Rafe: Heroes at Heart Read online

  Coming to a section of hardback books, their bindings appeared to be leather and he gently pulled one out, eyes widening at the gold edged pages. Opening it, he sucked in a quick breath, seeing an author’s signature in the first edition. More classics. Carefully replacing the book, he continued his perusal. Seeing a bound set of Grimm’s fairy tales, he grinned. Zander would be thrilled just to have a chance to see these books. He decided to invite him to visit, but then thought better of the idea. Not before checking with the owner.

  Pulling out a copy of Steinbeck’s East of Eden, he moved to the chair, settling into the deep cushions, finding it much more comfortable for a man his size than he assumed. Flipping on the floor lamp near the chair, he opened the book, eager to delve into the words.

  Eleanor moved to the window, peering out into the dark night, the sound of rain still pattering on the stone terrace. The room was dark, illuminated only by the flames in the fireplace. Wrapping her arms around her body, she stared out the window, her mind wandering aimlessly down memory paths, leading nowhere.

  A light at the edge of the woods caught her eye and she jerked her head to the side to gain a better view. Eyes narrowing as she attempted to focus, she saw the faint flicker of light coming from the area of the groundskeeper’s cottage. Nodding to herself, she remembered that today was the day he was arriving. Good, she sighed in contentment. She hated the way the grounds had so quickly fallen into disarray after the last groundskeeper left.

  Emitting an indelicate snort, she thought of the last man to work on the yard. Ancient. Good intentions, but so elderly he was barely able to handle the lawnmower…a riding lawnmower. Sighing, she thought of the man before that…a young man, eager to get his paycheck, but not so eager to do the work required. And the man before that…another young man, interested in the work but the intricacies of the gardens were beyond his scope and she had watched in horror, his pruning little more than butchering.

  Her attention drew back to the cottage and she wondered who was now going to attempt to care for the grounds. She vaguely remembered reading the letter. Had been in the military. Looking for work. Miss Ethel’s recommendation. A small smile slipped across her face. Well, if Miss Ethel recommended him, he cannot be too bad. I hope.

  Turning from the window, she moved slowly through the room, banking the dying fire before leaving the room, walking slowly to her bedroom.

  Rafe’s head nodded to the side before jerking upward. Looking around sheepishly, as though someone would have seen him, he stood, stretching his tall body. Replacing the book onto the shelf, he stalked over to the door, opening it widely. The rain had stopped and he breathed in deeply, the fresh air filling his lungs. The night was black, but with the clouds moving past, the moon was able to cast a glow onto the world outside the cottage. The foreboding house on the hill still loomed larger than ever. Wondering when he would meet his employer, he remembered Miss Ethel’s words…a shut-in, prefers her privacy, doesn’t want to be disturbed. Seems mighty lonely, but then, at that moment, spending some time in solitude was exactly what he wanted as well.

  Steinbeck’s words came back to him. “All great and precious things are lonely.”

  Closing the door, he turned out the lights before heading to bed. A quick shower standing in the narrow tub, where he had to stoop to wash his hair, and he was ready to call it a day. Sliding into the bed, he positioned himself at an angle to make sure his feet did not hang off the end. Wondering if sleep would come, he soon drifted off into a peaceful slumber, in the little cottage at the edge of the woods, down the hill from the castle.

  5

  The early sunrise sent sparkling beams across the bed, causing Rafe’s eyes to blink, taking a moment for him to remember where he was. Sitting up, he was unable to keep the grin off his face. The curtains were light blue. The antique, wrought-iron bedframe held an amazingly comfortable mattress and soft, cotton sheets. Picking up his phone from the small nightstand, he checked the time. Shit! It’s seven o’clock.

  Tossing back the multi-colored, patchwork quilt and sheets, he bounded from the bed, irritated that he slept longer than he had planned. Rushing into the bathroom, he quickly finished his routine and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Pulling on a flannel shirt to fight the early morning chill, he stalked into the kitchen. Soon bacon cooked in the microwave, scrambled eggs, toast, coffee, and juice fueled him for the morning. Giving the dishes a quick rinse before leaving them in the sink, he pulled on his boots from near the back door and grabbed his work gloves.

  Heading out the door, he stopped short, the crisp morning air slapping him in the face. Sucking in a deep breath, he felt invigorated in a way he had not felt in a long time. Another quote from Steinbeck’s East of Eden flooded his mind.

  “And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything.”

  In the light of day, the view up the hill toward the mansion brought him up short, his breath catching in his throat. If he thought the house resembled a castle in the dark, it was even more so in the daytime.

  A dark, river stone façade covered the three-story house and the roof was made from grey, slate tiles. Four chimneys rose from the roof, two in dark brick and two in stone. The windows on the upper floors, edged in granite, peeked out from the stone walls. On the first floor, many of the windows were surrounded by stone arches. Imposing, heavy, wooden, double doors graced the front, giving off the impression they acted more as a barrier than for welcoming guests.

