Looking back on it, I suppose I loved Summer Storm from the time I saw her. I've been trying to decide what that makes me. Incestuous? Just narcissistic? Or, perhaps, Jovian?
She was alone in the den when I looked in the next morning before breakfast. Wyn—short for "Wyndham," I learned later—was wandering around in the back yard, looking lost.
Summer had a pair of my scissors in her hand, evidently preparing to trim her hair. Somewhat to my surprise, she looked contrite when she saw me.
"I just thought I might look better with short hair," she explained.
"Good Lord, it's too short now!" I exclaimed. "I like women with long hair."
She hesitated, then reached up to begin clipping. Somewhat nettled, I turned on my heel and walked out.
That incident is noteworthy for its strange sequel. At breakfast, I was thunderstruck to observe that Summer Storm's hair was long—at least shoulder length, for it was done up in a neat bun behind her head. Where in my house had she found a wig to match her own hair? And how long must the wig have been originally, for her to have cut from it the long tresses I found later in the wastebasket?
After breakfast, I took Wyn with me to check on the house at 138 March Street. I left Summer at home. Although she claimed to remember things and Wyn said he couldn't, I could make nothing of her "memories." There was a strangeness about talking with her, too, something I couldn't quite put my finger on yet.
As Gus had said, the house at 138 March Street was vacant. It was for rent. The owner, old Albert Meecham, lived next door, and I made an impulsive decision on the spot.