The Forgotten Room

17

Pamela Flood leaned over the drafting table in her office, both elbows resting on an overlapping assortment of plans and schematics, completely absorbed in the west elevation of a building she was sketching. Although, like almost all modern architects, she rendered her final drawings via software — her own choice was AutoCAD Architecture — Pamela preferred doing her initial sections for a project by hand, allowing ideas to flow naturally from the point of her pencil. And this was a very special project — the renovation, from footing to roofbeam, of an old cannery on Thames Street into a condominium complex. She had always wanted to do more commercial work, and this might well lead to a series of—

She suddenly realized that — thanks to her absorption in the sketch and the Birth of the Cool CD playing in the background — she hadn’t noticed the doorbell ringing. Straightening up, she left her office, went down the passage beyond, through the parlor of the rambling old house, and into the front hall. She opened the door only to look into the gray eyes of a tall man with light brown hair, who, judging by his face, was perhaps forty years old. It was a nice face, she thought: reflective, with sculpted cheekbones and the faintest hint of a cleft in the chin, the skin smooth in the rays of the late morning sun. It looked vaguely familiar, somehow.

“Ms. Flood?” the man said, handing her a business card. “My name is Jeremy Logan. I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

Pamela glanced at the card. It read merely DR. JEREMY LOGAN, DEPT. OF HISTORY, YALE UNIVERSITY. The man didn’t look all that much like a history professor. He was a little too tanned, with a slender but athletic build, and he was wearing a bespoke suit instead of the usual hairy tweeds. Was this a potential client? And then she realized she was leaving him standing on the doorstep.

“I’m so sorry. Please come in.” And she ushered him into the parlor.

“This is a very attractive house,” he said as they sat down. “Did your great-grandfather design it?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“The Victorian lines are refreshingly unique among so much Colonial and Italianate architecture here in Newport.”

“Are you a student of architecture, Dr. Logan?”

“To quote a line from an old movie, ‘I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything.’ ” And the man smiled.

“You must know a lot about history, at any rate.”

“The problem with history, Ms. Flood, is that it keeps on happening whether you want it to or not. At least a Shakespeare scholar, say, can go about his or her work fairly confident that new plays aren’t going to turn up.”

Pamela laughed. The man might be charming, but she had a condominium to design. The initial plans were due to be submitted in just two weeks. “How can I help you, Dr. Logan?”

The man crossed one knee over the other. “As it happens, I’m here about your great-grandfather. His name was Maurice Flood, right? An architect like yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“And, among other grand residences, he designed the Delaveaux mansion in the mid-1880s. The mansion that came to be known as Dark Gables.”

At this, the slightest tickle of alarm coursed through Pamela. She did not reply.

“Now, of course, home to Lux.”

“Are you in residence at Lux, Dr. Logan?” Pamela asked guardedly.

“Just temporarily.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

Logan cleared his throat. “Since your great-grandfather was the architect of the mansion, and since this house was his office and residence — as, I believe, it is now yours — I was curious as to whether the original plans for the structure were still at hand.”

So that was it. She looked at the man with sudden suspicion. “And what would your interest in the plans be?”

“I’d like to examine them.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into specifics, but I can assure you that—”

Pamela stood up so suddenly that the man stopped in midsentence.

“I’m sorry, but the plans aren’t available.”

“Is there some way in which they could be secured? I’d be happy to wait—”

“No, there is no way. And now, I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

Dr. Logan looked at her curiously. He stood up slowly. “Ms. Flood, I know you were involved in—”

“I’m very busy, Dr. Logan. Leave. Please.”

The man continued to look at her for a moment. Then he nodded his thanks, turned, and walked through the front hall and out the door without another word.