10
WRAPPED IN A TOWEL, I stepped from the shower, wishing we could have rented an apartment like this for a few months before buying a house. As soon as the thought came, I banished it, determined to remain positive. Which had been easier in recent days. Stephen had been very attentive since I’d arrived. No sullenness, and even a few more sticky notes. He’d mentioned going out for seafood this weekend. I couldn’t remember our last real date. Two nights ago, after not getting home until nine thirty, he’d pledged to have a better work-life balance. I hoped that held true. I hoped a lot of things.
“Tonight’s the night!” He looked over at me and smiled. “Our first night in the house.”
“In a very clean house, I might add.”
He frowned. “Your back still hurting?”
I nodded. “I haven’t worked like that in ages, but the shower helped. That massage jet works wonders.”
“Tell you what,” he said, concentrating on his tie in the mirror. “My last meeting is at noon. It’s Friday, so I bet I can get out of there early. I’ll plan on getting to the house no later than two to help start unpacking. Then tonight I’ll give you a good back rub.”
I wondered if a back rub meant a back rub or something more. But he was still looking in the mirror, tying his tie, rather than at me—wearing only a towel. “That would be wonderful, on both counts,” I said, trying not to feel slighted.
He finally turned and gave me a look that made me feel worlds better.
Even blow-drying my hair, my shoulder muscles ached. I’d left Colorado weary, but the past four days spent cleaning the massive house had worn me out. The cleaning company I’d scheduled never showed Monday morning. Never returned my calls. Thank goodness for Rhonda, who’d recommended a husband-and-wife team. There had only been the two of them—not the six-person crew I’d hired—but they’d worked incredibly hard, me alongside them, and we’d gotten it done. And I had to admit, Rhonda was a breath of fresh air in this whole ordeal, a real lifesaver. Now if I could just get my mind fully on board.
“Movers are supposed to arrive when?” Stephen asked.
“Eight o’clock.” I spoke over the whirr of the dryer. “They promised to bring an entourage, so hopefully they’ll get done today.”
He grabbed his coffee cup and pointed to mine. “More?”
“Absolutely. Thanks.”
As he walked away, I couldn’t help but notice his freshly-starched shirt taut over his back and shoulders, still tapering at his waist. I admired his exercise regimen, which he’d kept up at the apartment’s workout facility with its state-of-the-art Peloton treadmills and bikes. He seemed happier than he’d been in months. I told myself I’d get there too, in time.
God, please make this work.
The prayer rose unprompted from somewhere deep inside me, carrying the weight of my soul with it. It struck me that under all my frustration and resentment, I wanted nothing more than to keep our family from blowing apart. Stephen and Maggie were my life.
He returned, steaming mugs in hand. “Bill tells me Vickie was impressed with your ideas at their house the other night. Did she text you the names of those designers?”
“She did. After I kindly texted a reminder. Twice.”
He laughed. “She strikes me as one who might need a little nudging. I hear prolonged use of peroxide can be harmful.”
“Stephen!” Yet I couldn’t help but smile. Vickie was sweet, but she was a handful—especially after a couple of heavy pours. Bill Burgdan had to be in his mid-sixties, and Vickie couldn’t be more than late thirties. It was a second marriage, judging by her references to “Bill’s children.” But the woman had excellent taste, and Bill had the money to fund it. So in that regard, they were a good pair. And I appreciated her offer to use her personal connections on my behalf.
“Have you gotten the ball rolling yet?”
I tossed him a sideways glance. “I’ve been a little busy this week, if you haven’t noticed.” I smiled to keep from starting anything. “But soon. I updated my résumé, and Sandra wrote me a generous recommendation letter.”
“One of those firms will snap you up. No doubt.” He planted a kiss on my lips. “Can’t be late for the partners’ meeting. See you at two.”
Minutes later, I grabbed a yogurt and protein bar on my way out the door, cautiously hopeful about the future.
“Right in here, please. Against that far wall.” I led the way into the “master” bedroom, a description that felt uncomfortably on point in such a house.
As two of the young movers wrestled the last piece of furniture, the bottom half of a massive antique armoire, through the doorway, my muscles screamed in solidarity. Despite the AC running full blast, my sports bra was soaked.
Biceps bulging, Darius and Pete—according to their name badges—wiped their faces with the bottoms of their T-shirts. Maggie would have taken one look at their abs and tossed me a Whoa! look. The thought brought a smile.
The antique armoire was a John Henry Belter, nineteenth century, and in pristine condition. My antique dealer in Nashville had located it. It had been a major splurge, and I’d almost passed it up. But the opportunity to own a Belter armoire was rare enough with so few left in existence, and this room just seemed to cry out for it.
