Chapter 13 Willow
thirteen
Willow
“Ican’t believe Noah never gave you the grand tour,” Lane says once Beck is gone and she proceeds to show me each room, one after the other, starting at the front.
She huffs. “It’s not a secret I didn’t like Anika,” she says, which is actually news to me, “but you… you’re one of us.
You need to know this place inside and out.
Why would I know that? “Uh… no.”
Setting her hands on her hips, she says, “A Fontaine set it on fire.”
“Pfff,” I laugh. “They did not.”
“Did too.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Am not.” She doesn’t seem to care that much, just stating the facts.
Some old stories resurface in my memory. “My Gramps’ used to say that the Callaways stole our land.” It looks like each family had their own reasons to dislike the other. Aunt Angela never mentioned any of these stories, but they could explain Mom’s hangups with the Callaways.
She shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Ancient history,” she says as we take two steps up and turn at an angle, which places us in the white aisle of the mansion. “This part was added in the 1850s or ’60s.”
The rooms are larger, airier, and a wide wraparound porch offers stunning views of the river. White columns still give this aisle a stately feel, but it’s so much brighter and relaxed than the older aisle, with its smaller windows and dark wood paneling.
“What’s your plan now?” I ask Lane as she shows me bedrooms that once were probably cute with their paisley bedspreads and maple furniture, but now are in dire need of TLC.
“I’m sending my resume to newspapers, online outlets, magazines.” She pushes the door to a music room, revealing the baby grand covered by a sheet. “Twenty a day.”
“You always had a knack with words. You’ll find something.” Lane majored in journalism, and when we chatted at Kiara’s wedding, she was hoping to find a job in New York.
“Used to have the best parties in here,” she murmurs to herself with a little melancholy as she shows me a game room at garden level. “Yeah, journalism isn’t dead. I just need to keep trying.”
“Maybe expand beyond New York?” I suggest as we circle back to the main aisle through the third-floor hallway, peeking into another set of adorable yet dusty bedrooms under the eaves.
She shrugs. “I always dreamed of the big city. Cliché for a small-town girl, I know.”
I can see that. We always dream of what we think we can’t have.
I go back into the bedroom I’ll be sharing with Noah for the next few months and pause at its entrance, the conflicting feelings of excitement, dread, familiarity, and newness heightening.
The room is large enough to have three windows facing the village, with heavy drapes providing darkness against those four a.m. sunrises in the summer.
Two navy blue couches are at an angle, one a loveseat against the hallway wall, the longer one—where Noah slept last night and with its back to the bed—facing a small fireplace.
Leaning down, I verify that it’s not a pull-out couch and feel guilty that he feels he’s the one who needs to pretzel-fit onto it at night.
Maybe we should swap nights? I’m not giving up the fight.
His scent floats in the room, discreet but very present, sending butterflies in my stomach as I walk around.
He must have tucked his pillow under the bedspread at some point, because it’s no longer on the couch. Yep. It’s right there. No pajamas under it, though.
Hmm.
I open his nightstand’s drawer (mine was empty last night). A notebook, a pen, a flashlight, batteries, a phone charger, another phone charger, a Swiss army knife.
Boring.
I flip the notebook open, expecting to find random to-do lists. Or maybe doodles. Possibly phone numbers?
Instead, there’s a recent date, then some neatly written text that ends with,
I didn’t expect this from being married.
Shit. I shut the notebook. Is this… is this a diary? I open it halfway, taking a brief peek.
It’s totally a diary.
Ohmygod.
Noah has a diary and I almost read it.
Heartbeat significantly higher, I set the notebook back where it was and swiftly retreat from the now-forbidden nightstand.
I unpack the extra stuff I brought from home, sliding Noah’s shirts a bit down the rod in the closet so I can fit a few more dresses, fighting the urge to read… whatever he has to say about being married.
Then I bring the rest of my toiletries to the en-suite bathroom we share.
It’s so large, it might have been a bedroom in another era.
There’s a clawfoot tub and a separate walk-in shower, a whole linen closet with antique doors painted off-white.
The walls are covered in white subway tile, the floor in a black-and-white mosaic.
An oval mirror and chrome sconces top the large pedestal sink.
No vanity, but a whole pine chest under the window with four drawers.
One is full of Noah’s things.
Three are empty—he made space for me last night. And I know it’s normal (anyone would do that), but still it gives me a sense of belonging, just like Beck and Lane giving me a tour made me feel welcome even if they were trying to spook me.
I take possession of the empty drawers, all the time dying to know what’s in his diary.
Sharing such intimacy with Noah is a sweet torture. From showering this morning, I know where his forest scent comes from—his body wash. But that earthy tone is different. It’s him. Or maybe it’s his deodorant? Does he wear aftershave? I don’t think I ever noticed that.
A wife should know these things.
Like, she-I should not read her husband’s diary (very generally speaking. I’m sure there are some valid exceptions to that) but she-I should definitely at least know what products he uses. What painkillers he prefers.
A real wife might even buy them for him.
Right?
And isn’t it better to go through someone’s drawers than read their diary? If that someone is your husband.
And shouldn’t I know what’s in the drawers of the room I shower in?
Noah has three different electric razors, a pack of twelve toothbrushes, toothpaste for sensitive gums, whitening toothpaste, two humongous bottles of mouthwash, Q-Tips, a manual razor like the one on the side of the sink in a little holder thingamajig, extra blades, shaving cream, tiny Band-Aids, some foot spray, a pack of deodorant sticks, and…
bear repellent? Why does he have bear repellent in the bathroom? What else is in there?
A nail clipper, three combs still wrapped in plastic, a shoe brush.
In the very back, massage oil. Covered in a vaguely greasy dust, the bottle looks a little old, and there’s hardly any oil missing.
Hmm.
Moving the stuff around, I keep looking.
No condoms.
Absolutely none.