16
“TO THE LEFT JUST A LITTLE, JIMMY.” I stepped back toward the front entrance hall and eyed the beloved Rockies Shrouded in Winter oil painting Stephen and I had purchased years ago. Certain it was centered over the family room fireplace, I gave Jimmy a thumbs up. “Perfect!”
I’d encouraged the twentysomething, one of Alex Brennan’s regular subs, to call me Claire, but he insisted on Miss Claire. These Southerners and their formality . . .
I surveyed all the art we’d hung on the main floor over the weekend, and to me the pieces didn’t fit. All I could think of was how perfect their placement had been in our house back in Colorado, every museum print, oil, and photograph framed specifically for its original wall. Not for a house built 167 years ago, and not for some other woman’s house, which this felt like.
Some other woman. The phrase needled me. As did Stephen’s aloofness. I wasn’t convinced that Susan Johnson had vacated our lives.
Stephen and I had spoken sparingly in recent days, yet he’d communicated volumes, the words he didn’t say hurting more than the ones he did. I could see he was in pain. To anyone else, he might have looked angry. But I’d learned through myriad hours of counseling that anger was a mask that hid the primary emotion, the terrifying real source of pain that was more than one could cope with. And whatever lay beneath Stephen’s anger terrified me.
I’d booked a private session with the new counselor, Jane Futrell, for next week. I wanted to get to know her first. Then Stephen and I would go together if he was open to it. I needed to confront him and get to the truth. And I would. But I simply had to get through this week first.
The holiday looming Thursday made my gut twist—the anniversary I lived to put behind me. Us. The day everyone else celebrated and partied, eating watermelon and grilling hamburgers, I relived with heartbreak. I could still feel my precious son’s limp body in my arms on that horrible Fourth of July afternoon thirteen years ago. Could see his ashen face.
If Stephen dreaded this week too, he hadn’t let on. Then again, he acted as if he’d moved on years ago, which only added to my loneliness and grief. And this year, I couldn’t even visit Bryan’s grave.
My cell vibrated. I tugged it from my shorts pocket. A text from Maggie:
I wondered if she even realized she hadn’t responded to my text from two days before. I typed: , and hoped that fragment of truth would suffice.
She responded: 🙂
Oh, how I loved our daughter, daddy’s girl though she was. I didn’t text back, but no way was I getting Stephen anything. Least of all an apple fritter.
My phone rang, and Nanci’s name appeared. My stomach did a little somersault. The National Register committee had met that morning to discuss the Thursmann Mansion, and while the house’s being listed hadn’t been a priority for me, getting a job was. But in learning that the former could greatly aid the latter, the outcome of that meeting mattered more now. I’d googled “Homes of Christmas Past Tours” over the weekend, and the images took my breath away. I answered.
“Hey, Claire. How are you today?”
“Uh-oh.” I moved away from Jimmy and out to the front porch, where I settled on the steps beside the empty planters. “Do I hear bad news in your voice?”
She sighed. “I’m so sorry, but the board voted to remove the historic designation for Thursmann Mansion. Just between us, the vote was seven to four and went exactly along the lines I’d hoped it wouldn’t. But you can still renovate the way you and your husband planned. And as you said, it will be far less expensive for you. So that’s a silver lining.”
I was more disappointed than I expected, but I hid my true feelings. “Don’t worry about it, Nanci. Truly. It’s all for the best, I’m sure.” I forced a laugh. “I might even add a cupola or two after all.”
Her laughter sounded equally hollow. “Speaking of, did you get the list of contractors I emailed?”
“Yes, and my first choice would be Alex’s company. One of his subs came over the weekend and is here again today, and he’s great. Shows up when he says he will and does good work. If that’s indicative of Brennan Construction, then I’m sold. I’m eager to get things started too.”
Nanci groaned. “I hate to disappoint you, but Alex told me just today that he’s booked for several months. He’s starting a massive project this week. A multimillion-dollar home in Buckhead. But any of the other four contractors I listed would be great, though you’re likely to be waiting four to five months, even with one of them. Building is booming here, and as you know, new homes take precedence because—”
“There’s more money to be made,” I finished for her. “It’s like that in Denver, too.”
