Tempus House: A Novel

By Cate Polacek

Jillian Luell is a photographer with an unwanted habit of seeing things other people miss, even when she’s nowhere near a camera. When she inherits a house from her aunt and uncle, she discovers there’s more to her inheritance than just a creaky place full of a lifetime’s worth of other people’s stuff. A long-buried story of tragic young lovers requires an ending from beyond the grave, forcing Jillian to wrestle with reality giving way to impossibility in her new home. It’s up to her and her best friend, Troy, to complete the tale and reunite the lovers. However, a mysterious man with connections to the lovers is doing his best to get in the way and keep the secret hidden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cate Polacek
• Release date: Apr 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458089335

Cate Polacek

Cate Polacek grew up in Maryland and has also lived in Japan and Texas. In addition to writing, she also knits and sketches. Cate started reading at an early age, and got her first typewriter when she was five years old. She has degrees in journalism and creative writing, and also has a background in medical and science writing. Her favorite stories are those in which ordinary characters find themselves in extraordinary situations and succeed in dealing with them, even if they stumble along the way. Tempus House was Cate's first novel. The King Tree was her first children's book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The night Carrie Luell died in Tempus House was the night her niece Jillian most wanted to talk to her. Wrapped in one of Carrie’s scrap quilts, Jillian spent the day sitting in a creaky damask wing chair in Carrie’s bedroom, alternately watching Carrie’s labored breathing for long stretches, dozing in the chair, glancing at the corner of the room where flickering shadows kept catching her eye, or staring out the window at the wisps of October color against the milky gray sky.

As Jillian stared out at the distant woods, guilt kept her company. She’d called into work and told them she wouldn’t be in. Although they could find another photographer to cover for her, and the receptionist knew Jillian was looking after a sick relative, Jillian only made the decision at the last minute that morning. She wavered between considering her actions as thoughtless or understandable.

And then, the woods. On this rare day off from work, Jillian would rather have been outside, wandering among those trees with a camera, aiming at whatever caught her eye. No gym floors, no smell of stale food, no hot lights. Just a satisfying crunch under her feet, winds rustling and birds cooing, pine and sap wafting to her nose. She might have gone up to the pioneer cemetery – Carrie’s name for the unkempt graveyard she and Owen stumbled upon in one of their early rambles in the woods when they first moved to Tempus. Owen was buried there, and Carrie asked to be buried next to him.

Yet here Jillian was, indoors, watching over her aunt.

I should be here, she kept telling herself. Hardly anyone stops in to check on her. Hardly anyone ever did.

The bedroom got colder, and Carrie got paler, as the day progressed. The woman lying in the bed was barely the Carrie Jillian knew – the one up at five every morning, even on weekends, the one out working in the gardens in all weather with her thick dark gray hair barely held back in a ponytail, the one who could drive a tractor with ease and a pink-cheeked grin at the loud clunkiness of the the machine, the one who could shovel heavy northern snow as if it were dust, and climb up onto the roof to replace shingles and then sit and admire the view from her perch. This Carrie barely moved in her bed or spoke now. This Carrie had thinning, brittle white hair and bald spots from chemo. This Carrie had sharply defined contours of bone showing through on her face. This Carrie was giving up her life.

Jillian fought her restlessness and despair and the ever stronger desire to run away until it was all over. Instead, she sat in the damask chair and watched her favorite aunt slipping away, and a widening chasm seeped in between them.

It was Jillian’s photography, not just impending death, feuling the rift. Owen, Jillian’s uncle, had taught Jillian how to use her eyes and take photographs, had taught her Ansel Adams’ Zone System, had taken her out on shooting excursions, and had let her use his dark room in the cellar to play around with dodging and burning to make skies look more dramatic and to make details more vivid. Yet Jillian hadn’t trusted her own abilities. Instead of building up a portfolio of images and making friends with gallery owners who might offer her a show or trying to make a name for herself as a photojournalist, she took a job as a school portrait photographer.

