8

MISS MORGAN WAS HALFWAY to the porch before I’d even closed my door. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have been tempted to look for hidden cameras to record my reaction to this epitome of a Southern antebellum mansion.

Stephen walked around to my side of the car. “All I ask . . . Please keep an open mind.”

He walked on ahead, and I followed. The rigid set of his shoulders was disturbingly familiar, as was my guilt. I wasn’t being objective, though I’d promised I would be. I would try harder. But everything about this just felt so wrong. How could I tell him that of the four homes on our tour today, this one, even without my seeing the interior, would rank lowest? I knew from Michelle Stewart’s Victorian Beast what awaited us inside, and I wasn’t disappointed.

The entrance hall ran the length of the home, and I found myself waylaid by the beloved Victorians’ cardinal rule: If there’s a surface, it must be covered. Tabletops, mantels, shelves, floors, footstools, even walls—every square inch had to be decorated, and this home followed the rule to a T.

The effect was dizzying.

Vibrant floral patterns of every design and color, the busier the better, adorned the heavy, floor-to-ceiling draperies, upholstered furniture, and pillows. Even knickknacks. Brussels carpet covered the floors—looped woolen pile with rococo-style scrolls, sand-brown and dark crimson amid bunches of red, yellow, and blue roses on a blue-gray ground, similar to what Michelle Stewart had chosen. Ugh.

“In typical Greek Revival style,” Miss Morgan read from her phone, “four rooms identical in size flank the entrance hall—a spacious office and dining room on the right, a formal living room and fashionably comfortable den on the left. In lieu of a wall, attractive, tall, folding panel doors separate the two sets of rooms and allow the rooms to be closed off from one another for privacy, or they may be opened for larger gatherings.”

She described the home with such exuberance that I had to wonder if her commission on this house was higher than on the others. The period furniture, while appropriate in style, gave the house a colder museum feel rather than the warmth of a private home.

“The house is fully HVAC’d, of course, but every room has its original fireplace, and all are in perfect working order.” Miss Morgan ran a hand across the office mantel like Carol Merrill from Let’s Make a Deal, but I didn’t want what was behind any of these doors.

“The glass panes on the main level are also all original, which is unheard of these days. Same for the windows in the master suite upstairs—or owners’ suite, as we say now.”

Only half listening as she continued with the descriptions, I found Stephen fiddling with something inside a fireplace hearth as though he were genuinely interested. If he was putting on a show for Miss Morgan, he was doing a bang-up job. If he was truly interested in this house, he was going to be sorely disappointed.

We followed Miss Morgan into what she referred to as the den, but which I knew the Victorians would have called the family parlor.

I peered through the window, the backyard blurry because of the distortion of the old glass. The acreage beyond the yard lay heavily wooded. I stepped closer, drawn to a tangle of trees and shrubs that nearly swallowed the trunk of a massive oak, and my breath fogged the pane, causing the glass to shimmer and sparkle in the sunlight. Whoever lived in this house apparently was not a gardener.

Grateful to find myself alone in the family parlor, I had to concede that whoever had decorated this home knew what they were doing. Although the floor-to-ceiling draperies, painted window shades, and oversized oil portraits were not to my taste, I almost felt underdressed in my summer top, capris, and sandals.

But what on earth were we doing looking at a house like this? It was far too large and came with too much land—twenty-seven acres—especially for an empty-nest couple. Besides, it simply would never appeal to me. As Sandra had stated so succinctly, “It’s a house you’d never want to live in.”

Miss Morgan said, “Let’s head upstairs and see the rest, shall we?”

Wishing I could tell her not to waste her time, I trailed her steps up the winding, cantilevered staircase. Stephen followed. Considering the age of the house, I gripped the stair rail, hoping the staircase would hold us all. We reached the second floor without a shimmy or a creak. Quite a feat of engineering. The craftsman who had designed it had known his trade well. To my surprise, another staircase, a traditional switchback, continued to a third level off to my left. Probably an attic. This home was massive.

