Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
The house seemed to settle for a few days.
It made me anxious, now that I knew he was there. Existing. Listening.
“Keep or throw away?” Sayer held up a box labeled ATTIC. A welcome breeze sent the tree branches rustling overhead. I stopped, hand on my trunk liner, lips parted.
Immediately, Haddy—Hadrian’s—curled body materialized in my mind. It was difficult to walk up those steps, to clean out that room little by little, and not think of him—the way his voice echoed off the attic ceiling, the muted floors and dusty coat hangers. I shook my head, willing them all away.
“What’s in it?” I croaked. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand.
Behind us, Emma stood on the porch, separating bags of clothes that were good enough to give to the women’s shelter and then others that were too moth eaten or holey to reuse.
We’d decided to take a break from working on the actual house today—mostly because sorting through items was easier than peeling more wallpaper.
With my tentative September deadline inching closer, I didn’t want to end up panic-dumping anything to the landfill when things could be reused.
And it gave me time while Sayer and Emma sorted through boxes to go through paperwork—not only to submit death certificates to the bank, Social Security office, and insurance company, but to look for journals.
Notes. Envelopes. Anything personal that might have been left, besides the official power of attorney and the will. But I came up empty.
My promise with Hadrian loomed the more I searched and the less I found. I could only flip through so many folders, desk drawers, and cabinets before doubt crept in. Fear of what I might find—or what I wouldn’t.
Sayer jiggled the box. “Don’t know. Old toys, I think?” Squinting, he rubbed his chin on his shoulder to wipe away a drop of sweat.
I stood on my toes to get a look inside. An old threadbare toy harp sat at the top. The strings were frayed to the point of snapping, and if I focused, I could just make out tiny teeth marks on the plastic bottom. Donald The Chihuahua, most likely.
“If they’re all like that harp, they should probably be thrown out,” I said.
“I’ll put them in the garbage pile,” he concluded. Just as he turned, I couldn’t help it. I reached out and grabbed the harp. I needed to touch it. One last time.
It was the palest of lavenders, with worn edges and light creases in the frame. The memories sat on the edge of my mind, as if to say, Wait, come back, just one more time.
I’d sat for days on the back porch, singing to the birds with the dream of being in an opera one day.
The dream hadn’t lasted long, because I remember the harp had disappeared not long after that, and my newfound fixation had been dolls.
I think I’d decided fashion design was a more enticing route at that point.
I suppose part of that dream had come to fruition.
Except dressing people wasn’t my forte—now I knew I didn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with people all day.
Dressing a home, so to speak, was a lot more fun.
Houses always seemed to speak to me when I picked out palettes and inspiration ideas.
Unlike people, who spoke at me most of the time.
I plucked a string on the harp. It made a sad, loose twang.
Sayer shivered.
“Do you ever look at old toys and get sick thinking about how time moved so fast?” I said, voice thick. Not just where the time pranced off to, but how life could pivot just as quickly. It needled you in the side some days; others, it grabbed you by the throat and spat in your face.
Each inhale burned in that moment. Especially lately—it squeezed my throat so tight I could hardly see straight.
I’d been so lost in the little things—paint colors and paperwork and item orders—that I’d not stopped to breathe. Four weeks had already passed since the funeral.
How would I feel in the next four? Six weeks? Eight?
“That’s why I made my mom go through everything after I left school. I couldn’t look at it.” Sayer sighed. He examined the rest of the box’s innards. “It’s too depressing for me. Kudos to you for at least getting rid of some stuff.”
I gave a watery smile. “Really?”
He scoffed, nodding, then rummaged through the box. “Absolutely. Me, going through old toys? A recipe for a midlife crisis. I’ll pass.”
I gave the harp one final sorrowful plunk before setting it back on top.
“This looked cool, though. I found it under a pile of clothes. I tried to open it but almost lost a fingernail.” He held out a wooden carved box, no larger than his palm.
A rusted metal latch sealed it shut. Something rattled inside when I shook it.
I tried to use my thumbnail to pry it open, but as Sayer said, the latch held true.
“Careful,” he warned. “If you damage a nail, it might not grow back the same. All thick and curved and—what?”
My nose wrinkled. “Thank you, Doctor, for that lovely mental image.”
