Page 3 of One Last Goodbye

The Jensen estate is small compared to the others, perhaps five acres. The garden—covered in frost this time of year—comprises three of those acres. Another of those acres consists of a boathouse and a stretch of shoreline along the lake. The rest of the property is occupied by a sprawling mansion that is quite possibly the largest residence I’ve ever seen in my life. It rises five stories at its tallest point and is constructed of white stone and glass. At least, I believe it’s white stone. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Its design is far more modern than the other estates I’ve seen. There is more glass in evidence than stone.

That glass is what intrigues me. I don’t care much for the modern design of gleaming squares and rectangles withwall-to-wall windows arranged in semi-symmetrical stacks on top of each other. I prefer timeless elegance to technological innovation.

But the glass here interests me because it is entirely opaque. Were it not for the soft gleam of the rising moon that reflects from its surface, I wouldn’t know that it was glass. Windows are designed to reveal, but these windows seem to serve the opposite purpose. The contradiction here makes me wonder what the family will be like when I meet them. Will they hide secrets just as this house with its acres of windows does?

One of the opaque panes of glass opens to reveal a massive interior garage with space for three dozen vehicles. It seems Frederick Jensen is an avid automotive enthusiast.

I mention this to Franz when he opens the door for me, and he informs me that it is Catherine, in fact, who is the automobile aficionado.

“She is quite infamous for purchasing the latest sports and luxury vehicles as soon as they become available,” he says in slightly accented English. “Mr. Jensen indulges her.”

“He must love her very much,” I remark.

“Oh yes,” Franz replies. “Very much.”

It could just be the accent, but I detect a hint of sarcasm in his reply.

Pierre retrieves my luggage, and we begin the journey to the house proper. It’s a far longer journey than I expect. The garage, evidently, is placed opposite the living quarters. I am accustomed to managing for myself, but I am grateful for Pierre’s help. Today, I wear a long dress and a woolen coat against the cold, and my shoes are fur-lined boots rather than the comfortable pumps or sneakers I prefer. I don’t relish the thought of a long trek carrying two heavy suitcases.

The door we walk through opens into a long hallway that serves as an art gallery. I am not a connoisseur of art, but thepaintings and statuary I find within the hallway are displayed behind glass as though at a museum, and the pieces are labeled. Several of them display their certificates of authenticity next to them.

“Is Catherine a fan of art as well?” I ask.

Franz smiles slightly. “No, that is Frederick. Although I’m told that he collects art as an investment rather than out of passion. It seems that art purchases come with significant tax write-offs.”

“Ah. I see.”

We turn a corner, but once more, we are not at the house. Instead, we are in a hallway bordered on one side by a large bathhouse with locker rooms, saunas and showers and on the other side with a massive swimming pool. The water must be heated since there’s no hint of ice on the surface.

Finally, at the end of this hallway, I am ushered into a small foyer. I say small as a relative term. It is larger than my hotel suite in Boston but far smaller than the grand foyer at the front of the house.

The family waits for me here. They are dressed formally and impeccably. They turn to face me as one when I enter the room.

“Miss Mary Wilcox,” Franz announces.

He steps back next to Pierre, who stands silent and still like a golem, my luggage still effortlessly suspended above the ground.

Frederick steps forward. He is around my age and though not handsome carries himself with a distinguished manner that combined with his impeccable dress makes him appear almost dashing. He takes my hand and shakes it firmly in the American manner. “Frederick Jensen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you, sir.”

He steps back, and on cue, his wife saunters over to me. She is tall and statuesque, not a single blonde hair out of place, not a blemish to be found on her porcelain skin. Her movements belieher past work as a fashion model. I am not typically intimidated by beauty, but hers is the cold, hard beauty of a goddess, and I suppress a shiver as she takes my hand. “Catherine.” She gestures to her children. “This is Olivia, my daughter.” Olivia nods sullenly toward me. “My son, Ethan.” Ethan nods anxiously.

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” I tell them, smiling and giving a little bow. “I look forward to getting to know all of you.”

“You will have dinner with us tonight,” Frederick informs me. It’s not a request. “Franz, show her to her room, please.”

“Of course,” Franz replies with a stiff bow. “Right this way, Miss Wilcox.”

I follow him, and the unaddressed Pierre follows me. Franz leads me through a third corridor, explaining as he does, “The servants’ quarters are at the rear of the estate across from the guest house. Don’t be worried if it’s difficult to remember where everything is at first. You’ll soon get your bearings.”

He leads me to a room that I would consider to be spacious and opulent but is probably minimalist for such a family. It contains a plush queen bed, a full dresser and chest of drawers, and its own bathroom and walk-in closet. Pierre solemnly sets my bags on the floor and leaves the room as silent as a ghost. Franz waits until he leaves, then tells me, “I will return in one hour to fetch you for dinner.”

Then he is gone, and I am left to wonder what else hides behind the family’s opaque glass and icy greeting.

CHAPTER TWO

The dining room continues the estate’s aesthetic of ultra-modern excess. The table is of granite suspended on a single polished aluminum leg that runs the length of the table’s center. The chairs are of the swiveling variety and mounted on single aluminum legs as well. They are upholstered in white leather or some artificial substitute for leather. The floor is of white marble tile and the walls are painted a rather terrifying shade of mauve that I don’t understand at all. The light comes from… somewhere. The ceiling seems to glow, but so do the edges of the walls and the table itself. I want to ask, but I’m afraid of sounding foolish.

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