Everywhere I looked, time reached out to me. But unlike the new Victorian in Denver, this place exuded an almost tangible presence. Like eyes watching from behind. I wasn’t afraid, exactly. I didn’t believe in ghosts. Still, I found myself eager to leave.

Finally back downstairs, I was already mentally in the car when Miss Morgan touched my arm. “I have one more thing to show you, Mrs. Powell. And I promise you, it’s going to blow you away!”

Seriously doubting that, I played along as she motioned me into the dining room and to a door that I assumed led to a closet or pantry. But when she opened it, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when her world transformed from black-and-white to technicolor. I stepped across the threshold and through what looked like an afterthought for a hallway, and I realized my disinterest in the house had kept me from even missing this room on the tour.

A stunning black ten-burner range, the focal point, stood proudly on the far wall and had been customized to look like a wood-burning stove from yesteryear. Two dishwashers, double armoire ovens, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer complemented the top-shelf ensemble, along with enough custom cabinetry and granite and marble countertops to satisfy even Patrice Yancey—a hundred times over. I’d toured restaurant kitchens not as nicely equipped. Whoever designed this professional kitchen had perfectly married modern technology and convenience with an homage to the past.

“What do you think, Mrs. Powell?” Miss Morgan asked, her tone hopeful.

“It’s certainly beautiful, but . . .”

“But what?” Stephen said, his eyes narrowing.

“This house is far too big for us, Stephen. We don’t need this much room. Nor this much land. Not to mention what it must cost.”

“I’m not worried about the cost, so you don’t need to be either.”

I gave a little laugh. I’d never cared for the idea of being a kept woman. He and I used to joke about that. We didn’t joke like that anymore. About anything.

“If I may, Mrs. Powell,” Miss Morgan said, “with this house being on the National Register, even the timing of its coming on the market the very week you’re here is really saying something.”

Why was it everyone seemed to take my husband’s side? I aimed a kindly meant smile. “I appreciate that, Miss Morgan, but doesn’t a house on the National Register mean that it’s going to be very expensive to maintain?”

She hesitated. “It’s true that any repairs would have to adhere to the historical society guidelines or—”

“—the house could lose its registry,” I finished for her, feeling a little ganged up on. “So, in other words, yes. It’s going to be expensive. And that’s definitely not one for the pro column.”

Miss Morgan glanced at Stephen as though seeking help.

“No, not necessarily a pro, Claire.” Razor-thin impatience edged his tone. “But a recent inspection found this house in excellent condition. So I think we should remain objective, don’t you?”

The comment raked over me like a rusty nail. “Unless we already know this house can be crossed off the list.”

“And you already know that?”

“I do.”

“And why is that?”

This could have waited till later, but I plowed ahead. “Because a condo in one of the high-rises might be a better choice—the convenience, the amenities. Although, Miss Morgan, I do appreciate your arranging these appointments. And, Stephen, you said yourself we’ll be traveling to see your mother in Savannah on occasion, so a condo would be less to keep up with. Especially since I’ll be seeking a position with a design firm when we move here.” He wasn’t the only one who knew which buttons to push.

Rubbing his stubbled jawline, he laughed beneath his breath. “Seems I can’t do anything right anymore. Not where you’re concerned, anyway.”

Seeing as he’d decided to pick up the old gloves, I did too. “And just what does that mean?”

A muscle jerked in his jaw. His eyes never left mine as he asked Miss Morgan to give us a moment. She looked beyond relieved and hurried from the room.

“Claire.” He softened his voice, but his expression remained like steel. “I need for you—I’m asking you—to reconsider this house.”

I stared at my husband, knowing what opposing counsel saw across a polished mahogany conference table. I didn’t blink. “Stephen, I know you’re eager to find a house and for us to move. But this is not it. My mind is made up. Of the homes we’ve seen today, this is by far my absolute least favorite. For so many reasons.”

“But you’ve gone on and on about the house like this that you’ve been working on in Denver. You talk nonstop about it.”