“My grandfather could show you his feet if you need proof. The number of times a horse stepped on his big toe. You should see how ugly it grew back—”
“I think I’ll pass.” I shook it again. “The box is neat, though. Reminds me of a trinket tray. It could go on one of the mantels, maybe the library. It might match the feel of the room when it’s finished.” Most of the rooms had a hearth, even if they weren’t functional.
“What about this bag?” Emma called. She held up a white trash bag and shielded her eyes from the sun. “Do you want me to put it in the hallway closet for now?”
I hesitated a moment too long. Did she want me to answer? I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or Sayer.
“Donate,” Sayer said. He swiveled back to me. “And shame on you.”
I stalled, eyes going wide in silent question.
“For not letting me help you clean up that wall after I hit my head through it.”
A chill—similar to how I felt when a fork scraped across the bottom of a bowl wrong—raced over my spine.
Sayer remembered the first wall incident, but didn’t go on to mention the night when I told him I’d break the wall down anyway. As if his memories had been flipped completely.
“Mind telling me why you two are acting like the other hasn’t showered in a week?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I showered this morning.” I gathered my composure. Maybe the memory issue was nothing to worry about.
“I mean the wide birth you’re giving each other.”
I tried to keep my shrug nonchalant. “We’ve agreed to disagree.” And left it at that.
Still, I knew that Sayer knew. But I’d rather stick my hand in a flooded toilet than bring up the words Emma and I had exchanged—especially when she was bound to hear from the porch.
By lunchtime, Sayer agreed to help Emma go through the rest of the boxes we’d collected from the garage that wouldn’t fit in my car to donate.
I would either take the rest to the shelter, which was a forty-minute drive outside of town, or to Meredith’s.
By late afternoon, I’d already unloaded a few boxes at the shelter and made it back to Meredith’s before closing.
I wiped my palm over the back of my knees as I pulled the trunk lid down. “Can I ask you something?
She sat the last box in front of the store’s door as a momentary doorstop. Her T-shirt was damp around the neck. I’m sure I didn’t look much better.
She fanned herself. “Sure, sure. What’s on your mind, honey?”
“Did Aunt Cadence ever talk about the house’s history?” My words were breathy. What I would have done—the amount of money I might have paid—just to go lay in that puddle off the sidewalk, no matter how inappropriate.
Meredith pulled a tissue out of her pocket and blotted her face. I propped both hands on my hips. “Oh, this and that. I know she went to the deed’s office once or twice. She usually just brought me my junk, talked gossip a bit, then left. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“You check the info on the historical registry?” She folded her tissue. “On the house, I mean?”
A wilted nod. “Yeah, I saw when it was built. The first owner. Not much else.” The first owner, who wasn’t a Belfaunte. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Hadrian was telling me the truth about it being his house at one point. I just wanted proof. Something solid to point me in a direction.
Or something not-so-solid, like speculation, that would give me an idea as to what exactly I would be looking for.
“Well, if it ain’t on the registry or in the historical records, I don’t know what to tell you, dear.” She huffed, then eyed me. “Somethin’ wrong with it?”
“Oh, no. Right as rain.”
She made a noncommittal noise. “You’re a bad liar, honey.”
My mouth fell open. Maybe the comment stung since Hadrian had said something similar. “I’m not lying.” The half-truth fell out before I had a chance to think. “I just have nights where I think I hear things.”
She scoffed. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me.”
I shot her a look, only slightly offended. “I thought you said it wasn’t haunted?”
Meredith’s cheeks tightened. “Haunted? Oh, heavens no. I never said it was haunted. You poor thing—is Emma not keeping you company enough?” I must have given her a look that asked, How do you know that?
When she added, “Oh, Ivan told me she was staying with you. Said you might be giving him the listing when the time comes to sell.”
Because of course he had.
“But no, I’m not saying Cadence is haunting you, dear, or that Harthwait is haunted by anyone.
” She shuffled over and patted my shoulder.
Gave it a squeeze. “I’m saying, it’s normal to hear things after someone passes.
I know Cadence talked nonstop about hearing that dog after she had to put him down.
Heard his nails on the hardwood all the time.
Heck, I had the same thing happen when Annie died.
You know that droopy rescue I had when you were little? ”
I nodded. A smile threatened my lips. “The basset hound?”