9

WHEN I SIGNED THE MOVING VAN MANIFEST, confirming that all our worldly goods would be delivered to 42 Gardenia Blossom Trace in Buckhead, the address alone soured my stomach. I wasn’t over being angry with Stephen. Not even close. Especially knowing what he’d paid for that house. But he was none too pleased with me at the moment, either. So I guess it was a draw.

He’d worked every angle to be released from the contract, but in the end, we were forced to stay with the original deal or forfeit the $100,000 he had paid in earnest money. Stephen made an excellent salary, plus bonuses, and I also did well. But who could throw away that kind of money? We certainly couldn’t, especially with a daughter enrolling at DU.

I went back inside to be sure the movers got everything, and I left the front door ajar, the afternoon breeze still springlike just a week from the first day of summer. I would miss that about Colorado. I would miss so many things.

I combed the main level and headed upstairs, looking for straggling boxes or furniture. The place stood empty except for items I was donating to Habitat for Humanity, including a loveseat I would sleep on that night.

The past two weeks had been a blur. Stephen had left for Atlanta when the packing started, and I’d played host to his sister and helped get Granby packed for the move to Savannah, all while tying up my own loose ends at work and boxing up this house. Bev and Stephen had flown with their mom to Savannah, then Stephen had rented a car and driven on to Atlanta.

Meanwhile, I’d dismantled our life here—room by room, drawer by drawer—and weary didn’t begin to describe me. Body and soul. Yet somehow I knew I was doing what I was supposed to. My place was beside my husband, even if I still lacked certainty that everything was going to be okay. I kept looking for a sign, some confirmation that would make me feel better.

But surely God wouldn’t lead me to follow my husband if he wasn’t also going to make sure my husband followed him—keeping Stephen on the straight and narrow this time. I clung to that, determined to keep my end of the bargain and trusting God to keep his.

Maggie’s bedroom looked especially lonely. She’d taken most of her things to college already. The rest, she and I had either culled or packed. I briefly closed my eyes and could see all the ways we’d decorated this room through the years, first in bunnies, then bears, including her favorite, Winnie the Pooh. No telling how many times we’d read that book to her. Stephen had done all the voices. Later came several stages of princesses. Then, to my delight, she’d chosen Van Gogh’s Starry Night. We’d painted the walls a vibrant blue and swirled endless golden stars. We’d even added glow-in-the-dark stars to her ceiling. How many nights had we lain on her bed, staring up and talking, listening to Don MacLean’s song “Vincent,” which she still loved.

I’m sure she didn’t realize how precious those times were to me. But hopefully she would, one day, when she had a child.

The stars on the ceiling were long gone, but the starry walls remained, at least for a few more days. Then all the years of our living and loving in this home would be stripped clean to make way for the Reyes family, who’d bought our house sight unseen through their Realtor one hour after it hit the MLS. The California family arrived in about a month and already had painters scheduled to “make the house theirs,” as their real estate agent had said.

“Don’t waste any time now,” I said beneath my breath, and yet I couldn’t blame the new owners. I’d be making changes to 42 Gardenia Blossom Trace as well, but with one big difference. I didn’t plan on living there long-term, and I certainly wasn’t making it mine.

Stephen had texted pictures of an upscale furnished apartment Burgdan, Croft, and Finney provided for us until we got settled. Texting represented the bulk of our communication now. A quick update every now and then, a thumbs up here, an emoji there. All very clean and neat. And void of nuance that might reveal what either of us was really thinking and feeling.

Communicating without ever really saying a thing could be handy when your marriage was on the rocks. But not if you wanted to save it. And I did.

I watched the eighteen-wheeler pull away, my emotions a jumble. It wasn’t the furniture and rugs and portraits I’d painstakingly curated over the past two decades that I feared losing in transit. It was the box of Maggie’s schoolwork I’d saved from kindergarten on, letters and cards from Stephen’s and my parents, handwritten recipes from family matriarchs, my grandmother’s sewing machine, and shoebox after shoebox of photos Mom had bequeathed to me that I still needed to digitize.

But the bright-red storage container tugged most at my heart. It held the few, precious items I’d kept of Bryan’s. I’d held out the little blue train shirt he’d been wearing that last day. That would be in my carry-on tomorrow. Tears slipped down my cheeks. How I wished I’d known that would be the last morning I’d kiss his chubby little cheek.

One last difficult goodbye awaited before I would return to spend a last night in this beloved home. As I drove out of the neighborhood, my phone rang with “Another Park, Another Sunday” by the Doobie Brothers, a group Stephen and I had seen in concert through the years. I took a deep breath and punched the button on the steering wheel. “Hey, there.”

“Hey, babe, how are you? Things go well today?”

Stephen sounded positively chipper, and my simmering resentment kicked up a notch.

“Yep. The truck just pulled away.”

“So soon? That’s great.”

“Well, they did start yesterday, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. So pretty much right on time, then.”

“Mmm.” That he’d forgotten the moving schedule wasn’t surprising. Managing family appointments had always been my jurisdiction. It was then I heard conversation in the background. It was nearly seven o’clock in Atlanta. “Working late again?” I asked.

“No, actually Bill’s invited the partners to his country club for dinner so everyone can get to know me. I think they’re wanting to see if I pass Southern muster, as one of them said today.”

He laughed, but I detected nervousness too. The night before he’d left, he’d scooted closer in bed and begun nuzzling my neck and caressing my arm and shoulder. I couldn’t reciprocate. Not with the way things were between us. But men were different in that way. After a moment, he stopped and rolled away from me. The deafening silence had kept me awake long into the night. I wished now that I’d responded in kind to him. Not from my own desire but for his. And our future.