  The shrubs at the base of the house were unruly and overgrown. Ivy climbed, untrimmed, along one side, partially covering a few of the windows. The sun was still behind the trees, but he longed to view the mansion when the morning sun hit it full force. Snapping out of his awe of the building, he pulled his thoughts back to the grounds.

  Walking along the path toward the tool garage, he viewed the tall trees with leaves and pine needles coating their bases. A woodland creature’s mecca, he watched as squirrels and chipmunks raced in the undergrowth. As he continued, the forest floor was covered in moss and ferns. He kneeled, dragging his gloved hands through the wet soil, amazed at the dark, rich earth. The forest had clearly been here for a long time, renewing the earth around. He stood, letting the soil sift through his fingertips.

  Lifting his head, he listened as the gentle breeze ruffled the branches overhead and inhaled the earthy scent before continuing to the large, wooden shed. Finding the door unlocked, he entered, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dim light. A dirty film covered the windows and he stalked to the closest one.

  Taking a rag from a nearby table, he wiped the glass, partially smearing the dust, but allowing the sun to beam inside more clearly. Satisfied with the results, he moved to the other windows, performing the same task. Tossing the rag, he turned and scanned the now visible room. A large, riding lawn mower was parked in the middle of the room. Wooden tables and shelves lined the side walls, covered in bags of grass fertilizer, boxes of pesticides and, upon closer inspection, bags of bird seed, torn open and munched on by resident mice.

  The back wall, covered in pegboard, held rakes, hoes, mallets, weeders, trowels, shovels, spades, saws, pruning cutters, and weed trimmers. Leaf blowers were in the corner, along with a tiller. Moving around the space, he appreciated the number of tools, knowing that with them at his disposal, his ability to reclaim and maintain the owner’s yard and gardens would be much easier.

  Walking back to the door of the shed, he looked over the span of the uncut grass. First things first. Cut the grass. That job would take all day, considering it would involve using the grass catcher the first time around due to the grass being so tall. No worries, I’ve got nothing but time.

  Pulling back the heavy, velvet green draperies, laced with gold thread, Eleanor blinked at the light as it poured into the room. The sound of the lawn mower had drawn her to the window. The same window she peered out of last night but, now, the light of day illuminated
the expanse of land extending from the house to the woods. Shifting her gaze back and forth, she was unable to see the new gardener, but the hum of the mower assured her he was at work. Nodding in silent agreement that the grass was the first thing that needed to be cut, she stepped away from the window, returning to her breakfast.

  The dining room contained the original maple table, matching chairs lining the sides as sentinels to a time gone by. Tall, floor to ceiling windows lined the wall, framed with heavy brocade curtains pulled back with deep red ties, overlooking the woods. The floor was covered in Oriental rugs her grandfather brought back from India. Large, framed paintings covered the red, silk wallpapered walls. Dark wood wainscoting with matching chair rails completed the room.

  Sitting alone at the long table, she ate in silence. Leaning back in her chair, she allowed her mind to drift back to when her family sat at the table. The cook would place the breakfast on the tall, oak sidebar and as they entered, each would fill their plates. Her father sat in his usual place at the head of the table, her mother to his right. She and her brother had loved that their table usually held her cousins as well, over to play.

  Laughter would ring out, her parents not minding children acting like children even at the table, as long as manners were still observed. The smile slowly dropped from her face as she thought of how they had all faded away into the past, now leaving her alone with her memories. Finishing her coffee, she took the dishes to the huge kitchen and, after rising them, placed them in the dishwasher.

  Picking up the essay she was reading, she retreated down a long hall, to a study on the far side of the house. A brick fireplace anchored the end of the room, flanked with two comfortable chairs in deep blue. A settee faced the fireplace, perfect for sitting and warming toes on a cold, winter night. The mantle contained silver-framed photographs of her family. The windows on this side of the house overlooked the ravine where the James River meandered below. Finding the view peaceful, she sat at the desk, opening the manuscript and began reading, the man working in her yard far from her thoughts.

  The sun beamed down on his back and soon Rafe tossed his flannel shirt on the seat underneath him. The force of the sun had risen above the tree line, now sending its full illumination onto the house. He looked across the lawn, seeing the blue slate of the roof covering the grey stone, now lighter in the sun. The house appeared to rise from the edge of the cliff it was perched on and he marveled at the architecture, appreciating the way the design melded in with the surrounding area.

  The house looked to be perfectly habitable, the grounds being the only unkempt part. The image of an elderly lady, living a life of leisure inside the fortress walls struck him and he could not help but smile. For some reason, Charles Dickens’ description of Miss Havisham from Great Expectations came to mind.

  “She was dressed in rich materials - satins, and lace, and silks - all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing for she had but one shoe on - the other was on the table near her hand. . .”

  Giving his head a shake to rid himself of the fanciful notions, he turned back to the grounds, viewing what he had accomplished so far.

  The grass was so tall, he had to mow with the blade on the highest setting and still needed to stop every twenty minutes to empty the grass catchers. To keep from having to take unnecessary steps, he set up a compost pile in the woods. Using a flat-bed trailer with a hitch he discovered behind the shed, he drove there and dumped the clippings. Shoveling the grass out at the base of the trees in the cool shade, he then raked it into the dead leaves and pine needles so it could decompose, making a rich mulch.

