29

LATER THAT EVENING, FINALLY ALONE, I closed the front door and leaned against it, the simultaneous crank of truck engines like music to my ears as Alex and his crew left for the day just ahead of the rain. Thunderstorm and high wind advisories had been issued, but I was from Colorado. Tornado alley. I was accustomed to wind.

I turned off the lights on the main level, then trudged upstairs, my dear mother-in-law close at heart. What had Elaine’s final thoughts been before God called her home that morning? Dementia robbed a person of so much. Did it steal final thoughts as well? Chatting with Bev earlier had made me feel closer to Elaine somehow. Bev, however, had sounded tired and overwhelmed, and I was grateful she was letting me help with the plans.

The run-in with Stephen still knotted my insides. He’d left abruptly, leaving me to move the majority of his clothes into one of the guest room closets. No surprise there. He’d gotten good at dumping and running. While everything I’d said to him had been true, I did feel guilty about having said it today, of all days. He’d looked so broken, so lost. Then again, he’d picked the fight, not me.

After Stephen left and I’d returned upstairs, the guys had seemed unusually quiet. I would have sworn they sneaked glances my way. Had they overheard our fight in the kitchen? It wouldn’t be their fault if they had. Neither of us had held back.

Alex and his crew already had the master bath in full demo mode, so I grabbed my pajamas and toiletries and set up shop in the second guest room. Once in my nightshirt and more relaxed, I pressed a hot washcloth to my face, the warmth making my eyes water. As I breathed in the moisture, a memory popped to mind of a trip to Vail that Stephen and I had taken, courtesy of the Denver firm shortly after he’d accepted a position there. It felt like another lifetime ago. The resort was beyond five-star, each luxury-appointed cabin with its own pool and private steam room. After enjoying a bottle of wine that first night, we’d taken a swim and had toweled up, only to quickly shed those in the heat of the moment. Thanks to the wine and the cloak of steam, my inhibitions had fallen away. We’d visited that steam room every night.

I pulled the washcloth away and opened my eyes, willing away the images—and emotions. I didn’t want to remember those times—that weekend, especially. It had been the first time we’d left two-year-old Maggie for more than an evening out. My parents had raved about what a fun time they’d had keeping her. I pressed the now-cool cloth to my face, trying to stem the tears. Best we could tell, that was the weekend we’d conceived Bryan.

What Stephen and I shared back then had been wonderful, even magical. But that little cabin in Vail was a long time ago, almost seventeen years now. We weren’t those people any longer.

I let the water empty from the sink, then stilled as a low, mournful whistle like a distant train moved steadily toward me. I half expected the sound to disappear with the water, but it didn’t.

I dried my face and returned to the second-floor landing, curious where the sound was coming from. I hadn’t seen a train running in this area, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. The low whistle was so persistent, so close. Tracking the sound, I slowly turned toward the master bedroom, and gooseflesh prickled my skin.

I stepped closer to the doorway, suddenly apprehensive to enter my own bedroom.

It was dark outside, but I could see the shadows of tree limbs thrashing. That had to be it. But while the wind was gusting, the storm predictions proving true, the low moan was not coming from outside. It was in the house.

I turned to the hidden room, and the sound fell away for a few seconds before resuming its lament, as though taunting me. I wished now that the mirror wasn’t covering the opening. Not being able to simply peer inside made me uneasy. What Rhonda had told me about the previous owner’s experiences was never far from my mind. First, the sound of a woman crying. This was definitely not that. Then she’d claimed to have seen a little boy on the stairs. Again, not that either.

I glanced behind me toward the stairs, just to make sure I was still alone. I told myself I was being silly. It’s just the wind. But I had to know where the sound was coming from.

Taking charge, I crossed the room and hefted the mirror from its hook on the wall. Or tried. It wouldn’t budge. What had Alex used to hang this thing? I lifted with all my strength until it finally came free, my arms trembling from the effort.

Heart thudding, I grabbed the flashlight Stephen kept in his nightstand and peered inside the space at the now-familiar shelves and trunks. I poked my head in farther, and everything appeared exactly as I’d left it.

But still, that low, mournful cry of the wind.

I started to step inside but decided against it in bare feet. Yet there was no way I’d be able to sleep without at least checking it out. I hurried back to grab my shoes when I heard the front door open, followed by the soft beep of the entry sensor.

