Hidden Legacy. Margaret Way

      ALYSSA HAD RENTED a car that had been waiting for her at the airport. It was parked in the garage now. Tears flowing, she’d let herself into the house. The key had always been “hidden” among the spectacular psychedelic colored leaves of a potted caladium on the front veranda—silly place to hide it. They both used to laugh about it. That was probably the most likely place anyone intent on breaking in would think of, but Zizi had never had the slightest bother in all the years she’d lived there. Occasionally they’d driven into the town together, leaving the front and back doors unlocked.

      For many years Zizi had kept dogs for company, usually two Labradors, so each would have a friend to play with. But since the death of old age of her beautiful golden Labrador, Molly, Zizi confessed she hadn’t the heart to buy herself another pet. Of course there was Cleo, Zizi’s sleek Abyssinian, who not surprisingly greeted Alyssa ecstatically and now accompanied her on her tour through the house, every so often snaking around Alyssa’s legs.

      She had to find some way of properly thanking Adam Hunt. Her father had spoken to him several times on the phone and formed an excellent impression. What a shock Adam must have received coming on Zizi as he had. She’d imagined the neighbor as someone Zizi’s age, but her father said he sounded much younger. Whatever his age, her father had taken to him and apparently so had Zizi. The really strange—and, she had to admit, hurtful part—was that Zizi had never mentioned him to her. That was decidedly odd, given that she and Zizi talked about anyone new in their lives. She tried to brush the hurt aside. Zizi would’ve had a reason. Perhaps he was too recent to the area? A fellow artist? No, Zizi would’ve said something. A would-be property developer was more like it. It was boom-time North of Capricorn. Yet this stranger or near stranger had attained such a degree of intimacy with Zizi that she felt comfortable with his looking in on her.

      Zizi, the self-styled recluse, must have liked him a lot. Alyssa couldn’t see Zizi trusting just anyone. Maybe Hunt was an art scholar planning a book that included a section on Elizabeth Jane Calvert. But wouldn’t Zizi have said? She definitely had to meet this mystery man. What exactly had drawn him to seek Zizi out? Pure coincidence? Perhaps they’d met while doing some shopping at the village. Alyssa told herself to put aside all the questions buzzing around in her head until she felt more able to cope.

      How different everything was without Zizi! She supposed the raw grief would lessen with time, but right now the sorrow was practically unbearable. She inspected the labyrinth of rooms downstairs. It was a huge house, but she knew it so well she could’ve found her way blindfolded. Afterward, she mounted the cantilevered staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms and sitting rooms. She glanced into Zizi’s bedroom—ivory and pale-green with a lovely canopied bed and an antique writing desk covered in informal family photographs in silver frames. The portrait Zizi had painted of her shortly before her twenty-first birthday hung over the mantel.

      Who’d made the bed? It was Zizi’s practice to turn down the covers before taking her bath. So many questions to be answered, Alyssa thought, her shoulders hunched in a sob. She avoided the adjoining bathroom. Just thinking about how Zizi had met her end was like an icy cold hand squeezing her heart. She knew she’d have to get around to it sometime. Not now.

      In her own bedroom, the one she’d chosen all those years ago, redecorated as she passed from childhood to adolescence to adulthood, she unlocked the French doors and let herself onto the veranda. Her spirits lifted as she was enfolded by the breeze with its delicious tang of salt.

      Another glorious day in the tropics. The sky was a cloudless electric blue, the sea like turquoise satin. She stood there, holding Cleo to her like a talisman. The cat had been fretting. It was obviously very glad of her company, although Abyssinians were usually standoffish. The grounds—the roughly thirty acres that was left—didn’t look at all abandoned. Zizi must’ve had someone in to do some slashing, although there was still a tidal wave of jungle in rampant blossom—oleander, hibiscus, frangipani, gardenia, allamanda, strelitzias, golden rain trees, angel’s trumpets—beyond the mown areas surrounding the house. There were always snakes in the undergrowth but neither she nor Zizi had ever been bitten. Unless one actually trod on a snake, they took good care to keep out of the way, except for the one Zizi had nicknamed Cairo, who liked to slide along the front railings. Cairo, mercifully, was harmless and even frightened of Cleo, who used to speed him on his way with many a hiss and a spit.

      “We miss her, don’t we, Cleo?” Alyssa murmured, stroking the cat’s amber coat. Cleo meowed loudly in acknowledgment. Everyone knew cats had special powers, and in Alyssa’s opinion. Cleo was more gifted than most.

      She had stopped in the village, where she was well-known, to buy herself a few basic provisions—milk, fresh bread, butter, eggs, a few slices of succulent ham—intending to return the following day to place a larger order. People had come up to her, expressing their sympathies before taking themselves off. It would’ve been evident to them that she was very upset. Eccentric Zizi might have been, but these people had loved her and guarded her privacy. It seemed that they were about to pass their loyalty on to her.

      Alyssa sat down in one of the old chairs on the deck, cuddling Cleo, while she rocked gently back and forth. As always, the warm perfumed air of the tropics had a lulling effect, so in spite of her unhappiness, she drifted off….