Chapter 3 The First Dinner

The sun sank below the edge of twilight. The temperature in Wolfe Manor dropped, and darkness pooled into all its corners. Helen was alone in her room, the heavy drapes pulled shut, and beyond the glass she stared out at the black ocean, midnight waves of turbulence under a setting sun. She shook off thoughts of the gallery and John's words. She had wanted to feel that perhaps she had entered something of her old life, but there was an importance to this that overshadowed anything she had been through before. A slight rap on the door interrupted her. "Helen?" came Sofia's voice from behind the door, as calm as ever. "Yes?" Helen got up out of the chair. "Helen, Mr. Wolfe would like you to have dinner with him in the main dinning room." Helen's stomach dropped. She hadn't thought she'd be having dinner with him especially after today. "Okay, what time?" "Now," Sofia said, with a smile that showed all her teeth, polite but not so much. Helen ran back and changed into something more appropriate: an emerald-green sweater over a dark slacks. Hopefully it accomplished business casual without getting too fancy. She walked into the dining room to see John at the head of the long table, already seated with a glass of red wine in his hand. "Helen," he said as he saw her, standing up. "Mr. Wolfe," she replied her smile tentative. "John will do." The sound of her name on his lips sent an odd flip-flop through her chest. She nodded and took the seat Sofia had indicated, directly to John's right. The table-a seemingly endless expanse of gleaming mahogany set beneath a warm wash of light from a wrought-iron chandelier overhead- was spectacular. Dinner arrived with the same precision as everything else within the manor. A thick soup appeared before her, followed by flaky fish and steamed vegetables, a basket of warm bread set down as well. It was all delicious but it felt like a rock in Katherine's stomach. "I trust you are at ease," John finally spoke, his tone polite but cool. "Yes, thank you."' Helen stared at her wineglass. "The manor is lovely. And the mural...I think I'm going to try to restore it.' John's laughter echoed through the room.' "You're welcome. I like this place too, and the mural isn't yours to ruin...''" Again the weight in his voice, as if this mural meant more than art. 'Do you mind if I ask, how old is it?' The fork made a faint tapping noise as Helen laid it on her plate. John's eyes filled suddenly with tears. "One of my forebears had it painted not long after the Wolfe family first came here. I suppose no one knows who he got to do it, but it's been in the house ever since, passed on whenever a new generation inherited." "But your sister," Helen persisted. "You said she was an artist." "She was." John turned and stared moodily up at the portrait. "That picture you saw - her idea of herself, I think John almost looked vulnerable for a flash of heartbeats. "It was Emily's favorite. She painted it with everything she had, but..." He shrugged; he didn't get it. "She must have been very talented," Helen said gently. "She was," John replied and there was a wistful note in his voice that made Helen want to change the subject. Again silence descended over them, the sound of utensils against porcelain the only noise. Helen wanted so much to ask more about Emily, about the mural, or even about the chapel itself but she sensed questioning too far would be asking too much. John Wolfe was a man who hid secrets behind walls of steel and mortar and right now she wasn't sure if she had it within her to break them down. John asked her if shed like to join him for a drink in the library after dinner. Helen hesitated for just long enough before she agreed. And asleep, the library was more remarkable still: John woke and poured two fingers of whiskey. He walked over to the fireplace, shaking out the coals and lighting it, flames casting on grinning reflections shelf after shelf of plates and glasses. Pouring a second drink, John made his way back towards Helen. "To our mural up there," he suggested. "To history," Helen toasted, clinking her glass on his. They drank in silence, the whiskey rich and biting. John settled back into his seat, looking out at Lord Naughton's hearth. "Helen," he said, after a long space of time. "Why do you do what you do?" She blinked. Had she heard him right? "You mean art?" "Yes," she said. "Restoration, painting-it's not an easy life." "No," Helen laughed. "I love it - there's something about bringing old things back to life, giving them a second chance, feels... important. Like I'm preserving something that matters." John 's gaze locked with hers, and for one awful moment Helen thought she saw...something. An emotion not so different from her own reflecting in his eyes. "And what about your second chance?" John said softly. "What are you saving-for yourself?" Helen froze, his words pressing a button she had not anticipated. "I..." She trailed off. How could she explain? Her life in Pennsylvania, the death of her parents and the pressure of trying to make something of herself were still too close for comfort. "I guess I'm not really sure," she said finally. John nodded as if he'd expected nothing less. "The mural-it's more than a painting. It's a warning, a map to everything that happened before we got here. Some of my own family's history-names were spelled out on that wall." "Why?" Helen asked. She leaned a bit closer. John paus- ed and then shook his head. "I'll tell you some other time." Before she had a chance to, Sofia hurried in from outside. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wolfe, there's a call for you." He placed his glass on the table and stood up. "If you'll excuse me." After he'd gone, Helen stared into the fire blankly for several minutes, his attempt to dissuade her from asking him questions only nastied up the murals and the Wolfe affair; and she felt sure that whatever he was concealing would make its presence felt some day. But as she finished her drink and began climbing the stairs to her room, she wondered if she were ready yet to face it.