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"I have my gun and my switchblade," I said. "Which I suspect wouldn't stop Tristan, but if he wanted me dead, he'd have done it at the psych hospital."
"He doesn't want you dead. None of them do. But that doesn't mean they don't pose a serious threat."
"So . . . no?"
He opened his door and got out. I followed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was said that the driveway to Villa Tuscana had once been topped with crushed marble, imported from Italy. I don't know how likely that is, but there was no sign of it now. The lane passed between rows of giant hemlocks and was choked with ivy and wild roses, so thick that we couldn't see beyond the tangle.
I knew what was there, though: one of the most haunting and beautiful places I'd ever seen. My dad had brought me there, twelve years ago, after I heard about it at a party with the Morgans and I'd begged to go see it. We hadn't told my mother, of course. It was trespassing. Also, we'd get dirty.
My dad had been almost as enamored of the Villa as I was, but in a very different way. I'd seen spectacular architectural beauty reclaimed by nature. Even now, I could feel the pull of it, an intimate, primal mingling of the civilized and the wild that called to me.
To Dad, Villa Tuscana had been a lesson. No matter what you accumulated in life, it meant nothing if no one cared enough to continue your vision. Now, being here and thinking of him, my mind turned to the department store, his life's work. Yet as soon as I felt guilty for abandoning it, I could hear his voice.
You've got a world of choices, Livy. Don't let anyone make you feel like you're supposed to do anything you don't want to do.
I cleared my throat and pointed at the house, now just visible ahead. "Villa Tuscana is considered one of the finest examples of Italian landscape design in America."
"I . . . see."
"My dad used to bring me here," I said. "Lots of memories. That means you have two options: either you let me play tour guide or I collapse in a blubbering blob."
"Blubbering blob?"
"I could say that I'll collapse like a grief-stricken Victorian lady, sobbing silently on your loafers, but I'm not a pretty crier, as you may have noticed. Tour guide, then?"
I didn't wait for him to answer.
"When my dad first brought me here, I was already into architecture, so he got me a book on Italianate and we spent the day, me snapping pics on my new digital camera and him pointing out structures and details for me to identify. Like a reverse scavenger hunt."
"What's that?" He pointed at a structure almost hidden on our left.
"Tea house," I said. "It's an open pavilion at the end of a promenade terrace. While tea houses are generally considered British architecture, this one was done in Italian style. And thank you for playing."
We continued the game until we'd crossed the vast lawn to the front of the house.
"It's very . . ."
"Plain?" I said.
"I was going to say large, but yes, I suppose I would have expected something more ornate."
"Italianate style in nineteenth-century America was a reaction to the more ornate Gothic Revival and Victorian that you see in Cainsville. Personally, I like ornate. But I can see the appeal of the smooth lines and simple arches. I will point out, though, this grande dame's face is on the other side, overlooking the lake. And it is amazing." I inhaled. "Which is not why we're here at all."
Gabriel shrugged. "There's no reason not to enjoy the setting."
"A point of view I share, which likely means we have been in dangerous situations far too often. Summoned to an abandoned house? Huh, well, let's do some sightseeing first before all that life-and-death nonsense crops up."
He smiled, a real and unmistakable one. "A perfectly valid way to look at things."
"Agreed. But we should at least pretend to be figuring out why we were summoned."
Gabriel walked along the side of the house. I climbed the steps and poked my head through a hole in the boarded-up door. Inside, it was too dark to see more than walls and shadowy piles of debris.
"Anything amiss?" I asked.
