Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
One Year Later
“No, Mom. Please don’t paint the kitchen without asking the landlord,” Emma groaned.
She pushed her pointer finger into her temple, squinting into the high sun.
I took a seat beside her on the last porch step, Harthwait’s new FOR SALE sign wobbling from where I’d just stuck it into the front lawn.
It was hot outside—the muggy kind of hot that came with humid inhales and sticky shirts.
“Tell her she needs to ask him on a date,” I whispered, just loud enough for Penny to hear on the other end.
“See!” I heard her screech. Emma held the phone away from her ear. “Landry thinks he’s cute, too. It’s not just me.”
“Please stop screaming,” Emma said. “I’ll be deaf by thirty-five.”
Penny started to ramble, this time at a better volume. A pre-wrapped ice cream cone dribbled over Emma’s free hand. She chased the drips with her tongue. After a second, she turned to me. “She wants to know about the Beetle. Did Sayer decide to buy it?”
“It drove good the other day, but he didn’t say. Why?”
“Mom wants to buy that hunk of metal.”
My mouth formed an O. “Aunt Cadence would roll over in her grave if she heard you say that.”
“Sure, sure.” She waved me away with a grin.
I unwrapped my own ice cream cone—this one had pecan bits on the top—and examined the front yard as Penny and Emma said their goodbyes.
The trim around the flower beds had been our focus the last couple of weeks.
Sayer had helped me with the mulch and laying the brick—Dad had offered, but I’d refused.
“At least let me buy the mulch for you,” he’d said.
I’d let him.
As far as I knew, he was doing okay. He’d helped me get the estate affairs in better order after the new year, but I didn’t push it.
The only one we pushed was Penny. She’d taken over Emma’s lease soon after the separation. I’d asked Emma to move in with me, we’d squabbled over it a bit, Emma said it was too much, before I’d said I’d charge her rent.
I liked having someone else in the house. It didn’t feel as empty that way.
The first month had been a fever dream. I’d found myself following Emma, or Sayer, around a lot, not quite ready to be left in a quiet room for too long, mostly out of fear that my mind would make up sounds that weren’t real—that I’d convince myself I heard Hadrian moving around, even when I knew he wasn’t there.
At one point around the holidays, Emma had a come-to moment with me.
“I know you love me,” she’d said, “and I’m flattered you think I know everything, but I think it’s best if you talk to someone qualified, Lan.
” She’d squished my face in her palms. “Maybe not about the house stuff. Or the ghostly-boyfriend thing. I just really, really think it’d be a good idea for you to talk to someone.
Especially after what your mom did and—other things. ”
The eating, is what she didn’t say.
At first, I’d been offended—how dare Emma tell me to go talk to a therapist? I was an adult, I could make my own choices—but days turned to a week, and when I sat and stared at my half-eaten lunch, in tears, I knew she was right. I could only carry myself so far.
Since I’d been seeing someone regularly, things had improved—thoughts still hung at the back of my mind like vultures, but I could manage them now. I was, at the very least, happy I didn’t need to wear a hoodie during hot weather anymore.
“I know we talked about this before,” Emma said as I finished off the bottom of my cone, “but I think we should get a guard dog.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have allergies.”
“To shellfish.”
“And dogs,” I said, incredulous.
“Still, you can get immunotherapy shots—”
A sound came from inside the house.
Emma’s words died.
The hairs along my nape stood at attention. The faintest of flutters rummaged through my chest. It couldn’t be.
A year, I’d waited. I’d stop by the closet and stand in it for a moment or two.
Emma never said anything, and I never said I was trying.
That I was checking. Then, slowly, the nights fell away.
I started going to bed. I’d turn out all the lights.
Weeks came and went. Eventually, I hung coats and linens in the closet. Nothing came of it.
Neither Eleanora or Ivan had gotten the listing. As of last week, I’d started searching again, but Penny had given me a good recommendation with someone she’d worked with before. She said Vinnie was a gem, and I’d known on the first meeting that he would be a good fit for Harthwait.
Now, the thoughts of selling wavered, if only barely. If the right buyer came along, I would sell, but I wasn’t in a rush.
“I think I left the broom propped in the hall,” I said. A poor excuse. If I looked her in the eye, she’d be able to tell the nervous anticipation sparkling in my expression. But I knew she already knew.
“I’ll be right back.” I pushed up from the step and brushed my shorts off.
She rolled her lips together before nodding, wary. “Okay.”
The foyer hadn’t changed after the renovations finished.
I’d kept the stained-glass coverings on the front door and windows, the floor runners, the catch-all entryway table, and the wallpaper.
I’d painted the baseboards, but left everything else, because it felt almost cynical to remove every part of Aunt Cadence.
And what better way to greet people than by ivory-colored beadboard?
The front door creaked shut behind me. I waited until the latch snicked into place.
Harthwait had been silent for a year. Countless midnights, a death anniversary, and the anniversary of Hadrian’s leaving.
But now, almost a year to the day—
“Hello?” I whispered. I cupped the base of my throat. Waited.
The sound of squeaky hinges answered me. Upstairs.
I hurried to the staircase and took the steps two at a time. My heart thundered in my ears, pounded like a drum against my skull, as I swung onto the landing and stopped dead in my tracks.
The half closet hung open—only an inch. But within it—
I exhaled a shaky breath. Pried the door open farther, and froze.
On the other side of the door, a mirror image of Harthwait greeted me. Except this time, the furniture was not burned and watered down from rain. The lawn didn’t fall into a maze on the other side of the windowpanes. The air didn’t hang with dust and smoke. It was whole.
Real.
Sunlight spilled through heavy crushed-velvet curtains.
Sitting chairs flanked a love seat, hardened with antique pillows.
The floorboards shined, darker in some places and lighter in others, as if the rugs had been rolled up and put away for warmer months.
Netting covered a chandelier in the center of the room to keep gnats and flies away.
I held my breath, lips parted.
I inched forward. My hands shook so hard, I barely caught the doorframe as I stepped through. The air was hot, still slightly dry like an early summer day.
“Is that supposed to happen?” a deep, unfamiliar voice asked.
I leaned through the doorway and looked to my left.
A hardened, crystalline set of blue eyes stared back at me.
I’d seen this man before—on the lawn at Hadrian’s wedding.
I couldn’t explain how, but I felt it. This was the man who’d taken over Hadrian’s affairs after his death: Haste.
My resolve started to crumble.
There, just over his shoulder, a woman stood in the middle of the room, sweat beading over her forehead. Behind her, a writing desk. I recognized it all from a memory.
Once upon a time, she’d rushed down a hallway for a little boy.
A shadow emerged from behind the blue-eyed man, this one a bit taller, sharper, one eye gray, the other yellow.
A sob broke from my lips as I covered my mouth. Tears blurred my vision. His voice, rich and thick, split the air.
“Dearest,” the yellow-eyed man said. “You came back.”