  As he drove back to the shed to unhook the trailer, he began the task again. The acreage was so vast, he knew he would spend the rest of the day just completing the grass cutting. Don’t rush things, Rafe. It takes time to cultivate a plant…time to cultivate a garden. Miss Ethel’s words floated through his mind as he continued his mowing laps.

  The sun, now fully on the house, gave him a chance to see it in all its glory. The light gave the slate roof a bluish tint, although the stone walls remained grey. The windows captured the reflection of light, lessening the foreboding appearance. He smiled his admiration for the architect and builder.

  Taking a lunch break, he walked back to the cottage. At the door, he turned and stared over the expanse of yard, seeing almost half of the grass now cut, trim and neat. From this distance, he observed a few places where it needed to be mowed again to level the lawn. Satisfied with his morning’s work, he entered the abode.

  Pulling out slices of bread, turkey and ham deli slices, provolone and cheddar cheese, lettuce and tomato, he made two large sandwiches. With a pickle and potato chips piled on the side, he sat down at the small table, his lunch in front of him. Starting to dig in, his eyes shifted to the bookcase. Staring for a moment, he lay his sandwich back on his plate and grabbed a few paper towels. Wiping his hands carefully, he moved over to the shelves, eschewing the leather-bound volumes and choosing a hardback of Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Maddening Crowd. Taking care to keep the pages clean as he ate, he read silently as he finished his lunch.

  “I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect.”

  Hardy managed to capture in one sentence the very thoughts that had plagued Rafe for months. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he vowed to spend the summer figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. A change is necessary…absolutely necessary. The thought of Marty flew through his mind, but he dismissed it quickly. Determined to do whatever was necessary to keep the agent off his back, he stood and, using a bookmark found on the end table, closed the book before washing up from his meal.

  Eleanor’s afternoon was spent much like her morning. After a simple bowl of soup, she continued to sit in the library, reading the manuscript, her red pen in her hand. After a while, she stood, stretching with some difficulty, and moved into the family room. The addition to the house had been completed for her grandmother, who enjoyed sitting in the comfortable informal room, viewing the gardens below in the winter. In the warmer months, the slate terrace just outside the doors provided a perfect place for afternoon tea. Her mother had added the trellis with climbing roses adorning the structure. With tall Magnolia trees on one side, the shade had been perfect for ladies who did not care for too much sun on their skin. A stone wall on one side overlooked the cliff, leading to the river below.

  She stepped outside, ready to continue her afternoon in the shade, but the sound of the mower caused her to halt abruptly. Nervously casting her eyes about, she still could not see the new gardener. Even so, forgoing the pleasure of sitting on the terrace, she moved back inside. Not wanting to encourage contact, she walked back to the library. Placing her grocery order online, she decided to take care of some housekeeping.

  Walking up the sweeping, front staircase, she moved silently over the carpeted hall toward one of the many unused rooms of the house.

  By the time the sun had moved across the sky, casting long shadows over the grassy yard from the tall trees at the edge of the woods, Rafe had finally finished mowing. With a critical eye, he viewed the freshly mown lawn and discerned a few rough patches where he would go back over with the mower tomorrow. But, for now, he was pleased with his day’s work.

  Replacing everything in the tool garage, he shut and latched the door before walking back down the hill toward his cottage. The sound of a vehicle had him looking over his shoulder as a delivery van moved up the drive and to the back of the house. A young man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, alighted and opened the back, hefting a large box that he set outside the door. The sign on the van read, Beskins Grocery.

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sp; Rubbing his chin, he realized his employer was truly a shut-in. No reason I can’t shop for her. I’ll ask as soon as I meet her if she would like me to take over the groceries. If I’m shopping for myself, I might as well shop for her too. He hesitated in his steps, tempted to walk up to the main house to ask, but decided against it for now. His instructions had been clear: the owner of the house wanted seclusion. If he had a question or concern, her phone number had been given and he was to send a text.

  That piece of information had surprised him. Texting did not mesh with his idea of the elderly mistress of the manor, but he assumed someone stayed with her and could handle the correspondence.

  Having learned his cottage did not have its own Internet, he had been able to use the house’s Internet, given a password when he was employed. He wondered about the lack of privacy for the owner, but was not going to turn it down.

  Entering his cottage, he immediately pulled off his boots, leaving them by the door. Walking into the bathroom, he stripped and stepped over into the tub, turning on the shower. He washed the dirt and sweat from his body, pleased that hot water was plentiful. Dressing in cut-off sweatpants with a drawstring waist, he baked chicken for dinner, adding store-bought potato salad to the side and was thrilled with his indulgence of a large slice of pie for dessert. Eating for the pleasure of eating once more, he relished his food.

  An hour later, he sat in a chair in the front yard, sipping a beer and listening to the crickets chirping. Fireflies danced across the long expanse of freshly mown grass between him and the main house. He wondered if the owner ever sat at one of her windows or on the terrace, looking down at the lawn, appreciating the fireflies as well.