Page 2 of Halstead House

Once I heard a story about a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It was supposed to be some moralistic tale about avoiding people pretending to be one thing while actually being another. Wolves were supposed to be bad, out there mingling with the innocent sheep who didn’t know what was about to hit them. Yet, the image had been stuck in my head for a long time, and it gave me comfort to think that maybe I too was a wolf in sheep’s clothing—that there was more to me than what I showed people. That somewhere inside this innocent-looking shell, I was swift and strong, ready to stand my ground and take what I wanted.

I had been named after two of Mother’s favorite actresses—Grace Kelly and Natalie Wood—but sadly I hadn’t been born with any of their apparently flawless traits. Mother had done her best to mold me into the perfect daughter, and I had learned to act like one.

She had even placed a picture of Natalie Wood on one side of my mirror and Grace Kelly on the other when I was a young girl. I had often wondered what went on behind their smiles. As a teenager I had looked into the details of their lives, and it seemed to me that there wasn’t much in their real lives worth imitating. I was smart enough to never mention that to Mother, however. Even wolves have a self-preservation instinct.

I changed into my silky nightgown and left the bathroom to crawl under the scratchy covers before leaning against the headboard and opening a file folder I had brought along. When Mary passed, I had inherited a small nest egg—which I’d used as the down payment on my condo—and her personal pictures of her beloved Halstead House. With those two gifts she had given me both my first real taste of freedom, and allowed me to keep a piece of her nearby.

Each time I pulled out the pictures I could still feel the flush of pleasure I’d hidden at the reading of Mary’s will when the lawyer had handed me the folder and the prizes that lay within. I had demurely thanked him for the money, but my eyes had glowed brightly over the priceless pictures. Mother had started to make a comment about a silly old woman’s pictures, but Mary’s son Richard had put a staying hand on her shoulder and smiled at me.

Under the soft glow of the worn lamp I shook off those memories and let my eyes drink in the photographs. Worn snapshots of the sand-colored stone and stucco front, the great staircase with its enormous stained-glass window, the library full of warm cherry wood shelving, the conservatory blooming in ferns. Even though I didn’t need to, I read the descriptions on the back, my heart pricking slightly at the familiar handwriting as I gently ran my fingertips over the fraying edges of the well-loved prints.

When I’d had my fill, I deposited the folder on the bedside table and felt duty-bound to turn on my phone and check for missed calls. Tension I hadn’t realized I’d been holding drained when the screen remained blank. No messages from Mother. I was selfishly happy to have more time before she called to see how my ‘ill-advised rebellion’ was going.

I turned off the lamp and settled down into bed. Despite my deep exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. When it did eventually come, it rode on the warm humid breezes that Mary had woven in to her tales.

My phone began to ring, Mother’s number flashing across the screen, just as I made it to the outskirts of San Antonio the next day. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that it was possible for a phone to ring with an attitude. Mentally crossing my fingers that she’d have had time to accept my choice, I muted the velvety sounds of Fleetwood Mac and hit the hands-free phone button on the steering wheel.

“Hello?” I said as cheerfully as possible.

“Well, at least now I don’t have to worry that you’re dead somewhere on the side of a highway.” Mother’s husky voice blared through the speakers of the car. It didn’t matter how many times I’d told her she didn’t need to yell; she was a loud phone talker, and I hurried to turn down the volume.

Mother’s voice had always had the hoarse sounds of someone being pulled from a deep sleep. As a child, I had learned to listen past the scratchiness for the tones underneath, clues as to her mood. This time I didn’t have to listen too hard. She had accepted nothing.

“I’m sorry. My flight got in late and I didn’t want to wake you,” I replied calmly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m just leaving San Antonio, heading toward the Gulf.” I tried to inject some lightheartedness into the comment, like I did this sort of thing all the time, but my hands began to shake at the reality of where I was.

“You’re still determined to see that place?” Mother’s disappointment was so palpable that it actually felt like she was sitting in the passenger seat.

I bit my lips together to keep from placating her. I thought of birthday candles glowing on hollow faces. I pictured Mary, her gnarled hands so soft as they held mine. Finally, I thought of a small girl who had never dared to speak up for herself, and the yellow-eyed wolf who’d been biding her time.

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “I am.”

Mother made a noise of annoyance and shifted gears. “Where did you stay last night?”

“In a little motel not too far from the airport,” I replied.

“A motel?” She paused, but I didn’t reply. “I worry about you, Grace. You’ve never traveled alone. You’re young and know so little of the world.”

Forget the wolf. I was wrong. Beads of sweat rose up on my forehead, my palms sticky as they clung to the steering wheel. She was right. What was I thinking? I had no preparation for this type of thing. I hadn’t even gone away to college. I’d lived at home until just a few years ago. Suddenly my eyes refocused as a little red sports car cut in front of me and I had to slam on my brakes. Traffic! I couldn’t afford to zone out, just as I couldn’t go back. I clung to the idea like a lifeline.

“Actually, Mother, I really need to go. I’m driving through a city I’m not familiar with and I need to focus. I’m safe and well, and I’ll be in touch.”

She sighed. “Fine. Promise you’ll call the minute you arrive. Otherwise I’ll start calling the state troopers. I can’t bear the thought of you suffering while the life bleeds out of you at the hands of a carjacker.”

“Mother, I’ll be fine. I promise to keep in touch.”

“You’re all I have, Grace. I can’t help but worry about you.”

This time it was my turn to sigh, but I did it silently. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

We said our goodbyes and I clicked the ‘end call’ button. I pushed out a deep breath as Mother’s voice disappeared. I had officially planted myself on a path of no return. Still sweating and shaking, although with slightly steadier hands, I restarted the song I’d been listening to. I felt my shoulders begin to relax as I let the music fill the silence. Music had always served this purpose for me.

The miles passed as I did my best to deliver a pep talk to myself. “You are twenty-five years old, Grace. Twenty-five-year-old professional women travel alone every single day. You don’t need your mother’s permission, or her company.” I told myself this multiple times. The words didn’t fully penetrate through the worried ache, but they scratched the surface enough to keep me moving forward. This freedom thing was going to take some time.

At last I came to the bridge connecting the islands to the continent. My eyes devoured my first view of the Gulf of Mexico. I couldn’t seem to get close enough, so I rolled down the windows and allowed the salty breeze to enter the car. I didn’t want to just look at everything, I wanted to touch it. My heart began to beat in a slow, heavy rhythm as I noticed that the blue-gray color of the water matched my eyes. I’d often thought them a boring color, not really blue, just faded, but they were the same color as the Gulf waters that had been calling to me through the years. The realization brought with it an odd sort of excitement. Maybe, just maybe, here, in this salty, gray, humid part of the world I would find what I’d been searching for.

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