Chapter 2. Callan
Callan
The side door is unlocked when I step into the mudroom. “Hello?” I call, but the thick walls in this old house stop sound from carrying any farther than the next room over. I stick my head into the kitchen and the keeping room, but both are empty.
“Lenore?” I shout up the stairwell in the central hall.
No answer.
I hesitate, then climb the steep stairs to the short upstairs hallway.
It’s late enough in the afternoon that the sun has shifted past the south-facing window, catching on the wrinkled glass at a golden angle.
I don’t need to wonder which bedroom she’s in.
Shadows shift in the gap beneath a five-paneled door.
I raise a fist to the crackled ivory paint.
The door swings open before I can knock. Lenore stands with a hand on her hip, the other resting on the handle like she’s still debating whether to shut the door in my face. Her messy, honey-brown hair is twisted into a clip, except for the bangs, which are new. They suit her.
“Yes?” she demands, after several seconds have passed without me saying anything.
I clear my throat. “I was coming to check how you’re settling in.”
“I’m not a guest,” she grumbles, then turns her back to me but leaves the door swinging open behind her. An invitation, if a reluctant one.
I follow her into her former bedroom, where she climbs onto the white bedspread, careful to avoid the clutter strewn across the bed.
I do a quick visual sweep of the room: a suitcase splayed before the open wardrobe, knit sweaters already sagging on their hangers. Lenore, in the middle of the bed, one leg bent.
“You know the house is already in escrow.” I nudge a battered cardboard box with the toe of my boot. “You’re not supposed to be moving back in.”
“I’m aware,” she says, cracking open a leather-bound book and folding back the ribbon used to mark her place. “You don’t have to worry about me. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”
Not sure that’s possible. Her shorts hit around mid-thigh, leaving miles of smooth olive skin between the hem and her striped crew socks.
Probably not the sort of thing I should be noticing about my best friend’s little sister, but it’s hard to ignore.
Somewhere between when we were kids and now, everything about Lenore became hard to ignore.
The same can’t be said the other way around—I’m not sure she’s ever looked in my direction.
Well, except the time at Damien’s wedding, but that doesn’t really count.
“October ninth,” I say. “That’s when escrow is set to close.”
“I know, Callan. I signed the paperwork.”
I make a dismissive sound in the back of my throat and resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Her wide brown eyes flick to mine and narrow. Some might call them doe eyes, but there are white-tailed deer scattered all through the woods around here—prey animals, skittish and guileless. Lenore French is neither of those things.
I shake my head faintly. “What, why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not,” she says. “You’re the one making a face.”
I attempt to train my expression into neutrality.
I have no right to be angry with the Frenches.
It’s been three years since Lenore’s grandmother’s dementia got bad enough that they had to move her into long-term care.
Six months since she passed away, and nine long weeks since the house went on the market.
A property developer based in Miami is buying—they plan to convert it into a vacation rental. It’s an insult to the French legacy, but despite practically growing up on this farm, I’m not a French. It’s not my place to voice those particular reservations.
I have to offer some explanation for my reaction, though, so I say, “I guess because it’s strange, seeing you here again.”
Her expression smooths over, not quite softening. It’s almost like she’s doing the same thing I am—trying not to give too much away. Which raises a hell of a lot more questions than it answers. What is she doing here?
“You’re free to pretend that I’m not here. If that’s your preference.” She raises the book to cover her face.
I’m not sure what I’ve done to make her so curt with me. We were never what you would call close, growing up, but we were cordial. I stayed for countless dinners around the family table, stood across from her while Damien and Katie said their vows.
“All right,” I say. “I can take a hint.”
Lenore lowers the book long enough to give me a pointed look. “I wouldn’t hint if I wanted you out, Callan. I’d tell you to your face.”
I’m not sure how to interpret that. Not explicitly wanting me out doesn’t necessarily mean she wants me in.
“I’m taking off early to run some errands before the shops close. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
Her eyes are back on the page. “Shut the door behind you.” A split second too late, she glances up and pastes on a thin smile. “Please.”
I’m tempted to leave the door wide open, but I don’t. It clunks shut at my back, and I linger in the hallway for a moment, stealing a glance over my shoulder before shaking the thought and heading downstairs.
My phone rings while I’m walking to where I parked my truck beside the outbuilding.
I slide to answer and press it to my ear, welcoming the distraction. “Talk to me, Damo.”
“How does she seem?” he asks without preface.
“Hey, Cal, how have you been?” I say. “Oh, I’ve been great, Damien. How are you?”
“Sorry, man,” he says on a long sigh. “It’s not like her, you know, to run away from her life. Katie’s worried.”
“Yeah, well.” I tip my ball cap back from my forehead, raking my fingers through my hair before tugging it back down.
“Sometimes you just miss home.” Even I don’t buy my own explanation, but I’m at a loss for anything to say that would ease his worries or explain his sister’s sudden reappearance at French Hill.
Damien snorts. “You’re one to talk. You’ve never left.”
“Never had much reason to,” I grunt, climbing into the truck.
It’s a ’73 Chevy C10—a rust bucket when I bought it, the undercarriage eaten alive by road salt and muck.
I’ve put some work into it here and there.
The body is almost finished, but the inside is a disaster.
The leather is sun bleached and peeling, and the headliner material sags from the fiberboard.
“I’m worried it’s a mental health thing, you know,” he says. “She’s been acting different, ever since Gran died. You hear that she ended things with her fiancé?”
That’s a loaded question, because yes, I might’ve noted that there wasn’t a rock on her left finger, and no, I’m not telling her brother that I was checking for one.
I turn the key in the ignition, gauge needles jumping in the dusty dash as the engine sputters to life. “It didn’t come up.”
“Yeah, not that there’s any love lost between me and the guy, but it was weird, just out of the blue a couple months ago.”
“Maybe it wasn’t working out,” I say, but it comes out stilted.
I don’t really talk about relationships with Damien, beyond the drunken best man speech I gave at his wedding, and we definitely don’t talk about his sister’s relationships.
I do recall him making an empty threat about wanting to douse her cheating high school boyfriend in gasoline and set him on fire—an idea I probably didn’t discourage as much as I should have—but it’s been radio silence since.
“I guess this is me asking you to keep an eye on her,” he says. “Make sure she seems all right.”
“Will do, boss.” I crank the wood grain steering wheel hand over hand, swinging onto the dirt drive.
“I told you to cut that shit out,” Damien snaps. He hates when I call him boss, but that’s exactly why it’s fun. I laugh and end the call while he’s still giving me an earful.
The problem with that little stunt is that it leaves me alone with my thoughts.
There was a time when I had a bit of a thing for Lenore French.
Who could blame me? It wasn’t just the pretty eyes, or the legs that seem to stretch on forever, though I thoroughly appreciated both.
Nore was whip-smart, and she saw the world in her own way.
You could listen to her talk for years, and there would always be something new: some opinion on food or literature or music that would emerge fully formed, like Athena springing from a headache.
Hell, I only remember that reference because she went through a Greek mythology phase and made sure we all knew it.
And yeah, maybe all those things were made a little sweeter by the knowledge that I could never have them. I could never have her. Damien made that clear.
Not that it needed saying—it was obvious how protective he was from the beginning.
Ever since their mom sent them to live here, because both she and their dad were walking train wrecks who couldn’t take responsibility for them.
When even their grandmother was a stranger to them, Nore was all Damien had.
I couldn’t blame him for worrying about her.
Still, Damien’s watchful eye aside, it never would’ve happened. Lenore always was too good for everyone around her—including me. It’s why she left for college in New York nine years ago and never looked back.
Until now, apparently.