Chapter 14
Céline
The Montgomery estate looked smaller in the rain. The house itself remained enormous, all pale stone and black iron railings perched high above the cliffs like something old enough to outlive grief entirely. But the illusion of grandeur had weakened somehow since Katherine died.
The windows glowed too dimly behind their heavy curtains.
The gardens looked neglected around the edges, with leaves scattered across the paths and rose bushes starting to droop.
Even the long, curved driveway felt emptier than I remembered, wet gravel crunching beneath my Porsche as though the property itself had started settling inward, pulling its shoulders in against the storm.
For years, I had wanted this house more than anything.
I used to stand at the kitchen window of the staff cottage and stare up at its lit windows at night, imagining what it would feel like to walk those halls without carrying someone else’s laundry or worrying about leaving footprints on the marble.
Now, sitting behind the wheel with rain sliding down the windshield in silver rivers, I could barely force myself to get out of the car. My hands stayed locked on the steering wheel while the engine ticked quietly, cooling.
Miss Astoria waited somewhere inside those walls, and the thought of seeing her again made my chest ache in a way nothing else had since Katherine killed herself.
The porch lights were already on when I finally climbed the front steps, their warm glow cutting through the downpour.
Mrs. Montgomery opened the door before I could knock, as though she had been standing there listening for my car.
For one terrible second, she simply stared at me, her face pale and tired under the soft light.
Then she pulled me into her arms so quickly I barely had time to react.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered against my hair.
The word pressed sharply against my ribs.
Her sweater smelled faintly like lavender, and the expensive perfume she always wore too lightly to identify.
Beneath it lingered another scent now, stale grief mixed with sleeplessness and rooms left closed too long.
I hugged her back automatically, my arms wrapping around her smaller frame.
She felt thinner than I remembered, her shoulders sharper under the soft wool.
“You came,” she said, voice muffled against my shoulder.
Of course, I came. I almost said it aloud. Instead, I swallowed the words before they could escape, because the truth underneath them was unbearable.
Of course, I came. There was no one else left who would.
Mrs. Montgomery pulled back first, her hands still wrapped around my arms as though reassuring herself I was physically here. “You’re soaked through.”
“It’s raining,” I said, the words sounding small and obvious even to me.
“A terrible storm.” Her voice drifted strangely for half a second, distracted. “Katherine hated thunderstorms.”
The sentence landed heavily between us. Past tense.
Not even she seemed fully aware she had used it.
I looked away first, focusing on the familiar black-and-white marble floors of the foyer.
The enormous chandelier still hung over the staircase, its crystals catching the low light.
Family portraits stretched down the hallway toward the west wing, generations of Montgomerys staring down with the same careful poise.
Somewhere deeper inside the house, a grandfather clock chimed softly, marking the hour with steady, unhurried tones.
Everything remained the same, except for Katherine’s lively presence.
Mrs. Montgomery touched my elbow lightly.
“She’s upstairs.”
Miss Astoria.
My chest tightened instantly.
“I tried bringing her down earlier,” she said as we moved through the hallway together, her voice soft and careful, “but she kept running back to Katherine’s room. I think she’s waiting there now.”
The staircase creaked softly beneath our footsteps, the same way it always had.
I hadn’t realized until now how long it had been since I walked these halls without Katherine beside me, explaining something impatiently or arguing about music or carrying three books at once because she refused to admit she needed help.
My old room sat across the window down the east corridor, exactly where it always had, untouched since I left for university after I turned eighteen.
The instinct to glance toward it remained so immediate that it almost embarrassed me.
Mrs. Montgomery noticed. “You can still use it whenever you’d like,” she said quietly.
I froze for half a second on the landing. The words were kind, but somehow sounded cruel. Because they still spoke to me as if I belonged here, when I never did. And maybe the worst part was that some weak, starving piece of me still wanted to.
“Katherine’s room is open,” she added after a moment, her hand resting lightly on the bannister. “I changed the sheets this morning. I know Mira said to leave things alone for a while, but I couldn’t stand how stale the air felt in there.”
The fact that my mother was still cleaning this house made my chest ache unexpectedly.
