Chapter 8
Eight
Lydia was distracted when she should have been paying attention to Rosie, who was a little upset about needing help with her shoelaces.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. You could tie them before the fire. You’re probably just tired and still recovering.”
She rose and pulled her daughter into a comforting hug, understanding that at six, shoelaces could feel like such a big deal. It was something to master, to control, to prove she was growing up and gaining her independence.
It was a problem, really, how often her thoughts drifted to Ethan when she should have been focused on other things. Important things. Like helping Rosie tie her shoes, or making a grocery list, or figuring out how to rebuild her life from the ashes.
Instead, she found herself thinking about the way Ethan moved through his house.
Steady, capable, that lean strength evident in every gesture.
How he’d rolled up his sleeves that morning to fix the leaky faucet she’d mentioned, and she’d caught sight of his forearms. Corded with muscle, dusted with dark blond hair, and marked with some sort of Army tattoo that wrapped around his right forearm.
Just seeing it had made her lose her breath for a moment, made her have to look away before he caught her staring. He was so … not Tom. So … distracting.
And his eyes. Lord, those hazel eyes that could be warm as honey one moment and sharp as flint the next, always watching, always seeing more than she wanted him to see.
She’d caught herself imagining what it would be like if he kissed her. To feel those lips that curved into such gentle smiles pressed against hers. The thought made her feel like a giddy schoolgirl with her first crush, all fluttering heart and blushing cheeks.
Which was absurd. Unseemly, even. She was a thirty-something divorcee with two traumatized children, an alcoholic ex-husband dogging her steps, and an arsonist who’d tried to murder her family.
She had no business daydreaming about Ethan Cole’s forearms or imagining his kiss or feeling her pulse quicken every time he smiled at her across the breakfast table.
But she couldn’t seem to stop.
The phone rang, jarring her from thoughts she had no right to be having.
“Ms. Harper? This is Greg Mitchell from Stonewall Insurance …”
Lydia forced herself to focus, to push away the image of Ethan’s steady hands and concentrate on the adjuster’s words.
“I have good news. The fire department has released the site. I can meet you there this afternoon if you’re available. Say, two o’clock?”
Lydia’s stomach dropped. The farmhouse. The ruins of what was supposed to have been their fresh start, their safe haven.
She hadn’t been back since the night of the fire, hadn’t seen the damage in daylight.
Part of her didn’t want to. Wanted to remember it as it had been when she had driven up for the first time, full of hope at catching sight of the white clapboard siding and the wraparound porch. An arrival full of possibility.
But she needed to do this. Needed to face it, to start the process of moving forward. And more than that, she needed to stop being such a burden on Ethan. The insurance money would help her find a place of her own, would give her back some measure of independence.
“Two o’clock works,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ll be there.”
She hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, gathering her courage. Then she felt Rosie’s small hand on her knee.
“Mommy? Did I do it right?” Her daughter held up her foot, the laces tied in something that vaguely resembled a bow if you squinted and used your imagination. Apparently, she had undone Lydia’s work and started again.
“Perfect, baby,” Lydia said, pressing a kiss to Rosie’s blonde curls. “Absolutely perfect.”
Mrs. Figgs was delighted to watch the kids for the afternoon.
More delighted than any reasonable person should be about spending time with a rambunctious six-year-old and a too-serious nine-year-old.
But the older woman had taken to Eli and Rosie like they were her own grandchildren, and Lydia was grateful for it even as it made her throat tight with emotion.
“You take all the time you need, dear,” Mrs. Figgs said, ushering the kids inside where the smell of fresh-baked cookies wafted out. “We’ll have a grand time, won’t we?”
Rosie was already bouncing with excitement, but Eli hung back, his brown eyes serious as they met Lydia’s.
“You’re going to see the house,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes, baby. I have to meet with the insurance man.”
“Is Mr. Cole going with you?”
Lydia hesitated. She hadn’t told Ethan about the appointment. He was on shift, and she was capable of handling this herself. She’d been handling things herself for a year now. Longer, if she was being honest. Those last days of her marriage, she’d been on her own in every way that mattered.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, ruffling Eli’s hair. “It’s just a quick meeting. I’ll be back before dinner.”
