Further notes will be at the end, because I believe too much preliminary talk spoils a story.
A Stranger In My House
Prologue
November, 2015
Frost encased windows and covered the ground, silencing the world beyond the stately, solid eighteenth-century house that had been in the Morgan family for generations. It was now permanent home base to the pair of seasoned travelers, recently returned to England. Trans-Atlantic telephone calls had been made and received from sons and daughter, and visits promised for the spring.
Twelve mellow chimes signaled midnight, a new day, and the lateness of the hour. Jet lag was responsible for the irregular time for a shared meal, but it was not an uncommon practice. Travel across time zones and country borders was a common element of their life, both for business and plesure, and even now, luggage was deposited by the foot of the stairs and in the front parlor. The year had seen them walk Hawaiian soil, journey to Spain, and their annual tradition was to pass an unacknowledged Christmas in Prague.
But Christmas was weeks away. For the present, they were at home, and enveloped in a sense of peace and well-being. A dark oak dining table, flanked by high-backed chairs, was laid with crystal and polished antique silver that gleamed in flickering candle glow.
"This is like something I'm dreaming." she said, glancing around with satisfaction at the setting she had created.
"You're my dream." he rejoined, reaching to cover her hand with his.
"No cheese with this meal, please." she rolled her eyes, but smiled in acknowledgement, nonetheless. "Well, what do you think? I hope it's an improvement over last year's."
"Now this is what I call a feast, fit for a king or a Quartermaine. We'll be eating this for a week."
"And you thought I wasn't capable of making so much as a pot of coffee."
"I stand corrected. And your coffee is strong enough to float an egg."
"I taught myself to cook, I think, out of a last grasp at fairytale domesticity, that last year I was married to Ashton. Or maybe it was just boredom."
"I'm not surprised."
Her companion lifted a large silver spoon, and moved to serve the food.
"Hold it!"
"Surely, you meant us to eat it, not just to admire your handiwork." he quipped, amused.
"Yes, but you know the rule. First we sing, then we eat."
"It's only the two of us, Tracy."
"Holidays are meaningless, without tradition. I'm no Kay Starr, but I'll do my best." she began, self-conscious, but determined.
The hymn finished, she looked across at Luke-her Luke, she reminded herself. When happiness seemed too redolent, panic invariably seized its edges. Just a second, a trick of light or the lack of light, made her heart freeze and falter. Displacement of the air current, a wayward memory, a shadow reflected in glass, and some uninvited entity stirred, a ghost floated into the room and made of them a threesome.
Forgiveness and time had not vanquished the unwholesome element that had touched their life; they could not outrun it. Love could not stand as a buffer against the resurgence of a fear that remained present, on some subterranean level of consciousness. Another fear tainted moments, unexpectedly-fear that they would never be free, fear that they would never forget, that there was no place to which they might travel that would be far enough to distance them from the blight of that single, devilish deception.
She was now the most careful observer; nothing went unnoticed. Throughout the meal, Luke's eyes strayed from her to the corners of the room, seeking reassurance.
"I know you're hiding something. What is it?"
He stepped across to the sideboard, and plucked a letter from behind the candelabra.
"It's from Dante. Someone's found... him. The remains. Don't be alarmed. No one knows. But they've apparently turned up some clues to his identity."
He proffered the creased envelope. If Luke was reluctant to do so, Tracy didn't detect it.
"How long have you been holding onto that?"
He shrugged.
"Have you opened it?"
"No."
She regarded the paper for a long moment, as she might eye with suspicion a tempting vial of poison. She shuddered, and clasped her hands together.
"What the mind doesn't know, the heart doesn't grieve over. Maybe. I hope."
Luke broke eye contact and looked away.
"Throw it into the fire."
"I think that's best." he agreed. "Anything we need to know about him, you already know."
"But you don't."
Luke lit a cigar, settled into his favorite chair, and watched Tracy, waiting with patience for her next words.
"I'm sorry." she said softly. "It's a burden I never planned to share. But I think," she began with a gusty sigh. "I have to talk now. I'm ready to tell you... everything."