14
STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ENTRANCE HALL, I did a full 360, trying to ignore the tingle inching up my spine. Maybe the HVAC had kicked on or off, and the suction had pulled closed a partially open door. Laying odds that was it, I checked the doors on the main floor. All seemed in order. I headed up to the bedrooms, purposely trying not to think about what Rhonda had said the former owner claimed to have seen on the staircase.
All the doors on the second floor were exactly as I’d left them, and there were no closets in the third-floor storage area, so I didn’t even bother going up there.
“Okay,” I said to no one listening. “You got me on that one.”
I’d slept in this house for just one night, but I couldn’t deny it had a presence about it. I could say the same, however, for Pearl Harbor, Stonehenge, Mount Vernon, Versailles, and the castles of Europe. Those places emitted the echoes of time, of lives long past, as if stone, brick, mortar—and even the very air—had soaked up their essence.
History meant presence. But presence did not mean haunted.
With that in mind, I returned to unpacking and finally came across my Bible. I placed it on my nightstand with a pledge to read it again soon, then started on the boxes in the dining room and den.
Maybe it was the oversized windows or the heavy draperies of which I’d never been a fan, but items I’d pictured working weren’t having the desired effect. I’d thought I could live with the custom draperies awhile, which is what I would advise a client. But now I wasn’t so sure.
Eager to have everything in its place, I knew it would be weeks until this house was anywhere near visitor-worthy. But right now, I’d settle for just knowing where things were.
Monday morning hadn’t come soon enough for me, especially after Stephen’s still-unexplained sullenness through the weekend. I’d tried to engage him in conversation, with meager success. The ever-widening distance I sensed between us frightened me.
He stood in the kitchen, drinking the last of a protein shake, his new favorite breakfast. He said the catered lunch meetings and dinners at the club were catching up with him. I couldn’t tell he’d gained any weight, but the new Pelotons were to arrive this week, and he was eager to put them to use.
“You’re dressed up,” he said. “You must be getting out today.”
Had he really forgotten? “The design firms, remember? The phone calls Vickie Burgdan made for me.”
He winced. “Sorry, I knew that. That’s this afternoon.”
“This morning. This afternoon is a phone call with the National Register.”
“Right, right.” He looked away. “I’m just preoccupied with work, I guess.”
“You’re preoccupied with something. And it’s for sure not me. Or us.”
His gaze slowly returned to me, and I braced myself, sensing an earnestness in him. Did he want to tell me something? Or maybe he didn’t want to, but knew he should? Either way, my heart was in his grip.
“I gotta run,” he finally said, then grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a kitchen chair. “Be home around seven.”
I followed him, unable to let this go. “Just answer me one thing, Stephen.”
“What’s that?” He grabbed his keys from the side table.
“Did we leave Colorado because you were afraid you’d go back to her?”
He stilled. “Back to her? Is that what you think?” His laugh wasn’t convincing.
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” I sounded weak, the opposite of how I wanted to appear to him.
A shadow crossed his face. “I can’t do this now, Claire. I’m already late.”
“And I can’t do this much longer either. If you’re not happy with me, tell me.” I tried to stand taller, not wanting him to see that I was dying inside. Not with him looking so smug, so together, everything about him screaming that he’d moved on.
But he just turned and walked out.
An hour later, I pulled out of the driveway with the AC cranked up full blast and aimed at my face, partially due to the heat, but mostly to help me stop crying. Stephen’s expression replayed in my mind. So stoic. Immovable. Like he’d been silently challenging me. But over what?
I almost hadn’t left the house, but I needed to get out. I needed a distraction, however temporary, from whatever was happening to my marriage.
I opened the maps app and clicked the first address I’d saved over the weekend, wondering if I should even bother making these introductory visits. Would I still be in Atlanta in a month? But Vickie Burgdan had made calls on my behalf to various designers she’d worked with, and I wanted to show up in person. Give it the personal touch. Best first impressions and all that. Although a quick glance at my reflection in the mirror told me that best would be a stretch.
Southern Decor was first on my list and the most promising, judging from their website. And only three and a half miles from the house.
Traffic was stop and go, and as I watched the taillights of the Ford truck in front of me, my phone dinged. A text from Richard. He’d found a local counselor who came highly recommended—Jane Futrell, a woman whose specialty was infidelity. Really. What kind of twisted personality specialized in that? Someone who relished continual pain, dashed hopes, and having your heart ripped to shreds, I guess. Hardly the type I wanted to spill my guts to.
I dictated a reply.
The last words caught in my throat. My finger hovered over the Send button as fresh tears started. Typing the words out felt so real, so final. Too final. I erased all but and added,
The light changed, but traffic didn’t move—for another three light cycles.
I scanned ahead, looking for a wreck, but couldn’t see anything beyond the array of pickups stacked in the lanes in front of me. Did everyone in this city drive a truck? Ones with massive tires and mufflers loud enough to wake the dead?
I glanced at the clock on the dash. Almost six thirty mountain time. Maggie should be up. I typed a quick text:
No response, but college life was keeping her busy.
Traffic finally began moving, and thirty minutes later than planned, I pulled into the parking lot of Southern Decor. I stared at the work of art that was the building. White marble with umber accents, lots of windows, clean lines. Understated elegance.
I’d debated outfits, finally deciding on the dressier side of business casual—capri slacks, silk shell, suit jacket, and beige pumps. But as soon as I walked in, I realized what a mistake that had been. And by the time I walked out of the fourth firm three hours later, I was certain that Vickie Burgdan’s phone calls had cost me any hope of a design career in Atlanta.