Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA
“Emma, dear, it’s not as if your father is going to come back and lay claim to his office,” my mother says, her hand on her hip, her eyes skyward, as if she just can’t with me. We’re standing outside my father’s office, the room which I’ve just summoned a stranger to improve. “We can continue leaving it alone for another twenty years, and it’s not liable to hurt anyone.” Her other hand is still wrapped around her cell phone. She was poring over it when I found her in the parlor and informed her that I had news about my ongoing project with the house.
Could she have been checking out SilverFoxes.com again after our man hunt the other day?
Yes, I surfed SilverFoxes.com with my mother.
My mother, my brother, and I don’t say I love you in conventional ways. We push each other, we poke fun, we drink together when someone’s had a bad day or a disappointment.
So I’d thanked her for her efforts on my behalf by checking out the website with her after the housewarming party a little over a week ago.
We’d made the joint decision that she should block Cueball for being dishonest and calling a grown woman “kitten,” and we had joyfully blocked several other would-be contenders—one for resembling my father’s work colleague, who habitually picked his nose in front of everyone, another for wearing the same red shirt in every photo on his profile, although the photos were notably taken on different days, and a third for messaging her Let me wife you.
But she hasn’t talked about the app since our dinner at Chuck’s apartment last Thursday. There’d been this moment when I could have sworn she and Chuck were vibing each other—and the look Seamus had given me suggested he’d noticed too. It had been nice, sharing that moment with him.
Could she have been texting with Chuck?
I want to ask. Chuck is a good man—kind and gentle, the way Mark was, but much more chatty. I like him. I trust him. I feel much more comfortable with the thought of my mother dating him than any of the overly horny and possibly untrustworthy men on that website. But I figured it might be too early to press her about it.
And then there’s the matter of this room…
I passed the office this morning and heard that strange scratching noise again . Which is when I decided the ghost in the walls needs to get evicted. Today.
Do I think it’s an actual ghost?
Probably not, but I’d prefer not to take chances. It’s unsettling, and I want it to stop.
I glance inside the space. Everything about it speaks of him—from the dark green walls that create a brooding, uncomfortable atmosphere, to the dusty whiskey decanter sitting on top of the globe-shaped bar and the wide walnut-wood desk with two diminutive chairs sitting in front. So whoever sat there would feel small in comparison to him.
Even looking at it makes me shudder. “I had a revelation this morning, Mom,” I say. “It’s this room that’s made the whole house feel rotten. It’s the dark heart. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before.”
Which is why I’ve decided I’m going to knock down the wall between the library and the office and make it into one giant library. With lots of pink romance books and thriller novels. Let’s see if the haunting or whatever the fuck it is continues then .
Have I lost my mind?
Probably.
I’d argue I lost it a few months ago, but maybe you can lose your mind multiple times, or continually, on an ongoing basis.
My mother sniffs and straightens her perfectly straight kaftan dress. “And what, pray tell, are you going to do with the detritus after this stranger you’ve hired knocks down the wall?”
“I’ll pay him to take it to the dump, too.”
“And who’s going to refinish the space?”
“ Me .” Then, considering how much I disliked doing the wallpaper, I add, “Maybe Anthony will help. I can probably convince Rosie to get him on board. She’s an easy mark. Or I can find a construction company, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you get Anthony to knock down the wall in the first place rather than contacting this service?”
I pause before admitting, “He thought it was a bad idea.”
She studies me, her eyebrows inching higher. Her face doesn’t crease as much as it should at seventy, but then again, she goes to an exceptional dermatologist. I know this because she’s offered to send me there multiple times—as if I might have failed to notice that I’m breaking out on the sides of my face. I’d thought stress breakouts would stop when I finished being a teenager, but add that to the long list of challenges of adulthood. “Ah,” she says at least. “I see. You need to do this before you see that dreadful man Jeffrey.”
It’s not a question, but I answer it as if it were one—“Yes.”
I need to go to the Grove Park Inn feeling strong, not like a woman who’s spent two months playing house. This is the only way I can confront my father.
My mother glances past me at the interior of the office, her gaze shrewd. She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Then you can proceed. I’ve never liked this room. He used to watch pornography in here.”
“I definitely didn’t need to know that,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.
“Oh, pish. You’re an adult now. We can have adult conversations.”
I’m tempted to admit I’d rather not, but I already feel like enough of a teenager. No need to descend into bickering.
“Wouldn’t you rather change the room, too?” I ask.
She considers this again before giving a decisive nod. “I’m more than ready to move on from the past.”
Again, I consider asking her about Chuck. I open my mouth to do so, but the buzzer to the gate sounds. My mother gives me a sidelong look. “What if this man you’ve hired is a murderer?”
“I’ll mace him, and then you can hit him over the head with something. Maybe that.” I point to a heavy antique lamp on the desk. It’s kind of nice, actually—with a heavy, burnished metal base and an oversized shade—but it’ll have to go. I’ll never be able to look at it now without thinking of my father masturbating by its ambient light.
She considers this for a moment, her lips pursed, and then nods. “But the lamp is too heavy. It would aggravate my bursitis. I’ll use something else. Should we have a safe word?”