My cell phone dinged. ♥♥♥
Concise. Clearly Maggie was busy. I was glad she seemed happy, but still, it left me feeling detached and lonely and far away. Both from her and our son. I typed a quick response and our usual three hearts and pressed Send.
As the movers set up the armoire, the beauty of the antique piece all but declared its reign over the room. The cabinet’s arched mirrors, both original, accented the two doors on the front, and the furniture’s serpentine lines and lavishly carved details perfectly captured the rococo revival style. I’d searched until I found a more masculine style, for Stephen’s sake.
This house had closets, of a sort, rare enough in homes this old. But nineteenth-century closets were shallow and narrow and consisted of shelves and hooks. And since I wasn’t planning on making this a long-term residence, I’d decided to keep changes to a minimum. Besides, the National Register of Historic Places prohibited changes without permission.
So how had such a kitchen been added? And a half bath downstairs and a full in each bedroom? Perhaps the forthcoming paperwork from the National Register that Rhonda had mentioned at closing would explain. Regardless, the armoire was one worthy of building a room around.
I’d made a few other purchases after Sandra had insisted I use Schaffer’s business discount. “Consider it my parting gift, Claire,” she’d said. “And know that I wish only the best for you.” But her true feelings about my decision to follow Stephen to Atlanta had been written clearly in her eyes. I wish I could have found the words—and the courage—to tell her that I wasn’t so much following Stephen’s lead as I was following God’s.
I retraced my steps to the second-floor gallery, the movers following.
“Does this house ever end, ma’am?” Darius asked. “There’s a whole other floor up there?”
Doubting I’d ever grow accustomed to the South’s affinity to ma’am, I nodded. “Yes, but it’s just for storage. And let me apologize right now, because the remaining boxes go up there.”
Darius laughed. “I’ve never been inside a house like this before. You, Pete?”
Pete shook his head. “How old is this place, ma’am?”
“It was built in 1852. So, 167 years ago.” I lowered my voice. “I’ve already done the math.”
They smiled.
“Built by the Thursmann family, I’m told. I don’t know much else about it.”
“Sure has lots of fancy woodwork.” Darius blew out a breath. “Lots of fancy everything!”
Pete glanced toward the two bedrooms across the hall. “How many kids you and your husband have?”
“Oh, we’re empty nesters.”
Pete whistled low. “Sure is a lot of house for just two people.”
I forced a laugh. “That’s what I told my husband, but he bought it for me anyway.”
“Uh-oh,” Pete said. “What’d he do wrong?”
I froze, realizing what I’d just walked into. And of my own doing.
Then they laughed.
“Just kidding with you, ma’am.” Darius said. “My mama says a woman should have a house she’s proud to live in. And this one sure is fine.”
I thanked them and motioned for them to precede me down the stairs. “Snacks and drinks are in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” they said in unison, then took the stairs down by twos, oblivious to the fact they were bounding down a support system built more than 150 years ago.
I ran a hand over the curved stair rail—original to the house, I’d learned—its wood worn silk smooth from time. How many hands must have gripped it through the years? Its simplicity appealed to me. It wasn’t carved or oversized like so many things in the house, but quiet and unassuming. It served its purpose without drawing attention to itself, unlike the ornate plaster ceiling in the second-floor gallery and the entrance hall below, which screamed to be seen and admired.
As I descended, I noticed a deep gouge in the trim on the left side of the stairs. I knelt and fingered the groove. Odd that it hadn’t been repaired in all these years. Then again, it wasn’t that visible, depending on the lighting.
I gazed down at the entrance hall. This old house was beautiful, in ways. But for so many reasons, it would simply never feel like home to me.
I checked my phone for the time. Stephen had promised to be back no later than two o’clock, and he had scant minutes left to keep that promise. I was really looking forward to the time together. Who knew, maybe there was even something we could watch on television before bed. When had we stopped watching television together in the evenings? We both preferred learning something over brainless sitcoms or cheesy dramas, so we’d devoured countless documentaries through the years. We needed to start that routine again.
Two o’clock came and went, and old doubts moved in. No text. No call. I finally stopped checking my phone and focused on unpacking the bedroom.
“Claire?” I heard a while later. “Where are you, babe?”
“I’m up here!” I answered, having decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m on my way down! But you need to see the new armoire I got for our—”
He appeared at the bottom of the stairs, dressed to play golf. And even before he raised his hands in defense, one thought flashed through my mind: how quickly this man could snuff out my hope.