Normally at this time of year, Jillian trudged to one school after another and spent several days at each, photographing a stream of kids and teachers for school portraits. The kids and their smiles and braces and glasses blurred through the lens after awhile as Jillian focused the lens and adjusted the shutter speed over and over again. She would emerge from a cafeteria or an auditorium or a gymnasium into the late afternoon daylight, blinking furiously as bright patches of reds, yellows, and purples assaulted her eyes.

If this were a normal day, she’d drop in to see Carrie, possibly stay for tea, and even dinner. If Carrie was busy, Jillian wandered around the property with a camera, thinking of Owen and photographing the old brick grill that now housed the compost pile, or the deer silently gliding through the distant woods, or the sun glinting off the attic window. Then she might scurry down into Owen’s darkroom to develop the film and make a few prints. If this were a normal day, she wouldn’t have gotten out of the house without Carrie pouncing on her and asking to see her latest round of pictures.

When Carrie saw these non-school photos, a ritual Jillian dreaded but couldn’t refuse, she renewed her disappointment in Jillian’s job choice and didn’t hesitate to say so. Their most recent conversation about it a few weeks ago didn’t go any better than previous ones had.

Where’s the creativity in school portraits? Carrie asked, struggling for breath. They come to you. One sits. Always the same pose. You take a few shots. On to the next one. It’s like an assembly line!

Jillian shrugged. I have to earn a living, Auntie. And it’s still photography.

Carrie sighed. "But it’s not your photography. I see all the other photographs you take, especially around Tempus, and I know you took them. They’re extraordinary. The photos are you and what you see through your own eyes."

They’re just photos of a house and gardens and woods, Auntie. What’s so special about that? What could I do with them? No one would want to publish them or exhibit them, Jillian countered.

How do you know? Carrie asked with raised eyebrows. You’ve never sent them out for anyone to look at, to my knowledge, have you?

Jillian shook her head.

You’ve photographed this place since you were a kid, Carrie continued. You’ve documented a lot of its life. I bet lots of people would be interested to see that. She looked around the room and forgot Jillian for a second. This house has a lot of history, she said to herself. I still don’t understand some of it.

Jillian stiffened and changed the subject. It’s better to be practical and earn a living, she said. Still, her eyes couldn’t help glancing at the window. It made a great frame for the view of the woods.

Carrie followed her gaze, and then spoke in a softer, yet still rasping, tone. You see things other people don’t see, she said. Then turning to look more closely at Jillian, And you have the sense to photograph those things so others can see them, too. You see more than you let on, my girl, and sometimes you ignore things you shouldn’t. Don’t mess around with that kind of ability, Jill. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have it.

Jillian leaned back in the damask chair, not looking at her aunt. Why should I be extraordinary, Auntie? Why can’t I be a regular person like everyone else? Why do I have to stand out?

I just want you to do what you are good at, Carrie replied. Standing out and being extraordinary might be side effects of it, she conceded. But people are not given gifts and abilities for no reason. They are meant to use them. Too many people don’t, and they end up unhappy.

You think I’m not happy? Jillian finally looked Carrie in the eye.

You’re risking complacence and laziness and not furthering yourself in your own abilities. How can you be happy doing that? Carrie lay back on her pillow, and Jillian could tell she was giving herself over to memories. I’ve had fun establishing the gonzo guerrilla gardener reputation that’s made my name. She chuckled, and then became serious again. I’m happy with my life as lived, Jill. Can you say that?

No, not yet, Jillian admitted.

I wouldn’t say give up this school photographer business entirely. I know you need to earn a living. But do something of your own, too! Be proud of it and let others see it! You might be surprised at what happens. She reached out for Jillian’s hand and squeezed it. She still had a little strength left.

Jillian gave what she hoped looked like a reassuring smile. Auntie, I know you mean well. I know you want me to be happy, but it’s my life, however imperfect. You may not like what I do, but I’m the one doing it, and it’s all I can handle right now.

Carrie opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. She suddenly looked sad and small and so old and weary.

All right, Jill, was all she said and dropped Jillian’s hand.

