THE DISAPPEARING ARCHITECT
ALM No.91, July 2026
SHORT STORIES
I was happy that the winter of 1926 had finally arrived, not quite calendar-wise, but the cold weather had seemed official and welcomed by all in Kingston. Some of the new were cottages were beautifully built by Candace ‘Candy’ Ralston, a young and gifted architect with plenty of “old money” word had circulated that cottages were built specifically by her, a woman who only wore pants, short jackets and dark sunglasses, Kingston was dying to take pleasure in knowing that one if its own was successful. She had moved into an equally fabulous cottage next to mine.
“Honestly, I need a break from building houses. What I really want to do, Ms. Roberts, is to rest and write either a play or a novel, and I think that I will.” I was astonished when she said that much to me or ever to anyone; she was reserved, quiet, and was known for not being a talker, and I liked her. “I had no idea that you liked to write, Ms. Ralston; that is wonderful to know…” Yes, I, Amy Roberts, was writer, novelist who wrote stories, and I have had my share of publications and accomplishments. A well-known writer like me living in Kingston could have lived anywhere in the world, but Kingston was magical and wonderful that was incomparable. I had never wanted to be popular, I just loved to write, and it was a passion and a gift from God. I did not want to talk about my writing with her; I wanted to hear her talk about hers. She was twenty years old, ten years older than I and inspiring to the young girls in Kingston.
“My father and grandfather had both wanted me to become an architect ever since I was a child, and here I am.” The sky had turned cloudy and gray filled with purple clouds; it felt like a dream, and I loved and treasured that moment. We were outside between her cottage and mine, yet the cottages were spacious as all the cottages were. Strange how said my cottage; I was not married and I lived alone, the entire time lived alone, it felt as if I had a husband. I have never wanted to get married, and I still do not. “I have some ideas that I would like to bring to life, like putting on a play in the cemetery…does that sound strange to you?” If I were to bet money, I would bet that her eyes were lit up with glorious lights.
If she would take off her dark sunglasses for once! “No, it does not sound strange; I think it is a wonderful idea. My feeling tells me that the residents of the cemetery would not mind, either.” I was not trying to be facetious, because I knew just about everyone who lived in Kingston that were passed on and were now resting peacefully in the cemetery. “The air is becoming very cold, and I have kept you out here long enough. I shall go into my cottage and work on my ideas,” said Candace. I looked up at the sky and fixed my eyes into the gray sky and the purple clouds, and I imagined them working together for some type of cause, a good and helpful cause. From when Candace had left, the air was colder, and the sea had joined in with the cold air with a howling that was mild. It felt as if I was the only being in Kingston; I had neither fear nor worry.
I thought it best to go inside my cottage, and respect the weather. In my bedroom closet, and in a small trunk, there were wraps and shawls that I had not worn in years, and some I had never even worn. Adorable caps and hats were among the beautiful collection. A part of me wished to open up the windows of my cottage and listen to the sea, but the air was too cold and sharp. The sea was the only thing I wanted to hear at that very moment, and it was fascinating to me and baffling! The urge of listening to the sea had subsided, and I was happy, content, and in a place, a place in my mind where I could think, feel, and dream like a child! Did Candace ‘Candy’ Ralston have something to do with? No, not a young woman!
What on earth is the matter with me?! Looking towards a young woman, for what? To be my hero?! I had put on a new jazz record and a brand new phonograph that was expensive. All of Kingston seemed silent or lonely; at least it seemed that way to me. I thought the jazz record would help me feel better, but I began to feel melancholy, and I do not normally feel that way. There were some jazz songs that caused me to feel melancholy. Instead, I played an opera record that was given to me from a good friend who had just moved away from Kingston. I felt positive and light, and was going to remain that way.
I played the opera record until the very end, but I did not remove it from the phonograph. I had become hungry for food, but I was not in a state to go into the kitchen to cook. I had remembered that I had made a delightful chocolate cake two days ago. I cut a generous slice, and filled a glass with iced tea. I could have poured cold milk, but the iced tea would be more soothing to me at this time. I sat in the kitchen at my table and enjoyed the most wonderful chocolate cake, and it was the first time that I had baked in a while. Perfect timing for the winter! After I had enjoyed and devoured the cake slice, I looked forward the listening to the mystery radio show, and reading a good mystery book at the same time. I did not have to do both; it was a choice of my own. I lit the fireplace in my living room, look at my collection of books, and turned on the radio. Ten minutes was left until the mystery radio show, and I had felt good and complete with plenty of purpose in life. I closed my eyes and thanked God for the winter, and clapped my hands. My loveable cat, Apple, who I always kept in the cottage, and that he loved being indoors had finally come out to visit me. “Hello, my darling Apple. You have come just in time to listen the mystery radio show with me!” He sat in front of the fireplace before drinking sweet condensed milk.
There was nothing else for me to do other than wait for the broadcast and keep warm. I felt like I was waiting for an important phone call, or a telegram. Perhaps Apple felt that way, too. I followed him into the kitchen to watch him drink the sweet milk. He did not eat his food, which was no surprise. Now that I think of it, winters were the only season throughout the year when he would drink sweet milk with joy, and he never ate much food. “You know that I have plenty of sweet milk here for you, my adorable cat, and friend.” I looked around at my cottage, listening to the fireplace, and thinking about my life, and what was to come. “Good Evening, all. It is time for our mystery radio show. Tonight’s broadcast; The Disappearing Architects” will begin in two minutes,” said the announcer. Apple had finished drinking his sweet milk and returned to sitting in front of the fireplace. I have to admit that the title was unique and haunting; imagine a mystery about an architect! Nevertheless, I was ready to listen to the broadcast with Apple being cozy by the fireplace. “It is now time for the mystery that we all have been waiting for. Make sure that your doors and windows are locked, because the phantom could strike at any time!” I hoped and wished that my telephone would not ring; I did not want to be frightened. I had Apple with me, yes, but what could a cat do?! Should or should I not listen to the mystery radio show?
“Our broadcast will now begin, brought to you by our sponsor, ‘The Kingston Mystery Society’.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a captivating story, a story that is real in its own right. It begins with a young woman, a young woman with ambition, independence, and purpose, and most of all, money and…” I have always enjoyed mystery radio shows, but I sometimes thought that the dramatic was overly dramatic, and silence was more necessary, or was it? I looked Apple and wondered what his thoughts were; I did not want to think any further. “Minnie Drayton was a gifted and talent architect with unlimited possibilities that the world had to offer, and beyond. It has been said that she is much than appears to be far much older than what she was. She never let her face or eyes be shown, and it seemed that her dark sunglasses were her trademark. Beautiful, romantic, and magical cottages were built with very limited time, almost as if the cottages came from nowhere. There was speculation that Minnie Drayton was not her real name; some of the town’s people suggested that she was from an island of some sorts.”
Static had erupted interrupting the broadcast, and Apple had left the fireplace to go to another part of my cottage. The static greatly disappointed me; I hoped it would end quickly, and the broadcast would resume from where it was interrupted. In the evening and into the night, I was always close my curtains, but this time, I somehow did not remember to close them. I looked through the window, and there was a light, not the light from the moon, but a light that I not seen before shining over the sea. I had stepped outside trying to what seemed to be inexplicable and wonderful. The cottages that had been there and lived in were no longer there.
The broadcast had finally come back on the air. “Two talented women had disappeared along with the cottages that they were known and respected for building in our lovely town. Minnie Drayton, and Candace Ralston, the grandmother and granddaughter are loved and missed by all.”
Richard Eddie's favorite authors are Daphne Du Maurier and Kate Morton. Richard Eddie lives in California.
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