She opened another door and went into the mudroom. Unlike the den, no one had ever attempted to renovate the mudroom, but the appliances, at least, were recognizable. There was a washer and dryer, a big farmhouse sink, a toilet, and most important of all, heat, generated by a potbellied stove in the center of the room.
Arranged around the stove were a picnic table and two old Barcalounger armchairs that had started out a hideous orange but had now faded to a dirty tan.
Leaning against one wall was the tall, narrow mirror where she and Hellenor had checked themselves before they left the house. If Hellenor looked too strange, Pandy would make her change.
The mudroom and the den. Where Pandy and her family had spent most of their time. Because the TV was in the den, and the phone was in the mudroom. The phone was located on a small shelf next to an old answering machine, which still worked. Next to the shelf was a large corkboard where their mother had left herself notes. It still held an assortment of old birthday cards and photos.
Pandy sighed and picked up the receiver. Henry was going to kill her.
She glanced at a photo on the corkboard: her and Hellenor on one of the many Halloweens in which Hellenor had insisted on being Peter Pan and Pandy had been forced to be Wendy.
Pandy frowned. She hated Wendy.
She put down the receiver. She couldn’t tell Henry. Not right this second. She had to think. Henry was right; she needed to clear her head.
She looked back at the photograph. Hellenor, with her short boy-cut hair, green tunic, and bow and arrow. Hellenor, who had managed to avoid just the sort of trouble Pandy was in right now. Hellenor, who had chosen not to become emotionally encumbered by marriage, children, or even a relationship.
And now Hellenor was perfectly happy.
Goddamned Hellenor had no worries. And boy, oh boy, wouldn’t she just love to be Hellenor right now, Pandy thought bitterly as she marched back up to her room.
Several minutes later, having changed into a pair of baggy shorts and a T-shirt—her only old clothes that still fit—Pandy stuck her phone into her back pocket and headed down the path that led to the boathouse. The veined marble stones skirted the boxwood maze and ended at a set of wooden steps, at the bottom of which was an ornate Victorian structure with a cupola and a large teak deck.
At the top of the stairs, she paused. It was hotter than she had expected. The air was still. There would be thunderstorms later.
Pandy went down the stairs and around the boathouse to a dock where a shiny red canoe was always tied. She got into the boat, sat down, unhooked the rope, picked up the paddle, and pushed the boat away from the dock.
The lake was shaped like a gourd, with a narrow chute at one end, enclosed by marshes where all the little turtles bred in the early summer. It was to this marshy underworld that Pandy now made her way.
She paddled briskly for a minute or two, and then, exhausted, put the paddle back into the canoe and let the boat drift to the center of the lake.
The air was deadly quiet.
Pandy looked around. The sun had gone behind a cloud, and the lake was like a mirror. She remembered how her mother had always told them that the skating mirror under the Christmas tree was a miniature version of this lake.
She leaned forward, put her face in her hands, and began to cry.
She didn’t know how long she cried, but it was long enough that when she heard the first crack of thunder, she wondered if she had the strength to make it back to the boathouse. The whiteness of the cupola was suddenly in stark contrast to the gray-black clouds that had gathered behind it. Pandy noticed that there was a tinge of green to this now-rumbling mass.
She picked up the paddle and began rowing as a sluice of cold, hard rain blew across the side of the mountain. It was suddenly as dark as night; when she reached the dock, Pandy’s fingers fumbled with the rope until she gave up on tying up the boat. She stood cautiously, her arms outstretched as she attempted to balance on the tippy canoe. She had one foot on the boat and one on the dock when she felt an electric tingling and heard a deafening crack.
And then, just like in a movie, a jagged, bright white bolt of lightning split the boathouse in two. Suddenly she was airborne. She knew she was up in the air because the trees were upside down. And then they weren’t, and she was lying facedown in the muddy grass.
She must have blacked out, because she had the distinct sensation of being in a dream. Or rather, of being in the particularly nasty nightmare that she had all the time: trying to get onto the elevator, but the doors wouldn’t open.
And then, miraculously, her eyes opened, and she knew she was still alive.
She was lying on her stomach halfway up the hill. A spark must have hit the stairs, because now they were burning. Rising onto her hands and knees, she clawed her way up to the top of the hill. It felt like she was climbing the face of a mountain.
When she reached the top, she stood up and looked back. The front of the boathouse was an enormous bonfire; soon the whole thing would go up in flames. Moving as fast as she could, alternating between a brisk walk, a slow jog, and several moments when she had to stop altogether, she realized this fire was the last straw. She couldn’t imagine how much it would cost to rebuild the boathouse. Then she remembered that she was never going to be able to rebuild it, because she’d never again have the money.
The boathouse was gone. And pretty soon, other pieces of Wallis House that couldn’t be replaced would go, too…
Enraged, she stumbled into the mudroom. She picked up the phone, but it took her three tries to dial 911.
Finally, someone answered. “What is your emergency?”
“Fire,” Pandy said, hacking as if the inside of her throat had been burned as well.
“What’s the address?”
“One Wallis Road. The…big mansion on top of the mountain,” she choked out. She felt like she was going to black out again.
“Oh. That place. Hold on.”
The operator came back on. “It’s going to take them half an hour to get there. Is everyone okay?”
“Thirty minutes?” The boathouse would be nothing but ash by then. Pandy started to cry.
“Ma’am? Is everyone okay?” the operator repeated. “There isn’t a body burning in there or anything?”
Pandy found she couldn’t speak. Possibly she was going into shock.
“Ma’am?” The operator’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Hello? Is anyone hurt? Was anyone in the boathouse?”
Pandy’s insides squeezed shut as she tried to contain the shaking that was building up in her body like a pending explosion.
“To whom am I speaking?”
Pandy took a deep breath and, managing to stifle her scream, moved in front of the mirror. Her eyes widened in surprise. Her face and body were streaked with black soot and her clothes were in tatters. Her hair was burned off at the roots. Who was she, she wondered wildly. Her eyes landed on the photograph of Hellenor as Peter Pan…
“Ma’am? To whom am I speaking?” the operator demanded.
Pandy opened her mouth and, confused, nearly said, “Peter Pan.” But she knew, somehow, that that wasn’t right, because Peter Pan was actually…“Hellenor Wallis,” she gasped. It was the best she could do.
She let the phone drop from her hand as she heard the operator demanding to know the name of the person who was burning up in the boathouse.
She stumbled across the mudroom to a narrow cabinet. She reached up to the top shelf and took down a large bottle of whiskey. She unscrewed the cap, took a gulp, and then, as the whiskey hit her system with a jolt, she came to slightly and went back to the phone. She picked it up. “Hello?” she slurred. “It’s PJ Wallis.” And then the tsunami that had been building inside her suddenly came spewing out. Bile, black ash, and whiskey sprayed the floor.