Free Always in My Dreams by Jo Goodman Page A

father had described as intense and brilliant. Nothing she'd imagined had come close to the reality of the man before her. Certainly his blue eyes, with their deeper indigo centers, were intense. And the way his pale yellow hair caught the lamplight and highlighted strands of platinum could be called brilliant. She just didn't think her father could have meant those words in that context.
    She realized she was staring and remembered herself. It was rather startling to discover that in spite of the difference in their ages, she felt nowhere near so young or awkward with this man as she had with the one who'd hovered by the door. Parnell was formal but gracious. Skye found herself sitting at Parnell's second suggestion that she do so. The chair was warm. Belatedly she was aware she'd taken the seat that recently had been occupied by the other man.
    "No, stay where you are," Parnell said. "On his return Mr. Caide will be comfortable over there." He pointed to a narrow wing chair a few feet from where she sat.
    The chair looked stiff and unyielding, a place where one could perch but never relax. She imagined that Mr. Caide had not been asked to give up his chair to anyone who had come before her. Skye wondered anew if her father had made some arrangement with Mr. Parnell.
    She made a point of looking around the parlor. It was difficult not to be aware of the clutter that fairly seeped from all corners. Every surface was covered with fringed shawls and clusters of ornate figurines. Chubby porcelain cherubs crowded brass candlesticks for space on the mantel. The burgundy brocade drapes were heavy enough to ensure that no amount of sunlight faded any of the fabrics on the chairs or sofa. They were even closed against what little sunlight remained in the late winter afternoon. Oil portraits and landscapes of the Hudson covered the walls on either side of the piano. Sheet music lay haphazardly on the upright's top and bench. The metronome had been turned on its side.
    A tower of papers littered the table on Parnell's left and other documents were precariously stacked near his feet. There was a tray of partially eaten biscuits under the sofa. Coffee stains marred the antimacassar on one arm of her chair and both of his. The apron of the fireplace was covered with a fine dusting of ashes and the delft tiles were streaked with soot. None of the fireplace tools were in their rack; they were all leaning against the hearth, waiting to be used or toppled.
    In spite of the rush of heat from the fireplace, there was still the cloying odor of dampness in the room, a mustiness that a brigade of maids might find too challenging.
    "Shall we begin?" Parnell asked.
    Skye noticed that he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Perhaps this room was a test of sorts, she thought. The applicant who didn't blanch at the work confronting her got the job. Skye felt very certain she was blanching.
    Watching Schyler carefully, Parnell sat back in his chair and crossed his legs casually. From the table beside him he picked up Skye's letters of introduction and reference. "You're younger than I would have imagined from your experience."
    It was a comment for which she was prepared. "I was fourteen when I began working for the Turners," she said. "I was employed first as a companion for their young daughter. Dr. Turner was away a good deal at the hospital and his wife had many responsibilities with the auxiliary. I lived in for several years and by the time Amy was too old to need someone to stay with her, I was indispensable."
    "Yet you left..." he prompted.
    "Yes, when Amy was sent to finishing school. The Turners would have kept me on, but I was ready for a change. I was very well recommended to the Marshalls." Some small part of Skye's conscience was truly appalled at how smoothly the lies came. Three weeks of practice had given the words just the right pitch and cadence. She could almost believe she'd done the things she said she had.
    "The Chronicle