“ Kitten .”
She smiles before she can flatten her expression. “Very funny. I’ll go buzz your ‘friend’ in. Does he know where to meet you, or is he expecting an escort?”
I explained, in detail, over the app, so I nod. “He knows where to find me.”
Five minutes later, Mr. Fix It turns the corner of the hallway with a shit-eating grin on his face that suggests he knows exactly how it’s going to affect me to see him.
I groan. “I should have known. Of course you’re the guy all of Mom’s friends have been drooling about.”
Seamus O’Malley-slash-James, wearing a leather jacket, worn jeans, and work boots. He has a tool belt and a box in his big hand. I’ve never cared about tool belts one way or another—suits have always done it for me—but now…
My hormones must be in overdrive, because I can’t help but think if sin were given a face and body, it would be his—from his hair, in need of trimming, to his unshaven chin and the toned arms filling his jacket.
His lips, chronically amused and perfectly shaped, are definitely sinful.
“Have you changed your mind about the shirt?” he asks with an even broader grin. “You’re giving me that look. I remember it from when you flipped that skirt up for me the other night. You like carrying around my belongings, don’t you?”
“The mace is in my pocket, Mr. Fix It .” I nod toward the dark green wall, which feels larger than it should be. “Now, can you fix it?”
His lips curl into a smile, and he glances past me into the space I’d prefer not to allow my eyes to rest. “Show me,” he says.
So I lead him into the office, my “house shoes” padding against the soft carpet.
When we get further inside, I gesture again to the green wall that connects with the library. “The library is on the other side.”
Seamus gives me a look that screams little rich girl.
I grit my teeth and lift my chin. It would be impossible to look down at him, so this will have to do. I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me because he enjoys it, but the noise from the wall and the knowledge that Jeffrey and Ellie will be in Asheville on Friday have made me on edge. “I’ve decided to make it bigger. We’re going to take down the wall and make it into one room.”
He approaches the wall and runs his hand over it, pausing as he passes a framed family photo of Mother, Father, Anthony, and me. He gives me a sidelong smile. “You had braids.”
“If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”
“I had a mullet when I was seven. I’m not in a position to cast stones.”
I smile…until the rustling sound from earlier ripples through the room. The ghost sound.
I’m almost relieved when Seamus frowns, because at least this suggests it’s not happening inside my head. That was an unpleasant possibility I’ve been carrying around for the last couple of days.
“It’s always made sounds,” I say with a sigh. “Old house. But it seems like it’s gotten worse over the last several days. It used to freak Anthony out when we were kids.”
And me. But I’m not about to admit to that.
Seamus glances at me. “Uh, it’s not doing that because it’s an old house.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He taps the wall. Nothing. He moves his hand down and taps again. Rustling .
My mouth drops open.
“There’s something in there,” he says, setting down his toolbox. He glances up at me as he opens it and rummages through the contents. “You’ve noticed that sound before?”
“A couple of times. I thought…” I pause, swallowing, then start again. “Is it alive?” My voice is surprisingly firm. Then again, I’d actually entertained the possibility that it might be a ghost. It’s good news if it’s a family of mice.
“You’re sure you want me to take the wall down?” Seamus asks, meeting my gaze and holding it. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
I hear the scratching sound again.
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you want to leave?” There’s a questioning expression in his eye—maybe a weighing look, as if he’s taking my measure.
I straighten my spine and joke, “If there’s someone living in the walls of my mother’s house, they should do me the courtesy of shaking my hand.”
Seamus shakes his head slightly, his expression amused. “Rats can probably be taught to shake hands, but I won’t be the one offering up lessons.”
I swallow, trying not to show him I’m nervous. “My mother wouldn’t let any rats take up residence here. They wouldn’t dare . They’d better be mice for everyone’s good.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Seamus asks as he pulls off his jacket, his amused gaze on me. Is he waiting to see if I mace him for showing a bit of skin? Because he has on a dark T-shirt under the jacket, as if it’s the balmy middle of summer rather than a cold snap in February. He’s lanky but broad-shouldered, and his arms are tattooed and lined with muscle.
“Do you have a drop cloth?” he asks.
I nod, because I’m not completely unprepared, and retrieve it from the other side of the room. He sets it out, his arms flexing with the movements, and then retrieves a sledgehammer from the box. His arms continue to dance, the tattoos writhing, as he lifts it up, and dammit, I didn’t want to agree with Reba about anything, but it would be awfully nice to see this man do it without his shirt on.
I clear my throat and watch as he brings the hammer down against the wall. It makes a satisfying thud and eats a hole into the plaster—but that sound is followed by a mewling noise that makes me jolt.
Seamus’s gaze meets mine through the cloud of plaster dust.
He hits the wall again, this time cracking the wood that hides beneath the plaster. The noise repeats, this time undeniable and louder.
“A kitten?” I call out, incredulous. He turns toward me, his eyes wide, and nods.
What happens next unfolds so quickly, I can barely process it—my mother comes racing through the open doorway like an avenging angel and throws something at Seamus with the accuracy of an Olympian hungry for a trophy.
He drops the sledgehammer and then goes down like a sack of bricks on top of the thick maroon carpet.