And that was it. They said nothing else to each other. As the days passed, Carrie grew weaker and slipped into unconsciousness.

Jillian didn’t like how the conversation ended, and it confused her. She didn’t want Carrie to die still disappointed in her. She wished she could make Carrie understand once and for all that although her job wasn’t exciting, it was reliable, she could do it, and surely the kids’ parents appreciated her efforts at least. She wanted to tell Carrie that she didn’t expect to do this job forever, but for the moment, it was enough. She’d promise Carrie to do something more interesting eventually.

What did it matter if this kind of photography didn’t make her happy? She didn’t loathe it, and she knew plenty of people that loathed their jobs and still did them anyway. She considered herself lucky in that respect.

And why wasn’t it enough that she had a job and could support herself? Lots of people couldn’t even do as well. Hell, Carrie had all kinds of odd jobs and never really had a career. Then again, she’d traveled in her younger days, and she met and married Owen, and they’d found Tempus House and taken care of it and been happy, despite struggling to pay for its upkeep. Jillian had only been up and down the East Coast for her job and a few places further west for vacations, had yet to meet anyone she thought she could marry, and had lived in apartments since graduating from college nearly a decade earlier.

Jillian shivered and tried to focus on the orange and purple seeping into the afternoon sky.

This house has a lot of history, Carrie had said. She and Owen often had random conversations about things that happened here as though they wanted to change them. Jillian couldn’t understand it, or chose not to, and had tuned out those conversations. There was no changing whatever happened here. Carrie couldn’t let go of it, though, whatever it was - hinting at something and expecting Jillian to figure it out. Jillian was never good at that kind of thing and didn't want to be.

The remaining days of Carrie’s life passed quietly. People came to visit with Carrie one last time.

And about time, too, Jillian thought in her meaner moments.

Jillian read to Carrie and watched her even more closely, hoping she might wake one last time. Every little movement made Jillian jump, alert for any sign that Carrie might open her eyes once more.

Later that evening, the hospice nurse came to check on Carrie. Jillian excused herself and went downstairs to make tea, stretch her legs, and get some air.

The eat-in kitchen was airy and always a little cluttered. Jillian considered attempting some laundry in the ancient washer and dryer set that took up most of the wall on the left near the door that led to the porch. A door on the right hid steps that led down into the cellar and another set of steps that led up to several bedrooms.

Jillian leaned the top of her body over the island that butted up against the wall near this door and divided the room in two. She maneuvered one of the stools behind her and rested her bottom on it, fighting the urge to slide into a nap right there in that somewhat uncomfortable position. She liked the stretched feeling in her back though, especially after the long hours sitting in the damask chair.

After a few minutes, she forced herself up and put the kettle on. She poked around among boxes of cereal, crackers, pasta and cans of soup in the cupboards until she found a box of tea. She was hungry, too. She pulled out some cheese and homemade bread from the fridge – a sandwich was all the effort she could muster. She noticed there were still rolls of film in the fridge door. She smiled and then teared up. Owen, she said.

While she waited for the water to boil on the gas stove, she went into the library for a book to take back up with her.

The library stood just off the living room, and was Jillian’s favorite room in the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of children’s books, classics, biographies, histories of various eras ancient to modern, art books, religious books, and a hodgepodge of books left by the various owners of the house spanned two walls.

She and Owen used to sit in the library after dinner at the round table in the corner and play chess. Jillian was proud to have been the only one, aside from Carrie, who was allowed to use the chess set Owen had found in the attic.

A piano that only a few in the family could play occupied a third wall. It was an old upright on which Carrie used to play some Beethoven and slow jazz. She tried to teach Jillian to play, but even though Jillian had thin fingers, she was clumsy with them on musical instruments. Jillian’s best friend Troy Corwan said it was a good piano, and he also tried to teach her to play it, but it was hopeless. Jillian found it more agreeable to burrow into the mound of handmade pillows on the red couch and listen to Troy play while watching the cats batted at the heavy curtains that dragged on the floor.

