Dark Homecoming by William Patterson Page A

back,” the chef said to Rita, “then you will need more than your soft lips and a squirt of Dominique’s gardenia perfume. To stay safe, you need Variola.”
    Rita huffed. “I don’t need any of your island mumbo jumbo, if that’s what you mean,” she said, sneering, and continuing down the hallway.
    â€œWoe to those who do not believe,” Variola shouted after her.
    But Rita wasn’t hearing anything else. She turned and disappeared into the parlor.
    She’s as stubborn as he is , Variola thought.
    And a fool.
    She thinks her little kisses and soft words will get him.
    Variola laughed.
    She’ll be back. She’ll come back begging to Variola.
    They all did, eventually. Except for Hoffman.
    But Hoffman could be dealt with.

9
    W ithout David in the house, Liz felt adrift, unsure of herself and unsteady on her feet. She hated feeling this way, hated how she suddenly felt like a timid and insecure little mouse after so many years as a strong, independent woman.
    She had blossomed after Peter dumped her. She’d been fine on her own, really committing to her studies of music and dance. That was when her dreams started taking shape. She wanted to perform onstage, to hear the applause. Someday she wanted to choreograph a great show—one of the classics, perhaps, or something new and modern. She had been a little nervous accepting the job on the cruise ship—she’d never been away from home for that long or that far before—but she’d taken it, and she’d performed well. The cruise director was very sorry that Liz left the gig early to get married. “You’re a good dancer, Liz,” she had told her. “You have a great style and a great rhythm. You’ll direct your own shows someday, if you don’t give up your dreams.”
    But that’s what Liz had done. She had given up her dreams. David’s idea of a local dancing school hardly matched choreographing a show at Lincoln Center.
    Still, she loved him. She’d find a way to dance, but for now, she was going to make her first ambition her marriage.
    If only she didn’t feel so anxious.
    It was just that she was so out of her element in this great big imposing mansion. On the second day that David was away, Liz dressed early and went downstairs with a cheerful grin on her face, trying to learn the routine of the house. She asked Mrs. Hoffman to show her around and explain how things were run. But the icy housekeeper only smiled at her. “Don’t worry about such things,” she said. “I have everything under control.” As mistress of the house, she insisted, Liz should enjoy a life of leisure. “Why don’t you take a stroll through the gardens and enjoy all the beautiful flowers?”
    So that was what Liz did, feeling as if she’d just been banished from her own house.
    The gardens were extraordinary, however. Huge tropical blossoms looking like alien life-forms towered over her as she walked down the path. Calla lilies and birds of paradise were clustered against spiky yuccas, and exotic rosebushes grew along a trellis. But when Liz took a corner she stopped short. There, along the path in front of her, were the remnants of a row of bushes yanked out by their roots. A few scattered roots remained; the soil was still disturbed and unleveled.
    The gardenias.
    These were the gardenias.
    The fragrance Liz had thought she’d smelled on her first day in this house.
    The fragrance that Dominique had always worn.
    The bushes David had ordered torn out by their roots since the smell of them reminded him of his heartbreak.
    Liz suddenly felt overcome, as if she should run away from this place forever. She turned, prepared to bolt somewhere—anywhere—
    â€”and there was Mrs. Hoffman standing behind her, staring at her with those terrible eyes, her plastic face shining in the afternoon sun.
    â€œYou seem warm,” the housekeeper said,