Eli didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and followed Rosie inside, glancing back once before the door closed.
Lydia stood on Mrs. Figgs’s porch for a moment, guilt gnawing at her.
She should have told Ethan. Should have asked if he wanted to come.
But the thought of it made her feel small and helpless, like she couldn’t handle her own affairs.
Like she needed a man to hold her hand through basic adult responsibilities just because she had chosen the wrong man to marry.
The car was where Ethan had parked it three days ago.
Her ten-year-old sedan blue paint faded to gray in places, a dent in the rear bumper from where Tom had backed into it with his own car during one of his drunken visits.
Ethan had collected it from the barn the night she’d been in the hospital, using the spare key from the utility boxes she’d stored there.
Thank God she’d been parking it in the barn to avoid scraping frost off the windshield. If it had been next to the house, it would have been destroyed by the fire or the firefighting efforts. One small mercy in a sea of disasters.
Ethan had filled the tank when he’d picked up the vehicle, yet another debt to repay.
The engine turned over on the second try, and Lydia pulled out of the driveway with her hands tight on the wheel.
The drive to the farmhouse took twenty minutes on roads she barely remembered from the day they’d arrived.
A day full of promise and the nervous excitement of a new beginning.
Now, in the gray afternoon light, they just looked lonely.
The farmhouse appeared around the final curve, and Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.
It was worse than she’d imagined.
The structure still stood, but barely. The right side was completely gone, collapsed into a blackened heap of timber and ash.
The left side sagged dangerously, the roof caved in, windows blown out, and the siding charred and peeling.
The wraparound porch where she’d imagined sitting on summer evenings was a skeleton of burnt posts and collapsed boards.
Yellow caution tape fluttered in the wind, and the acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air even days later. The ground around the house was churned mud and ash, marked with boot prints from the firefighters and investigators.
This was supposed to have been home. Their sanctuary. The place where Eli and Rosie would grow up safe and happy, where they’d make memories that didn’t include an absent father who raged when he drank.
Now, it was just a corpse.
Lydia sat in the car for a long moment, her hands still gripping the wheel, fighting back the tears that burned behind her eyes.
She would not cry. Would not give Tom that victory.
Because this was his doing. She knew it in her bones, knew it with the same certainty that had made her flee Ohio in the first place.
He was slipping down a very slippery slope, right into the depths of hell, which is why she had been forced to divorce him. To protect Rosie and Eli.
A sedan pulled up beside her. Newer, nicer, the kind of car that said “responsible adult with good insurance.” A man in his fifties got out, wearing khakis and a windbreaker, carrying a tablet and a camera.
“Ms. Harper? Greg Mitchell.” He approached with the careful sympathy of someone who did this for a living, who’d seen plenty of people stare at the ruins of their lives. “I’m sorry you have to see it like this.”
“It’s fine,” Lydia lied, climbing out of her car. “I knew it would be bad.”
“The fire marshal’s preliminary report shows no signs of homeowner involvement,” Mitchell said, pulling up documents on his tablet. “Which means your claim can proceed without delay. That’s good news. It usually takes much longer when there are questions about that.”
Lydia wanted to laugh. No signs of homeowner involvement? Of course not. She hadn’t set her own house on fire with her children inside. But the fact that they’d had to check, that there was even a moment where she might have been suspected?—
“How long until I get the settlement?” she asked.
“Four to six weeks, typically. We’ll need to do a full assessment of the property value and your losses, but given the circumstances and the fact that you hadn’t fully moved in yet …
” He gestured at the barn, which stood intact fifty yards from the house.
“it should be relatively straightforward. You had contents insurance as well, correct?”
“Yes.” Though she’d barely had any contents worth insuring. Some furniture, clothes, kitchen items. All purchased secondhand or on clearance. All gone now.
They walked the perimeter of the house, Mitchell taking photos and making notes on his tablet while Lydia tried not to look too closely at the devastation. Tried not to think about how close they’d come. If Caleb Byrne hadn’t been driving by?—
She couldn’t finish the thought.
“The barn looks untouched,” Mitchell said. “That’s fortunate. Any valuables stored there should be intact.”