Chapter 11
Dax
A hotel room is okay for one or two nights. However, the luxury of the Suites Inn gets old fast. By coming to Riverbend for breakfast, I missed out on their number-one amenity—free breakfast with rubbery eggs and sausage links. The thought makes my stomach roll.
The more time that passes, the longer I’m afraid this executor stuff will take.
It feels weird to be in my grandparents’ home without them.
Earlier, I called Mom and told her I wanted to stay at the house instead of a hotel.
Working and sleeping in the same room is not my style.
Once I walk into their home, I notice the changes.
They aren’t bad but different.
Gone are all of Grandma’s pictures from the walls.
Gone are the shelves of books in Grandpa’s library.
The built-in china cabinet is empty. I stand for a moment and stare at the dusty glass, recalling Grandma’s dishes and special knick-knacks.
A grin curls my lips as I envision a lopsided ceramic vase I made in elementary school sitting beside her good china.
Walking room to room, I look at all the improvements that have been made.
The kitchen and bathrooms are updated with new fixtures and countertops.
Carpets are gone and the wood and tile floors are restored.
The front entry is still the slate I recall.
Thankfully, the kitchen’s new appliances are functional and so are the bathrooms. Any furniture that wasn’t claimed or sold is covered by sheets.
Sheets aren’t the only things covering the furniture, floors, and shelves, dust is everywhere.
Mom said they didn’t get a chance to go through everything when they were in town, and if I found something tucked away, take a look. The legal stuff is where it’s supposed to be. She told me to decide to keep or toss whatever is still remaining.
In the next month, my parents hope to get the house on the market.
It seems counterproductive to me to put so much time and money into the renovation.
Small towns aren’t known for their property value.
Then again, maybe someone from Evansville will want a real small-town home, not a McMansion in a subdivision.
The bedroom suite of furniture in the room I used to stay is gone.
It’s probably for the better. I had images of sleeping on a slender twin-sized bed.
The queen-sized bed in my grandparents’ room is still present.
Yes, I’m aware of how weird this is, and for the record, my grandma passed at the hospital not here, so that makes it a little better.
With my car tucked away in the garage, I turn off the lights on the first floor and head upstairs.
One thing about houses built over a hundred years ago, the idea of bedroom suites didn’t exist. Despite the dust, being here feels more like home.
My mind goes to my apartment high in Chicago’s skyline.
That’s my real home. My parents sold my childhood home many years ago.
This old house is the closest thing I have to roots.
Kandace told me something about roots and wings.
I can’t recall exactly what she said, but having roots, even only a few, feels good.
Soon, I strip out of my clothes and step into the shower in the bathroom, not far from the bedroom I’m using.
Thankfully, when I first got to the house, I remembered to turn on the water heater.
Not soon enough.
Apparently, instant hot isn’t a thing.
The cold shower may be best. Since seeing Kandace last night, I’m having a difficult time keeping her off my mind. She’s there when I least expect it; memories that had faded are again bright. They’re present in all senses of the word. I see, hear, smell, taste, and feel her.
Yeah, a cold shower is just what the doctor ordered.
With a towel around my waist, I wipe the condensation from the mirror and brush my teeth. It’s then that I notice the bathroom doesn’t have any windows. Maybe windows in bathrooms are a new thing. I really don’t know.
While it’s not that late on a Friday night, Riverbend isn’t exactly the Magnificent Mile. Not only that, coming back here has been exhausting in a way I didn’t expect and can’t explain. I could also add that not running into Justin Sheers is another reason to stay in.
The man is being an ass to me, and I don’t know why.
Slipping on a pair of basketball shorts and throwing the towel back into the bathroom, I send a text to the contractor, asking why the Wi-Fi isn’t working. According to my mother, it should be. Flopping down on the bed, I pile the pillows behind my head and stare up at the ceiling.
How can a place that feels wrong also feel right?
Sighing, I contemplate sleep. I want that, but my mind is too wound up—too full of memories and decisions—to settle.
I don’t understand why Grandma didn’t make Dad the executor.
He could have taken care of everything, and I could have stayed away.
When I met with Mr. Murphy on Thursday, I asked for an up-to-date inventory.
Hell, the inventory alone is worth more than the amount Grandma wants Kandace to pay.
With the lamp beside the bed giving me light, I grab my tablet and log into my email. At least my cellular service works. There are two emails from a senior partner at the firm. I shake my head.
