Gates of Paradise (Casteel 4)

"This is Curtis, my faithful butler," Tony announced.

"Welcome," Curtis greeted, bowing slightly and stepping aside so I could be wheeled into the great house.

They brought me into the foyer, carpeted with a Chinese rug that had seen its best days years ago. There were spots that were actually worn through to the hardwood floors. A single chandelier cast pale illumination over the stone walls. It needed a halfdozen bulbs but had only one. Ancestral portraits lined the walls, yellowish faces of stern New England men and women, the women's faces pinched, as if the smiles were ironed out of them; the men making great efforts to appear serious, important, as solid as the rock upon which they had built their magnificent home.

"In time show you all of it," Tony promised,

"but for now we'll get you comfortably ensconced in your quarters. I'm sure, after all that you've been through, even a short journey, such as the one we have just made, tires you out."

"I'm too excited to be tired, Tony. Don't worry about me."

"Oh, but that's exactly what I intend to do from now on, Annie: worry about you. You're my new number-one priority."

He continued pushing me farther into the house.

"My office is right here; I'll give you just a short look at it because it's not fit for feminine eyes. Needs a good cleaning," he confessed, kneeling down so his lips actually touched my earlobe.

Even though we didn't enter the room, I saw he was not exaggerating. The single lamp in the corner threw long fingers of anemic white light over the large mahogany desk and the black leather chairs. The books in the dark pine bookcases looked dusty. Rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains over the windows at the rear, capturing the dust particles as a spotlight would. They danced about freely, arrogantly. When had someone last taken a dust mop or vacuum cleaner to this room? I wondered. Tony's desk was piled high with paperwork. How could he find anything?

"Now that you're here, of course, I'll have to get all this into order. Right now I wouldn't think of wheeling you into that unkempt sanctuary, for all the fugitive dirt and grime this house could have. Men," he added, kneeling down again, "when they live alone, tend to ignore the finer things. But that's coming to an end . . . thank God, it's coming to an end," he muttered, and turned me away.

At least there was nothing disappointing about the stairway. It was just as we had dreamt--long, elegant marble steps with a shiny mahogany balustrade. Just gazing at it was enough incentive to make me want to get well again so I could glide down those steps like a princess, just as Luke and I had envisioned I would--wearing a long flowing gown, my wrists and neck bedecked with jewels, jeweled combs in my hair. Oh, how I wished Luke could be here with me now to see it.

"Yes, unfortunately that staircase is an obstacle for you right now, but hopefully not so for long."

We started toward it, but when I looked to my right again, I saw the large living room and the grand piano, and there were pictures painted on the walls and ceiling!

"Oh wait. What a magnificent living room! What are those pictures?"

He laughed and wheeled me to the doorway. It was a very large room, with dowdy satin curtains that were once white but were now gray with dirt and age. Some of the furniture--the velvet couch and love seat and the deep cushioned chair--were covered with plastic that showed the dust, too. The marble tables, the grand piano, the vases . . everything looked rich and elegant, but decayed and in desperate need of cleaning and polishing.

The faded murals on the walls and ceiling were exquisite, depicting scenes from fairy tales-- shadowed woods with sunlight drizzling through, winding paths leading into misty mountain ranges topped with castles and a sky painted overhead with birds flying and a man riding a magic carpet. There was another mystical, airy castle half hidden by clouds. But all the light was gone from the fairy-tale scene, grayed and darkened by years of neglect, so the scene had the dismal, mournful feel of dreams long dead. I shivered.

"Your great-grandmother did all that, Annie. Now you know from where you have inherited your talent for art. She used to be a famous illustrator for children's books."

"Really?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look, "in fact, that's how I met her. One day when I was twenty I came home from playing tennis and I looked in and saw up on this ladder the shapeliest legs 1 had ever seen. When this gorgeous creature came down and I saw her face, she seemed unreal. She had come with a decorator and suggested the murals. 'Storybook settings for the king of the toy makers,' was the way she put it, and I fell for the idea hook, line, and sinker." He winked. "It also gave me a reason for having her come back."

"What a wonderful, romantic story," I cried. Then I fixed my eyes on the grand piano.

"Who plays?" I asked, intrigued.

"Pardon?"

"Do you play the piano, Tony?"

"Me? No. A long time ago my brother used to play," he said. I looked back because his voice had become so thin. "His name was Troy," he said, "and because of our age difference, and because both our parents had passed away by the time he was barely two, I was more like a father than a brother to him. He loved to play, especially Chopin. He died a long time ago." "My mother loved listening to Chopin."

"Oh?"

"And the small Tatterton Toy cottage that she has. She had," I corrected, "plays a little of a Chopin nocturne when you lift the roof."

"Really? Toy cottage, you say?"

"Yes, with the maze."

I turned to him because he didn't respond. He had stepped to the side of the chair so he could look at the living room with me. Suddenly his faraway eyes focused on me and his face changed. His eyes narrowed and there was a tiny trembling in his lips.