Mrs. Carolyn Yates, née Wingrave, looked as imposing as she did in the brochures Minerva had spied around the college touting the renovation of Joyce House.
“Sit,” Mrs. Yates said, and Minerva obeyed the command. “They tell me you are under the persistent impression that my grandson has an appointment with you.”
“I’m sorry, I was trying to explain to the man at the door that Noah invited me.”
“My grandson is very much asleep and won’t wake for a few more hours. He came back tipsy last night and after shuffling around the house proceeded to open more bottles and make himself uproariously drunk, a situation with which I am familiar. When that happens, Noah tends to make certain promises he never intends to keep. So tell me, did he say he’d fly you to Paris? Did he promise you a car? You won’t be getting anything, but I’m curious what lies he’s been telling this time.”
“He said I could pop over for brunch and meet you.”
If Minerva was to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure Noah would agree to such a thing in the daylight, once he’d sobered up, but she’d hoped Mrs. Yates might be merciful. That at least she’d get a few words with her. She ought to have had the guts to knock at her door months ago. No matter. Her meeting with Noah had provided her with an excuse to seek his grandmother out, or perhaps merely reignited her extinguished willpower.
“Meet me? Why would you want to meet me?” Carolyn Yates replied, punctuating the words with a disdainful smile.
“My name is Minerva Contreras. I’ve tried to speak to you before. I’m a student at Stoneridge and my thesis focuses on the work of Beatrice Tremblay. I’ve been told that you have the personal papers and diaries of Miss Tremblay. I want to examine them.”
“Betty donated her archive to Stoneridge. Whatever materials I have are not meant for public consumption.”
“That’s the issue, Mrs. Yates. I think the personal intersects with the public in this case. Miss Tremblay said thatThe Vanishingwas based on her personal experience, on the disappearance of someone she knew. It’s that link that I wish to explore.”
“Virginia’s disappearance?” The disdain melted away; now she examined Minerva with guarded eyes.
“You know the girl who went missing?”
“We were classmates, the three of us. But I won’t subject myself to silly inquiries or have you poking at Betty’s old diaries. Off you go,” Mrs. Yates said dismissively. She reached for the teapot and a cup.
“What was the missing girl’s full name? Could you at least tell me that? I could look her story up in old newspapers if you do.”
“I’m trying to have a bite, Miss Contreras.”
The woman’s pale hands shook, reminding Minerva of her great-grandmother in her frail final days.
“Please, allow me,” Minerva said, quickly extending a hand and stabilizing Carolyn’s wrist. There was a wide, faint scar that ran down the back of the woman’s hand, an old wound peeking against the bluish veins and age spots. Gently, Minerva helped her hold the cup so she could fill it with tea.
Carolyn set the pot and the cup down, staring at Minerva. She seemed startled, then she rubbed her wrist with the other hand and smirked, composing herself.
“Growing old is terribly inconvenient,” she said. “I used to practice archery and paint fine portraits, can you imagine?”
Carolyn carefully sipped her tea and looked at Minerva as if she were measuring her. The woman didn’t ask her to leave again, and Minerva did not offer to get up. She sat with her hands on her backpack, waiting.
“I remember your name from a few months back when you tried to contact me. My secretary said you were one of the international students on a scholarship. And you work on campus, don’t you?”
“I’m a resident director. I help in the language lab teaching Spanish and serve as a tutor.”
“That’s very industrious of you.”
“It’s necessary.”
“It’s a good quality to have. My grandson wouldn’t know how to earn one cent if I kicked him out the door this second,” the woman said, drumming her manicured nails against the table. “He can’t even get decent grades, despite the tutors. Poor thing, he’s useless. Grew up without a spine. It happens in the best of families. Some traits you can’t acquire, you’re simply born with the ability or not. It’s all in the blood, you see.”
Carolyn reached for a boiled egg that sat in a silver cup. She took a knife and tapped around the egg, cracking the shell until she was able to lift the top. Then she took a spoon and scooped out the contents. Her hand didn’t shake this time; the maneuver was efficient and precise. Her moment of weakness had passed, and she sat as stiffly as a soldier as she spoke.
“Betty worked on campus. She taught French, though we didn’t have a language lab back then. She grew up poor, like many girls in the Depression. We have some very wealthy international students at Stoneridge, but you’re not one of those, am I correct?”
“No, I’m not,” Minerva said, calmly looking at the woman. “I can’t afford the tuition without my work on campus and my scholarship.”
“Then you’re like Betty, I imagine. An ambitious, energetic girl, struggling to climb up the ladder,” Carolyn said as she scooped out another spoonful of egg. “Are Betty’s personal papers really of any value to you?”
“They could have enormous value. One reason why we know writers such as Lovecraft so intimately—his prejudices, his predilections, the very essence of him—is because he left many written materials. Everything from his racism to his cosmological outlook is there in the letters, and it ties in with the stories in ways you don’t at first imagine. To be able to peer at the mind of an early horror pioneer like Beatrice Tremblay, a woman writer like that, it would be an honor.”