She scanned the shelves and chose The Canterville Ghost. Sir Simon and the Otis family’s antics could always cheer her up. She shivered as she left the library – it was just as cold as Carrie’s room.

Jillian heard the kettle’s high-pitched whistle and realized she couldn’t avoid going back upstairs any longer. She dreaded to hear the nurse’s progress report.

She went back to the kitchen, made her tea, and took her mug and book upstairs. Her stomach tightened with every step up the shadowy stairwell.

Once more in Carrie’s room, she scrutinized the nurse’s face, wanting advance notice, time to prepare. The nurse bent over Carrie, focusing on her pulse. Jillian thought she took an awfully long time to read it, and the contrast of Carrie’s pale delicacy and the nurse’s bright alertness startled her. Finally, the nurse recognized Jillian’s presence in the room. She took care to set Carrie’s arm back on the bed, straightened up, and walked over to Jillian.

Not long now, she whispered. A day at most, I’d say.

The mug in Jillian’s hand shook. The nurse took it from her and put it on the bedside table.

Are you sure? Jillian asked the question before thinking. Surely the hospice nurse had enough experience to recognize approaching death. I’m sorry, she said before the nurse could respond. I know you know what you’re doing.

Quite all right, the nurse said. It’s hard to accept, I know.

Jillian nodded, and lowered herself into the damask chair. She stared at Carrie, looking for any little sign that the nurse was wrong.

I wanted to talk to her one last time, she said, not taking her eyes from Carrie’s face. What should I do?

Nothing really, the nurse said. It’s just waiting now. I know that’s not helpful, but that’s all there is. I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’ll wake up again. She put a hand on Jillian’s shoulder. Would you like me to stay for awhile? You look as though you need some sleep. Or maybe you want to call your family?

Jillian shook her head. I’ll…we’ll…be all right.

Well, you’ve got my number. Call if you need anything. Seeing Jillian’s reluctance to leave the room again, she added, I’ll see myself out. You stay with your aunt.

Agitation rose in her chest, pressing against her heart and causing a slow shaking to radiate out to her limbs. Just wait? She’d waited all week – not for Carrie to die, but for her to speak again, just once more. But it wouldn’t happen, according to the nurse. Death was close; Jillian could sense it in the room, a thick, smothering, filmy veil slowly descending on everything.

Jillian forced herself to take a breath, forced herself to take a sip of tea, forced herself to open the book and read words. She glanced up at Carrie every few minutes. Was that a shallower breath? Was that a longer time between breaths?

She caught herself yawning, and although her body wanted sleep, her mind fought to remain alert. Eventually, her body won and she sank into a deep exhausted sleep.

Something moved in the darkest corner of the room, that corner that kept catching Jillian’s eye. A woman walked toward the bed, bent down close to Carrie’s head and began whispering to her. The woman wore a long-sleeved blouse and long dark skirt. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a knot at the back of her head.

Carrie opened her eyes and struggled to speak. I think she saw…not sure, she mumbled.

And what good does that do anyone? the other woman asked, leaning closer. We need her help.

I know. Carrie sighed.

We must do something! This has gone on long enough.

I know.

Stop saying you know! the woman hissed. That’s not helping!

Carrie’s voice sounded as though it was fading. Left letter and what we found…

She’s ignored us, the woman pointed out.

Idea of you…, Carrie corrected.

The woman looked unconvinced. You think once she reads everything she’ll figure something out?

Carrie closed her eyes. Up to her now…

Jillian woke up early the next morning, stiff from sleeping upright in the chair. The book had fallen to the floor. Her throat was dry, so she took a swig of the now-cold tea left in her mug. She stood up, stretched, and peered at Carrie through the dimness of the room. She remembered the nurse’s prediction – not long now. The cold, heavy silence in the room unnerved her.

Still with me, Auntie? she asked softly, knowing Carrie couldn’t answer in her unconscious state. Jillian stepped to the window and opened one of the curtains. It comforted her to continue talking to Carrie. It’s colder than usual in the house this morning. Brian thinks the furnace isn’t working.

