She peered into a darkened window, the last in the row. The place hadn’t been used in years, but the quaint interior left a cozy tingling in her chest. Once upon a time, during wistful moments in Mr. Vanderzee’s kitchen, she’d allowed herself the daydream of owning her own coffeehouse or bakery, in a place just like this. The open, high ceiling fooled the eye, making the space appear less narrow than it actually was. Black-and-white checkered tile covered the floor, and rustic white bricks that appeared to have been painted more than a few times scaled the walls. Small, round tables were stacked in one corner, probably piled with dust, and a glass counter ran parallel to the far wall in the back.
Retreating into the sun, she squinted to get a better look at the black awning, which flaunted a faint trace of cursive letters. Jean’s Bakery. She pushed down the surge of hope inside and continued her walk. The view had done well to deceive her, but Clayton Road in fact kept going, even though the structures didn’t. Another deception: the street with no name did in fact have one, buried within a hemlock as though ashamed of its existence.
She moved a branch and recoiled at the sign. Henry Street. Henry, as in Mr. Clayton? Regina had told her all about him that morning after he’d stormed out of the diner. How his father, Henry Clayton Sr., lived here before him, and his father before him, Joseph, had been the very one to build the town—starting with none other than his lavish mansion. Had this street been named after the Mr. Clayton she knew, or the Henry Clayton who Regina said had been much warmer than his son?
Forest surrounded her on both sides again as she followed the slight bend of Clayton Road. The next and last street, about fifty yards past Henry Street, hid behind even more vegetation. Clayton Road ended here, at Alder Street, which shot in one direction only: to her left, leading north.
A lane of green moss striped the very middle of Alder Street, suggesting its rare usage. She hiked the gradual incline, curious to find what lay around the curve—behind the trees that cut her off from the rest of the town completely. The moss-covered cedars and firs were especially concentrated here, and incredibly lofty. It wasn’t until she rounded the bend that the mansion showed itself, nestled within the forest. There, at the mansion’s gate, Alder Street dead-ended. Even amidst trees that stretched far above its roof, the mansion looked massive. A certain beauty and mystery settled upon it, she would admit.
Despite the way she felt undeserving of such a place, she approached.
An elaborate wrought iron gate protected the mansion, cutting her off from what appeared to be sacred ground. Pink and red rhododendrons, in full bloom, mingled with a gate as exquisite as everything else. Fleurs-de-lis adorned the gate and vine-wound bars; twisted columns appeared to grow from the center of open flowers, and the tips of rods were perfectly coiled; atop the gate, the fancy letters J and C dominated; perhaps standing for Joseph Clayton, Mr. Clayton’s grandfather and founder of Hemlock Veils. Both the gate’s doors lined up symmetrically, one reflecting the other. The wrought iron fence that extended from either side of the gate bordered the entire estate, disappearing within the protective trees. Out of place was a small but high-tech video screen and ten-button panel at the gate, hidden within one of the rhododendron shrubs. Behind it curled a gravel drive, as well as a lone pathway winding through a well-maintained landscape of hemlocks, more rhododendrons, and nearly every alder species, and leading to the gentle rise of broad steps at the mansion’s front door.
The repetitive but pleasant song of a bird ricocheted within the trees, a series of musical warbles and twitters with a long note at its end. Two goldfinches danced through the air as they flew from tree to tree, their body feathers almost the vibrant yellow they would be in the summer months. Her father hadn’t just been fascinated with the vegetation of Oregon. Together they’d studied the indigenous animal life, one time even discussing how it would be to go bird-watching. He’d been especially fond of the birds, for a reason Elizabeth still didn’t know.
The thought had been thrilling at age ten and dull as an adult, but now she understood a measure of why her father had wanted to. She observed the birds’ habits, grateful for her childhood studies. There had to be birdfeeders somewhere in the landscape, since this species was usually more at home in open, un-wooded areas, but she couldn’t imagine a man like Mr. Clayton doing something as delicate as placing birdfeeders. Perhaps it had been Arne, whom Regina had informed her was Mr. Clayton’s right-hand man.
At last, the birds disappeared in the vines that enveloped the alcove over the front steps. The steps were stone, as was the mansion’s façade all the way from ground to gables. The brick-colored roof peaked into triangles at four different points, the highest nearly as tall as the gigantic trees surrounding it. Thanks in part to the three stone chimneys that jutted skyward from different areas in the roof, the mansion looked more like a few smaller homes compressed cozily together. The cove of stone pillars and archways, scaled by green vines, sheltered the large wooden door, and every squared corner of the mansion—even the window’s borders—was lined in robust and carefully chiseled stone, lighter in color than the other exterior stone. Spacious bay windows made up one of the corners entirely, on both levels, and placed at other random but symmetrical locations were windows so long they appeared to be grandiosely stretched.
Seeing Mr. Clayton that morning may have reminded her of her old life with Mr. Vanderzee, but other than its size, this mansion resembled nothing of her former employer’s mansion, which had been complete with fountains and palm trees and Corinthian columns that screamed Bel Air. Aside from the way this place’s mystery labeled it forbidden, she actually felt comfortable here with the forest that called to her and the mansion that was, really, more magical than intimidating.
She ran her fingers along the rough and textured edge of an iron rod in the gate, one that curled at the end and was speared with a fleur-de-lis. With a twinge of reluctance, she backed away until the soles of her shoes touched the asphalt. She’d spent too much mental energy on Mr. Clayton’s lavish lifestyle, and even more on admiring it.
It wasn’t until she neared the curve on Alder Street—the one that would hide the mansion from sight—that the other hidden treasure revealed itself, not so far from the mansion. Buried roughly twenty feet deep in trees and rhododendrons, and at the end of a paved, cracked walkway, was a house no larger than a single room. Its siding of cedar shingles appeared to be every shade of brown, including the irritatingly pleasing shade of Mr. Clayton’s eyes. Brightly painted red accents brought the home to life: the eaves beneath the peaked roof, the boards around the window, the border of the circular window in the only gable, and the door frame. Age and water had left the wood warped.
Alder Street was indeed strange: home to both the largest and smallest homes in Hemlock Veils.
Before she knew it, she was closing in on it. The scent of pine wafted through the air, and beneath her shoes, the soil was still wet. She peered through the only square window on this side. The empty, dark house held nothing but dust. When backing away, her calf hit something metal. A sign emerged from the ground, crooked and hidden well within ferns. It was old, probably forgotten, and when she moved the leaves to find the red words For Sale, her heart leapt ever so slightly. She tried not to hope for something so perfect.
A wind blew, and trees swayed as though fighting it off. Why did the wind quarrel with the elements? Was she mistaken for feeling a clash of energies here? A certain swelling inside her—magic, she would dare say—told her this place was special, that it was meant for her. But the wind that felt like no wind nature created, warned her. The subtle whooshing in her ears spoke threats.