Chapter 4
Thick drops of rain drummed a tight rhythm on the Cherokee’s roof as Joe Richards pulled into the long semicircle driveway in front of the Carmichael’s home. Quick, strong gusts of wind rocked the wide of the vehicle and scattered loose twigs and branches over its hood as it passed under the last of the tall trees that surrounded the warden’s property. Joe couldn’t see much through the dark veil of rainwater, but could tell that the house before him was old enough and big enough to have been a plantation.
He exited the car with a quick, timed motion and sprinted to the house’s front. The large white building stood alone as if it were a monument in the small clearing among the trees. A porch ran along the front of the house with four large pillars emerging to support the roof’s overhang. As he let his eyes follow the monstrous wooden posts to where they joined the roof, a disoriented feeling washed over his body and caused him to stumble back a small step. He steadied himself, pressed his arm against the base of one of the pillars, and shook the strange feeling from his mind.
“What was that all about?,” Joe mumbled to himself as he approached the front door. For a brief instant, while staring at the high overhang above the porch, he had felt outside of himself as if he were a silent observer of his own life. He had seemed to be a minuscule speck against the mighty giant of the house in front of him. Now the feeling was gone. It had faded with all of the other bad feelings and intuitions he had ever had. Freud’s unconcious mind. A soft smile curled the corner of his lip as he pressed the small, lit button beside the entrance. As he waited, Joe strained his ears to hear the muffled melody of the doorbell’s ring.
The woman who opened the door smiled as she glanced over the sopping wet man standing on her door step. She was a couple of inches shorter than Joe and the way that she carried and presented herself made her a representation of the finest grace. She was in outstanding physical shape for a woman in her late fifties. Her body still held most of its original curves with the exception of a few small folds of skin at her sides and arms. Even those were hard to see under her loose-fitting white blouse. Her black hair displayed a few streaks of gray as its thick curls blossomed around the smooth, dark brown skin of her face.
“You must be Dr. Richards,” her voice rang as her smile widened. She extended her hand in an invitation.
“Please call me Joe.” He took her hand in his and shook it, returning the smile with one of his own.
“Okay, Joe,” she nodded. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m George’s wife, Nicole. Now, come on in here before you catch a cold.”
Joe nodded and followed her into the house. Inside the door, Joe found himself in a short hallway with polished hardwood floors. The few pictures that decorated the walls had been spaced evenly along the corridor. As he passed one of the photographs, his eyes were drawn to the familiar face of a man with his arm draped across the large warden’s shoulders, his soft, gray hair mussed by the wind around him. It was Joe’s father. For a moment, he could smell the thick aroma of one of his dad’s cigars burning in the office ashtray. As a dull pain awoke in his heart, he forced himself to look away.
Nicole Carmichael waited for him as he eyed the frame. Joe felt his cheeks fluster with a red, hot blush as he approached her.
“Sorry,” he whispered as he stopped before her. He twisted and wrung his hands together as he stood.
“Take as long as you want, Joe. I understand,” she whispered with a soothing comfort.
“It’s probably better if I don’t. If you can understand that,” Joe’s thin smile faded and his jaw locked on itself as he realized the rude shortness of his response. He was going to apologize when Nicole cut him off as she ushered him into the sitting room.
“I think I just might, Joe. You never can tell.” She opened the door and motioned for him to enter, but did not follow him in. As Joe turned to attempt another apology, Nicole shook her head and spoke again.
“George will be in here shortly. He’s making sure that the roast doesn’t burn. Make yourself at home.” She closed the door to the room and Joe heard her footsteps trail away from the door. Soon after, they faded to silence.
Joe rubbed the tight muscles of his neck as he examined the soft floral patterns of the antique furniture that lined the room’s walls. The fabric held delicate mixtures of white and blue with the polished wooden arms shining around them. He ran his hand over the soft seat of one of the chairs and recognized it to be velvet. He couldn’t be sure how old it was, though—interior design had always been Elaine’s area of expertise. Joe’s thoughts wandered back to her as he pulled his hand from the seat of the chair. A dull ache rose from his stomach and he felt himself missing her. He closed his eyelids as he stood beside the blue and white velvet chair.
He found that on the nights he was away from her, he could still feel her body pressed against his as he slept. Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night and swear to himself that he had felt the gentle tickle of her hair brush across his face as she shifted in her beautiful slumber. The sweet smell of her perfume always filled his nose as he laid still in bed over the last moments before drifting out of consciousness.
“Quite a lot to take in, isn’t it?”
The voice boomed behind him with a deep resonance of understanding. Joe turned to meet George’s eyes with a quick smirk.
“It sure is,” he answered. “I’m quite impressed.”
“Don’t be.” George grinned. “None of them are worth a dime. Nicole loved the pattern and we found the frames in a small shop outside of town. We had them reupholstered with this pattern and that had to have depreciated the value. Making the wife happy always comes before money. Remember that. If you don’t, I can promise that you will never forget it—if you catch my drift.”
“Absolutely.” Joe laughed as he sat down in one of the chairs. The cushion gave and the fabric spread around him as he let the weight off his feet. It was one of the most comfortable chairs that he had ever sat in. Joe let a deep sigh pass his lips as he leaned back into the chair.
“My sentiments exactly.” George nodded and sat in the chair across from the young psychologist. “But don’t you get too comfortable now. Dinner is almost on the table and I will not have you sleeping through the whole thing.”
Joe nodded and stood from the chair. “It’s a good thing, too. I’m close to starving.”
* * *
As Joe entered the dining room of George Carmichael’s house his jaw dropped. Never in his life had he seen such extravagance in a single room. The table and chairs had been carved from oak and kept polished over the years. The large brass chandelier that hung from the ceiling by a thick brass chain showed no flaws. He knew without asking that every item in the room was an antique. He took a seat at the table, but his eyes yearned to take in all of the surroundings. They rolled towards the large set of glass cabinets in the corner with fine crystal and china perched on each of its shelves.
“This is absolutely amazing! I mean it!,” he stared from George to Nicole. They both chuckled. Nicole dabbed her eyes with her napkin and turned to George.
“You’re right. He does remind me of Robert,” she sputtered between chuckles. Joe’s neck stiffened as he heard her mention his father’s name. He started to say something, but changed his mind and held his tongue.
“They were best friends,” Nicole continued, “George and your father were. I thought the world of him. He was such a great man. I can see why you decided to follow his footsteps.”
Joe said nothing, but offered a false smirk as he scooped potatoes from the glass bowl before him onto his plate. His attention shifted between Nicole and George and, to his relief, they did not discuss his father for the remainder of the meal.