Chapter 29
Dirk
I haven’t been back to Franklin since the funeral. It’s a great time to visit – hardly anyone’s on the street, thank goodness, not like last time I was here, saying goodbye.
I’m ready to see the house again. Maybe not ready to sell it. This house was Millie’s. It was Millie. If she’d had other interests, like art or music or tutoring or sport, then selling it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But selling it straight away would have been a betrayal. But time has passed.
I’m glad Lucy agreed to accompany me. I love that about her.
She doesn’t hold a grudge. She seems to have forgiven me for my tasteless comment about her diamonds.
I’m relieved we can still be friends. Lucy is exactly the tonic I need today, bright company in her warm red hat and scarf and jaunty plaid jacket, and full of energy.
She is out of the car to distribute her business cards before I can turn off the engine, and then ducks back in, beside me, all smiles.
“They’re interested, Dirk! I’ll email them photos when we get back. One of them said she’d host my lamp-covering workshop in spring!”
“Glad there’s something in it for you, too, Lucy, this trip.”
We accelerate away, slowly, past my old practice, the Family Doctor sign still prominent. Roger Tappy took it over. Lucy sees the sign and places her hand briefly on my leg, a friendly gesture – nothing suggestive about it.
“No regrets?”
I shake my head. My sigh is deep.
“I gave that practice everything, Lucy; my late nights and early mornings and everything in between, and nothing could stem the tide of misery – the illness and the injuries, accidental and self-inflicted.”
Feels good to spell it out. Millie wouldn’t have wanted to hear a word of it. Wanted to believe I loved my work.
“You okay about going home?”
“It’s not my home anymore.”
“But there must be so many memories.”
“Of course.” Lucy doesn’t need to know they’re not all good.
The white picket fence needs painting. Millie kept up all of that.
She had the gardener and painter and electrician and plumber and cleaner and handyman and caterer on speed dial.
She wasn’t the queen of her home town for nothing.
Her parents’ home – which became ours – was the pride of the place, but it was old and quaint and the maintenance was never-ending.
I’m stiff when we get out of the car. Out of habit, I go around to the passenger side, open the door and hold out my hand ... to Lucy.
She bounces out, all pink cheeks and excitement.
“Where can I start? You were right about these roses. They’re so overgrown! It’s the perfect time to prune them. I can’t wait. You go in. I’ll make a start. These will be gorgeous in spring. Go in. You don’t need me in there with all your memories.”
And she’s through the gate with its rustic rose arbor, now all stems and thorns, and by the time I get to the front door, she’s snipping away.
She’s humming with contentment as I insert the old key and turn it and push open the door. Dee has already been here. She told me she cleared out Millie’s things when she selected the main things I’d need in my new place.
The hatstand is empty. Millie had a hat for every occasion, even after hats became unfashionable.
The house is cold. Millie kept it toasty warm year round, never mind the expense.
The long wooden corridor echoes with my footsteps.
I peer into the sitting room, so much bigger without Millie’s clutter, the generous simplicity of the architecture obvious.
This was every bit her late father’s house, the town carpenter, the old home made of the best wood available.
Her mother told me the history every time she visited, and then she moved in with us, until the babies arrived and disturbed her rest. She moved out but visited all the time.
She and Millie were a team, dreaming up never-ending home improvements as they minded the children and cooked our meals.
Sometimes I wondered if I’d married Millie, her mother or even the house. We were all its slaves.
Movement catches my eye from the big window overlooking the garden, as Lucy stands and stretches and moves to the next rose bush, rubbing her back, then bending to the task again, all smiles and concentration. I’d guessed Lucy would be like Millie – afraid of the dirt – but I was wrong.
The children’s rooms are empty, except for the beds and dressing tables, all period pieces Millie found somewhere.
The place is a museum. We can sell it with the furniture, or rent it out as an upmarket boutique getaway, though that’s not my preference.
I’m done with the maintenance. I haven’t had that conversation yet with Jamison and Dee – haven’t wanted to think about it.
Even the master bedroom is strangely bland, as if the house is already for sale – the surface of the round-mirrored dressing table empty of Millie’s many potions and perfumes and beads and bangles and rings.
It’s as if the house is holding its breath, or I’ve caught it asleep.
The grand dining room is neat, the symmetrical old table dusty. The sun comes out from behind the clouds, and dust motes swirl in its rays, through the glass, an echo of the grand windows of the sitting room.
The fireplace is empty. Do rose clippings burn?
It’s icy in here. I continue to the kitchen, apprehensive.
Millie’s life-long dance with duty to her home always ended here, here where I wasn’t welcome, but every kitchen holds memories.
It was here after my long days I’d sneak chunks of chocolate or instant coffee as Millie slept in our bed, here where I’d grab a bowl of cereal before I headed out early again each morning.
I search in vain for a kettle. The electricity is off anyway.
I turn a tap for a sign of movement, for evidence the place is more than an empty film set – for a sign that I actually passed the best years of my life under its old roof.
Yellow water gushes out. Another pipe needs replacing. I let it run clear, then find two glasses, and take them out, one for me and one for Lucy. She’s going strong. She wasn’t wrong about her love of roses. Millie loved roses in vases. She loved the romance of them, but never the hard work.
Lucy turns to me, grabs the glass with gratitude and downs it with gusto.
“Perfect,” Lucy says, a word Millie never uttered once. It’s not fair to compare them. I was a young man when I fell under Millie’s spell. I’m wiser now. Or am I?
A thorn has nicked Lucy’s cheek, the blood a red ruby. I pull out a tissue and hold it out.
“Oh?”
“One of them fought back,” I say, as I lean down and dab at her cheek.
Her breath is warm on my hand. I’ve patched a thousand cheeks or more; stitched them, disinfected them, removed skin cancers and splinters, even a fishhook.
There is nothing to this small gesture of kindness, nothing more than common sense.
Any friend would dab at the cut on Lucy’s cheek, especially if she was doing them a favor.
But those eyes.