“And everywhere else, it seems,” she added.
We chatted for another moment, then I laid my phone aside. So much for a designer’s dream come true. Disappointment grew talons, and they sank deep.
A breeze rustled the azaleas and hydrangeas in the front bed, but the scent it carried belonged to the address’s namesake, Gardenia Blossom Trace. The mature hedge of creamy white blossoms fringed by sturdy, dark-green leaves scarcely moved in the wind, unlike its compatriots that bent and swayed.
I felt so lost, so without purpose or direction. I searched the sky, all crystal blue and dotted with fluffy clouds. Why? Why did you bring me here? Take me from my home, from everyone I know? I listened, my heart straining to hear that still, small voice I’d heard before. But nothing came.
A reminder popped up on my phone, and I groaned. I’d promised Stephen I’d call his sister two weeks ago. I hated having to act as though everything was all right and was tempted to tell Bev the truth in the hope she could talk some sense into Stephen. But the two of them had never been extremely close, and revealing what he’d done would feel like tattling.
I scrolled until I reached Bev’s name, then mustered as much cheerfulness as I could. “Hello to my favorite sister-in-law!”
“Wait, is this the long-lost Claire who never calls anymore?”
I resisted a sigh. “I’m afraid so. But since you saw who it was before you answered, now you have to talk to me.”
She laughed. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Claire. Big brother’s pretty much ghosting me these days, so I’ve been wondering what’s up with you guys and the move and all. He did tell me he bought you a killer house, so give me all the details!”
I obliged, leaving out nothing—except the part about my not liking the house and my marriage to her brother falling apart.
“That all sounds so great, Claire! But I really hope Stephen will stop working so much. That man needs to slow down and start enjoying life. Being top-dog attorney isn’t everything. A friend of ours Stephen’s age just dropped dead of a heart attack a few days ago. We’re all still reeling. It was so unexpected, and his wife is devastated. And they still have kids at home.”
“So tell me, Bev,” I managed when she took a breath, “how is Granby?”
“She’s doing okay. Still getting settled, still confused, but she’ll do all right here in time. She misses you both. She keeps asking for her ‘handsome boy.’ I’ve texted Stephen, asking if he can spare a couple of days to come see her. If you can come too, that would be terrific. But I know most of the moving is probably falling on your shoulders. Wait, who am I kidding? Knowing my brother, all of it is on your shoulders.”
I laughed along, eager to change the subject. “Is there anything Granby needs? Anything we can send her?”
“Can’t think of a thing, Claire, other than a visit. She’s pretty feeble, and her needs are few. I’m over there most every day and am really grateful for this time with her.”
“I had that time with my mom too, and hard as it was, those are years I’ll always cherish.”
No sooner did we say goodbye than Jimmy poked his head out the door. “Miss Claire, you wanna show me where you want that other mountain picture?”
I rose and dusted myself off, pollen clinging to everything. “Above the fireplace in the master bedroom.”
He grabbed the painting and reached for his satchel, but I waved him off.
“Let me get that,” I said, but when I lifted the canvas bag, I realized I’d underestimated its weight. I had to use both hands.
“Impressive!” He laughed. “You’re pretty strong for a girl. Wanna trade, Miss Claire?”
“No, I’m fine. But what on earth is in here?”
“Just what I need to do my job, ma’am.”
I peered inside. “You need a sledgehammer to hang pictures?”
He shrugged. “Mr. Brennan likes us to be prepared.”
“For what? Armageddon?”
He laughed again.
When we reached the bedroom, I happily relinquished my load and rubbed my shoulder. Forget the Peloton machines. I needed to lift weights.
The doorbell rang, and I realized I’d left the gate open after Jimmy arrived. I needed to remember to keep it closed, if only to avoid the occasional salesman during the day. And unwanted visitors at night, too. With the acreage surrounding the house, it felt downright remote.
Hoping it wasn’t someone selling something, I ran downstairs and opened the door—and was pleasantly surprised.