In London, I secured the firm a two-hundred-million-dollar-plus client. In the process, I missed my own grandmother’s funeral. I’m sick and tired of justifying why I’m here in nowhere Indiana instead of back in Chicago. I spent nine hours online today. I’m doing my damn work. Get off my ass.
Fuck the partner. I’ll look at the emails later. It’s Friday night.
Not that an attorney trying to make partner gets weekends.
A thought makes me smirk.
What if I say fuck it and spend tomorrow with Ricky, following a tractor and throwing bales of hay?
My arms and back think it’s a terrible idea. My mind is starting to consider it.
Memories of the exhaustion that comes from a hard day’s physical work add fuel to the thought. As I recall, it’s a better workout than I’ve had from personal trainers.
I might actually do it. The physical exhaustion may help my mind rest and stop me thinking about Kandace. Yes, I could show up and throw bales of hay into a trailer until my body screams for me to stop.
Getting off the bed and going into the closet, I look at the clothes I brought for what I thought was a one-night stay.
There isn’t a large variety. I could wear my jeans and a t-shirt tomorrow, and tomorrow night drive over to Washington or Vincennes for some more clothes.
Honestly, I’m not that difficult to please on the clothes front.
I don’t need the high-end stores on Chicago’s Gold Coast.
Looking up, I notice narrow boxes with lids on a high shelf.
Could Grandma even see these?
How long have they been there?
Curiosity gets the better of me as I pull down one of the boxes.
The entire thing is filled with photographs from when people still had their film developed.
The first photo I pull out is a picture, the colors faded, of my dad holding a fishing pole.
I know it’s him, although he has no resemblance to the little boy any longer.
He is probably ten years old at most. I look at his smile, with big front teeth.
My thoughts go to the little girl at the diner, Molly, missing her bottom front teeth.
I shake my head. Looking back at the picture, I see the man with my father. It’s my grandpa. Seeing Grandpa so young and healthy makes me grin.
I run my fingers over the tops of the photographs.
Going back to the closet, I pull out the last box, leaving a few in between.
These pictures are different. They’re more recent with crisp colors.
I blink once and then twice at a picture of my grandma with Kandace.
They’re smiling and laughing at the camera.
I’m struck by Kandace’s smile. She looks the way I remember her… but wait.
I lift the picture higher, unsure if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.
Holy shit.
Kandace is…she’s pregnant.
What the hell?
Dumping the box onto the bed, I frantically start to sort through pictures of a baby.
There’s Grandma holding a baby. My grandma’s smile is huge.
The child is wrapped in a blanket. All I can see is the auburn peach fuzz and chubby cheeks.
As I search through the photos, the child grows.
Based on the clothes, I can tell she’s a girl.
Her auburn hair grows longer as she gets taller.
In one photo, she’s sitting with Grandma reading books.
There are a few shots of them out in Grandma’s yard. I recognize the porch and furniture.
The little girl seems to always be happy.
I blink.
Wait.
“Molly?” I question her name aloud and flip over the picture, hoping for a date or a name.
There’s nothing.
No, this can’t be the same child.
Why would Grandma have pictures of Molly?
A noise pulls me from my thoughts. I listen for more, unsure of what I heard.
Standing, I go to the bedroom door.
Fuck .
I hear it again. It’s coming from downstairs. Doors are opening and closing.
Someone is here.
My first thought is the contractor. No, it’s nearly ten at night.
A burglar?
Shit.
In the house.
I look around for a weapon.
‘Right, Dax,’ I say to myself. ‘Grandma had a 45 in her bedside stand.’
My phone is here. I could call the Riverbend police.
What if I’m wrong?
Quietly, I make my way to the room I used to use and open the closet.
While most things are gone, there is a stack of totes, the large plastic kind, and in the corner is a baseball bat, one smaller than the one I used last night.
With my heart thumping and palms sweating, I quietly descend the staircase.
The bat is in my grasp, ready to swing, and my back is to the wall, the way I’ve seen in movies.
All the rooms are dark.
I check the front door.
Locked.
Slowly, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen entrance that goes out to the breezeway. That too is locked.
Just when I think I may be hearing ghosts, wind, or simply a creaky old house, I notice light shining from beneath the basement door.
Could I have left a light on when I turned on the water heater?
I know I didn’t.
What the fuck?