"Thank God," Edith said, pulling her glasses off the end of her nose and laying them down next to her Underwood. "I'll be right there," she called out to the visitor who'd rung her doorbell. She left her writing desk and the still-blank page on the typewriter and headed to the foyer. "Mrs. Williams, how nice of you to drop by," she said upon opening the door.
"I hope I'm not interrupting you," Mrs. Williams said as Edith welcomed her inside. "I was just out for a stroll and thought I'd check in on you." She caught sight of her bird-like reflection in the hall mirror and grimaced. "Heavens, I look like death warmed over!"
"Nonsense," Edith said kindly. "You look a picture of loveliness. Please come in. Can I offer you a glass of sherry?"
"Twist my arm," Mrs. Williams said with a wink. "How's the writing going?"
"I was just about to take a break when you rang." She led her guest into the sitting room. "It's going well enough," she said, pouring out two glasses of sherry from a crystal decanter. "I'm slow to start but once I get going I'm barely able to sleep until the first draft is complete." She held a glass out to Mrs. Williams.
"You writer types are so fascinating, with your quirks. Let me tell you, nothing gets in the way of me and a good night's rest. Even your little ghost story couldn't keep me from getting a full forty winks. Though I must say, it certainly came close!" She held up her glass as if for a toast. "It's a good thing my husband keeps the liquor cabinet well stocked. Three or four sips and I'm out like a light."
"I'm starting to think offering you a drink in the middle of the day was a bad idea," Edith said with a smile.
"I can always call for a cab, don't you worry about me. That's one thing I love about being rich: money affords anyone the utmost discretion. Bottoms up." She put the glass to her lips and took a generous sip. "Now then," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "What can your readers expect from your next novel?"
Edith sat down in an easy chair opposite her guest. "I'm not quite sure yet," she replied. "I'm… waiting to see where the narrative takes me."
"Where the narrative takes you!" Mrs. Williams chuckled. "I so love artistic people. And do you know? I have a nephew with a bit of an artistic flair as well. He's an architect. Well, he's an architect for the time-being. Once his father dies he won't have to draw another roof or eaves trough ever again. His family's very well off, you see. And he's a handsome young man too. In fact, I think he's a great admirer of your work."
"Mrs. Williams, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to play matchmaker," Edith said.
"You're quite correct, I am." Edith blushed and looked away. "I only mention it because I think you two would get along quite handsomely, is all."
"Thank you, Mrs. Williams, it's… good to know you're thinking about me, but I couldn't…"
Mrs. Williams put her glass on the coffee table and reached for Edith's hand. "Edith, dear. Now I know we haven't known each other for very long, but I get the sense that you and I are kindred spirits. So, as kindred spirits, will you answer a question with absolute honesty?"
"Yes, of course."
Mrs. Williams straightened her back. "Edith, aren't you lonely living here all by yourself, no husband, no one to share your success with?"
Edith cleared her throat. "Not at all. I'm quite happy here. I have my days to myself, to do with as I please. It's… quite ideal, actually."
"But your book, Crimson Peak… I get the sense the heroine is desperate for a true love at the end of the novel. I mean, the way you wrote it was so…"
Edith chuckled. "It's just a story, Mrs. Williams. It's fiction. A dream, nothing more."
"But it's true you were married once."
Edith sighed, wishing the earth would crack open and swallow her up. If this were Allerdale Hall it just might, she thought. "It's true, I was married. But my married days are long behind me."
"So, you don't ever feel lonely?"
Edith wanted to answer her honestly. She was about to say yes, she felt lonely; she felt lonely all the time, ever since Thomas's ghost faded from her sight. She was about to say she left Buffalo for Chicago because she preferred loneliness to being haunted by the ghosts that dwelled in her father's house, because the ghosts she knew stayed in place, tied forever to the earthly surroundings where, in life, they took their very last breaths.
She was about to come clean, when she felt the cushion beneath her grow warm – deliciously warm - and the chair soften, and the air fill with a scent she thought she'd never smell again, as long as she lived: the clean musk of Thomas's skin. The heady scent of that night, when their bodies became one.
"Edith, dear?" Mrs. Williams said gently. "Are you all right?"
"No," Edith replied, her voice quivering, her hand trembling as she raised her glass to her lips. "I don't feel lonely."