“Because I’ve been blowing off steam! I hate that house. And you’d know that if you ever really listened.” My voice sounded shrill against the tile and stone in the room, but I didn’t care. “That project has been never-ending, and the client is impossible to please.”

“Well, that’s something I can certainly relate to.”

“You know what?” I held up my hands. “I’m done. Done trying to be patient, trying to have a good attitude. You accept a job in a city you know I’m not fond of, then you tell me I can either move with you or stay behind.” I hated the waver in my voice. “You’re ripping me from my home, my work, my daughter!”

“Our daughter. And I’m not ripping you from anything or anyone. People move all the time. It’s time for us to make a change, Claire.”

“Well, not to this house, it’s not. I’ll be in the car. We’ll talk about this later.”

I brushed past him.

“I’ve already bought it.”

The words stopped me dead in my tracks. I looked back. “You what?”

“It came on the market four days ago, and there were multiple bidders. I honestly thought you’d love it. I even thought that maybe—”

“You bought it before I even saw it? Without even discussing—”

“That’s why I saved it for last. Believe it or not, I do listen to you. I know you hate a Tudor house. And you don’t like houses with all that wood on the wall. You’re not crazy about ultramodern either. But I thought if I surprised you with the house of your dreams—”

“It would make everything better between us? That all our problems would just magically disappear? That was your plan?”

Emotion flashed across his face. Anger? Hurt? Disappointment? All three had been my constant companions for months.

“Stephen, after all we’ve been through, the sessions spent supposedly learning how to better communicate, you purchase a house sight unseen thinking that’s supposed to make me happy? Do you see how illogical, how absurd that is?”

His expression hardened.

“You have to get out of it.”

“It’s done, Claire. The house is ours.”

I could hardly breathe. I moved away from him. “There’s got to be a way to undo this.”

“You’re just angry because I chose it and you didn’t. It’s all about control with you. That’s what it’s always been.”

“That’s what you really think? Seriously?”

He looked away. “You don’t want to know what I really think.”

“No, I do,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

“I think you’re still angry about what happened, and you’re looking for ways to get back at me. Even though I’ve apologized over and over and over. I don’t know what else to do, Claire. I’m trying to make things better between us. But it feels like you’re sabotaging me at every turn by closing yourself off. By not opening up to me.”

I shook my head, angry tears burning my eyes. “No! You do not get to play the victim here. You’re the one who—”

“Don’t say I had an affair. I didn’t.”

“Maybe you didn’t sleep with her, Stephen, but you sure chose to be close to her. To spend time with her. To confide in her. You chose her—over me.” I turned away again.

I felt his hand on my shoulder. “I chose you the day I married you, Claire,” he said softly. “And I chose you again when I ended things with her.”

A knife in my heart would have hurt less. I faced him. “You chose me again?”

He nodded.

“You don’t see it, do you?” I shook my head. “You should never have put yourself in a position to have to choose me again. When you chose me twenty-two years ago, you vowed never to be with anyone else—to never give any part of yourself to any other woman. So for you to say you chose me again . . .” Even my laughter tasted bitter. “That’s hardly reassuring. And how can I know this won’t happen again?”

“It won’t. I promise.”

“So you’ve said,” I whispered.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I want to. Truly, I want to.”

“So there’s nothing I can do to make it up to you. To get you to forgive me.”

“I have forgiven you, Stephen.”

Doubt clouded his expression.

“But learning to trust again takes time, right?” I continued. “And what you’ve done here today, even if I accept that you may have had a good motive, isn’t helping.”

I was close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes, yet I felt another world away.

“We will get through this, Claire.”

Uncertainty gripped me by the throat. “I hope so,” I managed. I turned to leave, then paused. “Please ask Miss Morgan to contact the other bidders and see if a deal can be made.”

“That’d mean a huge loss for us. They’ll have us over a—” He stopped and gave a short nod. “I’ll tell her to do it today.”

The hardness in his voice cut deep, but the fierceness in his eyes made me wonder if I’d just signed the death warrant on our marriage.