

The knowledge of potential freedom gave her strength. She pulled in some deep breaths, then continued after him, hardly noticing when she smacked her toe into a step, tearing the nail at the root.

Upstairs, candles burned everywhere. The music was something classical. Through the doorway she could see the kitchen table, see the candles and cake and roses, the wineglasses shimmering. Sitting with her back to her was a small blond-haired woman wearing a dark dress.

Thank God. She was here. Finally here! Until that point, Gillian hadn't been sure she was real, afraid Mason was just making her up. Gillian felt close to tears as relief and gratitude rushed through her.

Rather than waiting for Mason to make introductions, she took the initiative. "Hi. I'm Gillian Cantrell," she said, moving forward into the room, swinging around to face the woman in the chair, her hand extended.

The floor shifted.

Behind her, the basement door slammed shut. A vacuum sucked the air from the room.

Sitting in front of her, hands folded demurely on her lap, eyes closed, face bearing undertaker's makeup, was a dead woman.

Denial, confusion, and disbelief fluttered in Gillian's brain.

A corpse.

No!

Her mind struggled with the presentation. NO! Not real. Not happening. A dream. A nightmare.

"This is my sister, Jo Von Bryant," Mason said, proudly striding in behind her, pulling out a chair so Gillian could take a seat at the table, across from Jo.

"Sit down," Mason commanded, a familiar irritation creeping into his voice.

With jerky movements, Gillian sat, her hands in her lap, her eyes focusing on the cake in the center of the table, welcome rtOME, jo.

Jo, the dead woman. Jo, the corpse.

Even though Gillian wasn't looking at her, she may as well have been. She could see her anyway. Such was the persistence of memory. She could see the way the shiny, transparent skin of her face stretched across the bridge of a narrow nose. Her mouth had been a round black pit, as if she'd died while crying out in pain.

Had Mason killed her?

Make this go away. Make this all go away.

Gillian unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. She cleared her throat. "H-how long have you been gone?" she asked.

"A year," Mason said, slicing a knife through the cake. "A year today."

Where had she been all of this time? In the house? In one of the rooms upstairs?

A smell emanated from her, not a rotten smell, but something Gillian associated with funeral parlors.

Embalming fluid.

As her mind raced and then screeched to a stop, Mason continued to cut and serve the cake. He hummed as he scooped ice cream onto three plates and finally took a seat between Gillian and his sister.