Chapter 12. Lenore
Lenore
I arrive at the address with a tub of store-bought potato salad and a bottle of cheap wine buckled into the passenger seat.
“This can’t be right,” I murmur, flicking around the map on my phone to get a look at the surrounding area, but the pin does, in fact, appear to have dropped right in the middle of an otherwise empty field.
In the distance, behind a dilapidated post-and-rail fence, a bay quarter horse grazes on tufts of fescue.
The only building nearby is a collapsed barn, which looks to have fallen into disuse several decades ago.
A hill rises out behind the pasture, the trees a rich palette: moody phthalo greens, yellow ochres, the first splashes of vermillion across oaks and maples.
I scroll through my contacts. I’m relieved to find that there’s still an entry for Callan Bradford.
I press call and lift the phone to my ear, my breath catching a little when I realize it’s not ringing.
I pull away from the phone far enough to check my service.
One bar. I put it on speaker and hold my arm out at odd angles until, finally, it manages to connect to some distant cell phone tower.
“Lenore,” he says when he picks up. Tension leaves my lungs in a breathy rush. “Where are you?”
“Hey, I put the address you gave me into the phone, but there’s no one here except a horse?”
“Oh, you’re right down the road,” he says without a shred of worry. “Just keep driving past the old grain silo. You should see a brick house with a bunch of cars parked out front, up ahead on your right.”
“All right, see you in a few.” We hang up, and I drive at a slow crawl, hunching in my seat to keep an eye out the passenger-side window.
“Old grain silo. Old grain silo,” I mutter like a mantra.
A quarter of a mile down the road, I finally spot it: corrugated steel, devoured by rust and camouflaged by overgrown foliage.
Finally, the house comes into view. It’s antique, built in the Federal style, a touch more stately and likely a few decades younger than the clapboard farmhouse on French Hill, with twin chimneys on either end.
The surrounding land is wide and rambling, not groomed for agriculture or any real purpose aside from offering space—from neighbors, from the rush of cars along the highway, from the outside world at large.
The last time I visited Shelby, for her baby shower, she was still living with her mom in one of the apartments above the shops downtown. Back then, it wasn’t even certain that she and Jesse would get married. It appears they’ve done well for themselves.
I park beside Callan’s truck and grab my bag, the wine, and the potato salad before climbing out. It’s sunny out, a distant sort of warmth breaking through the light breeze. The air smells like autumn and applewood smoke.
The heels of my suede boots click on the front porch beneath a white pillared portico. There’s no doorbell. I tuck the potato salad beneath an arm, using my free hand to prop the creaky wooden storm door open against my knee so that I can knock.
Apprehension makes my stomach flutter. It’s always a little nerve-racking, walking into a party alone—more so when you’re not certain that the host wants you there.
A wizened jack-o’-lantern stands guard beside the welcome mat.
Someone was overeager, carving a pumpkin in late September, and now that pumpkin has to suffer for it.
I hold a staring contest with him while I wait for someone to answer the door.
His shriveled lips are curled inward like he took out his dentures.
“Lenore!”
My gaze snaps up. Callan rounds the corner of the house, and the sight of him makes me breathe a little easier.
His dark hair is wind tousled, a dark blue henley clinging to the contours of his broad chest. “Come on,” he says as he draws near with a hand outstretched to help me carry something. “Everyone’s around the back.”
I let the storm door fall closed, but it snags on my skirt: a long and swishy maroon number that felt dressy enough to impress while still being casual enough for a barbecue. “Shit.”
“Here.” Cal bends down to delicately disentangle the gauzy fabric from an errant nail. I stare down at the back of his head, where a crease is pressed into his dark hair from always wearing a hat around the farm. I imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers through those thick waves.
My whole body flushes hot with guilt, like my thoughts might be loud enough for him to hear. I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” As he straightens, a spritz of something spiced meets my nose—cinnamon or clove, clinging to his shirt. I’ve never noticed him wearing cologne before. “Can I help carry anything?”
“Oh—sure.” I pass him the tub of potato salad and follow him around the side of the house. The symmetrical windows are all bracketed by austere black shutters.
“When was this built?” I wonder aloud. The oldest homes in Whitbury are more primitive, timber framed without frills, but that doesn’t mean this house isn’t old.
Most of them, my family’s farmhouse included, have never been officially registered as historic landmarks, but the historical society keeps track.
“Not sure,” Cal tosses over his shoulder. “You’d have to ask Shelby.”
We emerge onto an uncovered back patio, weeds sprouting up between the bricks.
A small group sits around a folding table littered with beers, bottle caps, and playing cards.
I expect the same faces that I saw the other night, but aside from Jesse and Shelby, these people are new to me.
Across the grass, children play on and around a wooden swing set and fort.
“You found her,” Jesse says, from where he’s tending a charcoal grill.
“Maps put her over by the Clarks’ paddock.”
“Ah, yeah.” Smoke plumes when he lifts the lid to flip the patties over. “It does that sometimes.”
“Lenore brought potato salad,” Callan announces to the group at large.
“Also, wine.” I raise the bottle by its neck like it’s a wild turkey I’ve shot for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Oh, you can put that in the fridge,” Shelby says, poker-faced behind the cards fanned in her hand. Today, she’s wearing a cream-colored cardigan and jeans, her thick blond hair clipped in a half-up, half-down style.
After a beat of hesitation, I say, “It’s a red.”
“I meant the potato salad. There’s a corkscrew in the drawer on the left side. Glasses are in the cupboard above the stove.”
I trail after Callan through a sliding glass door, which leads directly to the kitchen. Despite the old bones of the house, the inside has been field dressed like a game animal, it’s history sterilized in hospital white and gray. A horrified gasp escapes me when I notice the island.
Cal straightens up from the fridge. “What?”
I splay my free hand in front of me, indicating the flash-bang of primary colors and shimmering foil wrapping paper piled at the center of the kitchen. “What’s all this?”
“Birthday gifts,” he says, brow knit like he’s concerned for my well-being. He shuts the fridge door.
“For whose birthday?”
“Avery.”
Now that he’s mentioned it, I note several dinosaur-themed gift bags. I should’ve known. I should have remembered, but in eight years, I haven’t been invited to a birthday party.
“I have to go.” I turn on my heel and march through the living room, which is bright and airy and curtainless, like something out of Better Homes friends because their children are friends.
A few minutes later, Jesse serves up a platter of grilled hamburger patties.
Children swarm the table. Bags of chips are popped, liters of store-brand soda hissing open and pouring into red Solo cups.
Ketchup and mayonnaise spurt onto hamburger buns, but no one seems to remember that there’s potato salad in the fridge.
“Maybe I should go get it,” I say to Callan in undertone.
“I did tell you to bring potato chips.”
“What’s wrong with potato salad?”