Jillian turned around. Carrie’s skin had an ashen tinge it hadn’t had the day before, and there wasn’t even the faintest movement in her chest. Jillian walked to Carrie’s bed as though she were moving through glue. She touched Carrie’s hand and jerked back at the coldness of it. She reached out again to feel for a pulse and put her hand near Carrie’s nose. Nothing. Jillian blinked back startled tears and was surprised at her sudden urge to scream, but her throat went felt suddenly dry again.

Finally, her voice came back. Oh, Auntie, no! No, you can’t leave me now!

Jillian ran to the phone in the hallway, but who to call first? Mom and Dad? Troy? The nurse? How long would it take for an ambulance to get there? And what could they do anyway? Jillian needed help immediately. Then she remembered Carrie and Owen were friendly with the old couple across the road, Mr. and Mrs. Weston.

Jillian dashed down the stairs, out the kitchen door, and across the road, not even bothering to put on a coat. She banged on the front door. It felt like forever before anyone answered it. Then, she heard movement, shuffling. A stout woman with cropped gray hair, parted and waved on one side, looked out through the screen door.

Jillian couldn’t help it, the tears came freely, hot in the chill morning air.

What is it, dear? What’s wrong? Is it Carrie? She opened the screen door, and Jillian stumbled inside. Mrs. Weston caught her arm and led her to a chair in the hall.

Yes. I…I don’t know what to do! Jillian sat down and then leaned forward, hiding her face in her hands and crying harder.

Mrs. Weston rubbed Jillian’s back. Gerald? she called out. Gerald, come here! It’s Jillian from across the road. I think Carrie’s passed, Gerald. Jillian needs help.

Coming, Annie, a warbled, gravelly voice called back.

Mr. Weston appeared, and Jillian looked up into a face with heavy jowls and drooping eyelids.

Miss Jillian, you poor thing! All right, Annie, let’s get on over there and see what needs doing. Have you called anyone, Miss Jillian?

N-no, Jillian said trying to catch her breath between sobs. N-not sure who to call first. The nurse maybe? Who are you supposed to call? I should have prepared for this! She gave way to tears again.

Mr. Weston helped her up as Mrs. Weston brought her a box of tissues. Come along, dear, we’ll get things sorted out right away.

They walked back across the road with Jillian. She would have liked to run back to the house, but the old couple slowed her down. When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Weston immediately refilled the tea kettle on the stove, while Mr. Weston went upstairs to see about Carrie.

I feel so helpless, Mrs. Weston. Jillian sat down in a chair, still clutching the box of tissues. I knew it would happen eventually. The nurse even said so last night. But I wasn’t ready.

No one ever is, my dear. It’s always a shock, no matter how well prepared you think you are.

She set cups and saucers in front of Jillian and found tea and sugar and milk. She had come over to have tea many times with Carrie.

What’s bothering you, Jillian? she asked It’s not just Carrie’s death, is it? She put the milk and sugar on the kitchen table and sat down next to Jillian.

We had a disagreement that never really got resolved. Auntie doesn’t…, Jillian checked herself as her throat tightened, …didn’t, like my choice of profession. We talked about it right before she lost consciousness, and I had a feeling she wanted to say more to me, but I, well, I guess I wasn’t listening very well. And, I think she just…gave up.

Ah, I see, Mrs. Weston said. She put an arm around Jillian. Jillian, Carrie loved you so much. She always talked about you. You were like a daughter to her. She worried you weren’t happy. She said you had a habit of settling for things instead of finding what you truly wanted. She thought highly of you, she really did, but I’m sure she respected that you lived your own life, despite what she may have thought of it. A disagreement makes no difference in the end. It was the cancer that took her, not giving up on you.

Still. I feel bad about it. The guilt felt more and more heavy in Jillian’s chest.

Of course, you do, Mrs. Weston said. "I’d worry if you didn’t. But you said yourself, you weren’t ready for Carrie to pass. No one ever is. We would all do things differently