I froze. I hadn’t set the alarm yet, but had I not locked the door? Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I stepped back inside the master. Should I run, hide, or fight? I couldn’t leave the house without being seen. Hiding was an option, but not a great one. And fighting . . . with what?

I grabbed the closest thing I could find—the small teakwood bench I’d removed from the shower stall. It wasn’t overly heavy, but it would sure hurt. Then a thought came that turned my blood cold. Susan Johnson. The woman knew where we lived. Stephen had said as much. Adrenaline shot through me as I tightened my grip.

“Claire? Are you up there?”

Panic gave way to anger. “Stephen?” I peered over the railing to see him paused in the dark below. “What are you doing here?”

“I called. I texted. You never answered. I left a suit here. Bill’s called a meeting in the morning with clients in from Hong Kong. I need the black Armani.”

He continued up, and I quickly relinquished the bench, not wanting him to know he’d frightened me. “Hang on, I need to grab my robe.”

He topped the stairs just as I disappeared into the guest room.

“I’ve seen you in your nightshirt, you know,” he said when I returned, cinching the sash around my waist.

I caught the tender truce in his voice. And with all he’d lost today, I accepted it. “I moved your things into the exercise room closet. The suit is in there.”

“Sorry you had to do all that. I was . . . angry earlier. Mostly with myself. It’s been a day.” He started for the exercise room, then stopped and stared into the master bedroom. “What happened in there?”

Too late, I realized what he was seeing. “I was going to tell you.” As soon as the words left me, I heard admittance of guilt and knew he would too. I rushed on. “It’s a room I found. From the nineteenth century.”

“That you found?”

His expression told me how absurd I sounded. The statement Nanci had crafted for the upcoming press release was that the room had been discovered during a renovation. Which was technically true. No way was I going to publicly admit I’d found it in a fit of rage after discovering my husband had cheated on me. I preferred not even Stephen know that, certain he would find a way to wield whatever power that might give him to his advantage. However, some things couldn’t be kept hidden.

“That day I came to your office,” I continued. “The day you told me about Susan Johnson.”

He winced.

“I came home angry and hurt and went a little crazy. With a sledgehammer.”

He looked from me to the hole in the wall, then back again. “You did that?”

“Not my finest hour, I know. But in my defense, I’d just learned that my twenty-two-year marriage was over.”

He held my gaze but said nothing. I followed him into the bedroom, where he peered inside.

I handed him the flashlight. “Those old trunks were full of clothes I hung up to air. That stuff on the shelves is exactly where I found it. I informed the National Register and—”

“Before you told me,” he said quietly.

“You and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately. I’d planned on telling you this afternoon, but—”

“Wait. Why didn’t I notice this earlier when I was here?”

I gestured to the mirror leaning against the armoire. “Alex hung that over the hole so the workers wouldn’t see it. He said they would talk if they knew. And we’re trying to keep a lid on things for now.”

“We?”

“Alex and some people from the National Register.”

“Alex,” he repeated, glancing back at me. “What does he think about it? Isn’t this his area of expertise? These old houses?”

A spark of jealousy lit his voice, which for some strange reason made me feel vindicated. “He was pretty excited, actually. So was Nanci from the Register. They’re putting the house back on the list, by the way.”

“No doubt, after learning about this. But you didn’t find anything of real value inside?”

I started to answer no but couldn’t, considering Charlotte’s journal tucked in the top drawer of my nightstand. “No hidden heirloom jewelry or Confederate currency, if that’s what you mean.”

“So why go to the trouble of walling off things that aren’t worth much?”

“People assign value in different ways. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as they say.”

An emotion flashed across his face, and I gathered he’d taken my comment on a more personal level. I looked away, not wanting to engage.

It struck me then that the sound I’d heard earlier had stopped. But my curiosity hadn’t.

“Have you told Maggie about this yet?” he asked.

“No, but she’s going to love it.”

“Once she comes, you may not be able to get her to leave.” He smiled, then wistfulness swept his features. “Thank you,” he said softly, “for giving me some time before we tell her about us.”

I sensed he was pushing for more time than we’d agreed to. “Of course. Honoring your mother comes first. Then while Maggie’s still here next week, we’ll tell her together.”

His succinct nod told me I’d guessed right.

A gust of wind and rain blasted the side of the house, causing the tree branches to scratch and claw at the windows.

“Well, I’ll just grab that suit and be on my—” His eyes narrowed. “What is that?”

I didn’t have to ask what he was referring to. The low-pitched moan had returned.