I followed Mrs. Montgomery the rest of the way up the stairs and down the familiar hallway.
She reached Katherine’s bedroom door first, then hesitated.
I saw the exact moment she lost courage.
Her fingers tightened against the brass handle before she looked at me, almost apologetically.
“She’s been sleeping in there every night,” she said.
I nodded once.
Mrs. Montgomery opened the door.
The room smelled faintly like lavender detergent, old books and cat.
Miss Astoria sat curled in the middle of Katherine’s bed.
For one suspended second, neither of us moved.
Then the cat lifted her head. Blue eyes fixed on me instantly.
The sound she made next nearly broke me in half.
A sharp, desperate cry, loud enough that Mrs. Montgomery startled beside me.
“Miss Astoria—”
The cat launched herself off the bed before I finished speaking. She hit my chest hard enough to knock me backwards a step, claws catching briefly in my coat while she climbed upward frantically, crying the entire time.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Her whole body shook against mine. I sat down automatically on the edge of Katherine’s bed while Miss Astoria crawled into my lap with frantic urgency, pressing her face against my stomach, my hands, my chest, as if trying to confirm I was real from every possible angle.
Her fur felt thinner than I remembered, and her ribs pressed too sharply against my palms. I buried both hands in it anyway, letting her knead and circle and cry until the sound slowly faded into a deep, rumbling purr.
Mrs. Montgomery made a soft sound behind me.
“She’s barely let anyone touch her since… well, since.”
She watched the cat settle more fully into my lap, then exhaled with obvious relief.
“Thank you for taking her. Frankly, the cat is quite disgusting, and I cannot clean up after her anymore—the litter, the fur everywhere, all of it. It’s ruining Katherine’s space. I just don’t have the patience for that sort of thing.”
She said it gently, almost conversationally, as though handing off the practical, messy parts of caring for Miss Astoria was the most natural thing in the world.
Of course it was. That had been my mother’s job, and now it was mine again. Mrs. Montgomery’s affection stayed warm on the surface, but the line beneath it remained clear: some work belonged to people like me.
I focused on the cat because it was easier than looking anywhere else.
Miss Astoria stretched across my lap more fully now, finally calming, her purring softer and steadier beneath my hands.
She tucked her face more firmly against my stomach and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh, as though she had been holding her breath for weeks.
Mrs. Montgomery sat slowly in Katherine’s desk chair across the room. “She keeps scratching at the guest house door too, sometimes,” she continued softly. “Mira started leaving treats outside because she felt bad.”
“That sounds like my mother.” I smiled faintly despite myself.
Silence settled softly after that. Rain tapped against Katherine’s windows.
The room remained exactly as she left it.
Biology textbooks piled beside fashion magazines.
A half-burned candle near the vanity. One of her cardigans draped carelessly over the desk chair as though she might walk back in looking for it any minute. Grief was strange.
Mrs. Montgomery folded her hands tightly together in her lap. “She fought with me the week before…” Her voice broke. I looked up immediately. “She said I was trying to control her life.” Mrs. Montgomery stared at the carpet. “I told her she was being dramatic.”
The guilt in her voice moved through the room like another living thing. “You didn’t know,” I said quietly. No one ever did.
Mrs. Montgomery laughed weakly through tears. “Parents always say that after, don’t they?”
I said nothing. Because there was no safe response.
Miss Astoria stirred in her sleep and tucked her face more firmly against my stomach.
Outside, thunder rolled low across Blackwater.
Mrs. Montgomery wiped quietly beneath her eyes.
Then, after a long silence, she asked softly, “Do you remember the summer you and Katherine tried building that greenhouse behind the guest house?”
I closed my eyes briefly. Of course, I remembered. Katherine had spent three weeks researching soil acidity while I carried bags of mulch in ninety-degree heat because she kept insisting we were “creating a sustainable ecosystem.”
“It collapsed in two days,” I said.
Mrs. Montgomery laughed softly. “Katherine blamed the wind.”
“She measured the angle of sunlight for a week and forgot that Maine has terrible weather.”
“That sounds like her.”