Retracting his hand, he stood perplexed for a moment. His fingers drifted along book linings that smelled like pipe smoke and aged leather.
Suddenly he turned to her. “Of course! They wouldn’t make it that easy.”
Ellie stared, at a loss. Carter spent the next few minutes observing every nuance of the library. She took a moment to scan the space as well. She’d always loved this room, with its rich royal hues, high ceilings, crown molding, and air of splendor. She remembered finding her father here most evenings, smoking sweet-smelling tobacco in his pipe, staring into the fire. He usually sat in one of the stately leather chairs that flanked the stone fireplace.
When she was younger, she’d find The Great Gatsby splayed open, face-down on the elegant the side table that some French artist had carved. The book had been abandoned for a moment of private thought, but never forgotten. After her mother died when Ellie was twelve, she’d find volumes of Poe’s works stacked on the gleaming tabletop beside him, along with a crystal dram of whisky. Those were the nights she’d knelt at his feet in her nightgown when she couldn’t sleep, and rested her head against his knee. He would pat her hair, tell her how he would always take care of her, how smart and lovely she was, just like her mother. The shared silence that followed expressed more than words could communicate. They’d both missed her. There was nothing more to say.
After her father went to bed, Ellie picked up where he left off. She read the mournful epithets by the glow of red embers dying in the grate. She didn’t understand it then, but as time passed and she lost more people precious to her, Poe’s dark melodrama evoked a Gothic rendering of emotion that touched a chord and resonated within her.
“Ellie, I found it.”
Startled back to the present, she nearly dropped the weight in her hands. Staring at the book in her grasp, she was surprised to find a volume of Edgar Allen Poe opened to the poem, “Nevermore.”
Quickly she shoved the book onto the nearest shelf and ventured over to Carter. “What is it?”
“Check out this old bell-pull.”
“So?”
“Mansions like this had bell-pulls for servants in the eighteen-hundreds. I found it dangling next to this bookshelf. Listen.” He gave the leather cord a tug. A bell rang distantly.
Something clicked. Like a handle unlatching.
“What was that?”
“If it’s what I think...” He pushed against the edge of the bookshelf where the bell had echoed.
The shelf swung inward, revealing a staircase that spiraled downward.
Ellie’s jaw dropped. “No way.”
“Want to find out where it goes?”
“Heck yeah.” She pushed away hesitation and entered the stone-walled secret staircase. “This is amazing.” Her voice echoed.
She scanned the passage’s brick walls along their descent as if crude drawings might appear to illuminate the inexplicable. A door came into view at the bottom of the staircase.
She tried the handle. “It’s stuck.”
“Let me try.”
Carter felt around in the entryway, apparently looking for something. He shoved a lever above the door. A slot opened, just large enough for two eyes to peer out.
“Too bad no one’s on the other side to let us in.” He pounded on the door twice.
It gave an inch. Rust drifted from the hinges. He shoved again.
This time the heavy steel door creaked open. Carter pulled a keychain flashlight from his pocket and ventured inside. Close behind him, Ellie squeezed her hands together wondering what they’d find.
Carter held up the flashlight and stopped a few paces in. He let out a low whistle. “I never expected this.”
Greeting her were the smells of aged liquor, moldy newspapers, and wood saturated with stale cigarette smoke.
Ellie stepped out from behind him. “This is incredible.” Excitement bubbled up inside her. “It’s like a speakeasy out of the nineteen-twenties. I’ll bet Eliot Ness and his crew never found this bootlegger hideaway.”
“Neither has anyone else in almost a century.”
“This would be the perfect attraction to play up for an island hotel,” she mused aloud.
Carter said nothing.
“Look at this bar,” she admired, running her hand along the scarred antique surface. “And the mirrors behind the old bottles back there.” She glanced up. “And the chandelier. Can you imagine the parties they had here? Women wearing empire-waist gowns, men in pinstripe suits and fedoras. Smoking and lounging at the bar, or swinging to the Charleston. I can almost see it!”
Ellie turned a circle, envisioning parties like the ones Jay Gatsby held for the wealthy on Long Island, all the while pining for Daisy who lived a separate life across the channel. She could almost hear an eight-piece swing band wailing tunes.