“Listen,” he continued, “Bill’s sending a limo to take you to the airport in the morning after the guys come for your car.”

“Stephen, there’s no need. I can Uber. In fact, I prefer—”

“I know, but he insisted. You know how Bill is.”

I’d met Bill—William Beauregard Burgdan III—the weekend Stephen and I were in Atlanta house-hunting, and I’d sized him up instantly. Time would tell if my instincts were spot-on.

“And one more thing. When you get in, we need to head over to Bill and Vickie’s for cocktails. They’re eager to see you again.”

“Stephen, I’m already exhausted, and there’s so much to do before the movers get there. See if we can take a rain check and—”

“You don’t really do that with the big boss, especially when you’re the new kid on the block. If you don’t feel up to it, I can make excuses for you and just go myself, but Vickie wants your advice about a new addition off their bedroom. A room with a splash pool and waterfall, I think. I told her you could handle anything. Plus, she has a lot of ins with local decorating firms, which could help since you’re eager to get back to work.”

Feeling the subtle jab, I reminded myself of my bargain with God. “All right.” I sighed. “But let’s not stay long, okay?”

“Sounds good. Oh, I called Bev today. Mom’s doing well and settling in just fine.”

I winced. “I meant to call Bev yesterday to check on her. And the day before that.”

“Yeah, she said she hadn’t heard from you yet.”

I bit my tongue, determined again not to react. “I’m glad your mom’s doing well.”

“Oh, and about tomorrow night. We’ll need to go directly from the airport to their house. So go ahead and dress the part. You did pack for every scenario as usual, right?”

The humorous presumption in his voice only prodded my resentment. Ready to be off the phone, I whipped into Chick-fil-A. “Listen, I’m in a drive-through. Let’s talk later tonight?”

“Better make it tomorrow morning. I’m guessing we’ll be out late. From what I’m told, Bill loves a good time.”

I resisted the eye roll. “All right then. Enjoy yourself!”

I barely heard his goodbye before I’d hung up.

Bill loves a good time. Sounded like he was going to a frat party with a bunch of jocks. In one sense, that wasn’t too far off the mark. Lawyers could be an egotistical breed.

I inched ahead in the crowded drive-through. Maggie had offered to come back over so I wouldn’t be alone tonight, but we’d enjoyed pizza and salads together yesterday at lunch, and I knew she was busy with summer classes. She loved college so far, and the sparkle in her eyes did my heart good.

I ordered my usual salad and unsweetened iced tea with lemon. Then, on a whim, I added one more item. Five minutes later, I was on my way.

By the time I pulled into Life Springs Cemetery, the sun hovered low over the western peaks, casting a golden glow across the freshly mown grass and neat rows of gravestones. Birds warbled and squirrels raced across the lawn, dashing up one tree and down another.

I grabbed the food and a blanket I kept in the back seat and walked quietly, not wanting to disturb the tranquility. I spread the blanket at the foot of Bryan’s grave and looked across the lawn at the darkened windows of the caretaker’s shed. Cedric, the long-term caretaker, was gone for the day. I’d gotten to know him because, at first, I came every week. Then time passed, and now I visited two or three times a year.

Stephen never came with me. He’d made it clear that, for him, Bryan wasn’t here. And while I respected his decision, this tiny plot of earth cradled the remains of my son who I’d dreamed of for a lifetime, carried inside me for nine months, and loved and nurtured every day of his short life.

When I’d visited Bryan’s grave on the first anniversary of his death, I’d found a single white daisy adorning the tombstone. It was a gift from Cedric, who’d told me, “Daisies are the happiest of flowers. And your little son is happier now than he’s ever been.” Every anniversary since, I’d brought a single white daisy with me.

But if I could have my Bryan back, even less happy, I would in a heartbeat. And anyone who called me selfish had never lost a child—or lost one the way we’d lost Bryan. I ran my hand over the cool marble. Over Bryan’s name, the dates, then the little train beneath.

“Hey, buddy.” I spoke softly. “I brought you a little something.”

I sat cross-legged on the blanket and placed the kid’s meal on the grass, then opened my salad, recounting every happy memory God had given us with our son. If a stranger walked by and saw me, he or she might have thought I’d lost it. But any mother in my shoes would understand.

I imagined what Bryan would look like now. Sixteen years old, only two years younger than Maggie. He had favored Stephen and would likely be athletically inclined like him. Tall. Handsome. Intelligent. The image brought a smile.

As the sun settled on the broad shoulders of the Rocky Mountains, the endless list of to-dos called my name, but I wasn’t ready to leave. I spread the kid’s meal nuggets and fries in the grass for the birds and squirrels, knowing that would have pleased my three-year-old Bryan to no end.

I brushed a palm over the grass covering his grave. It had been Mom’s idea to sprinkle Dad’s ashes here, and one of her last wishes was that we do the same with hers. “Just put me with them,” she’d whispered. “That way we’ll be together on this side too.”

“I love you, Mom. You too, Dad.”

An ache started in my chest. I buried my face in my hands, the whirlwind of emotions from the past two weeks refusing to be kept inside any longer, and I gave in to it. Moments passed, and I finally wiped my face and looked up.

A squirrel eyed me from two rows over, cute in that rodent sort of way. I tossed him one of the waffle fries. Apparently accustomed to visitors, he didn’t flinch. He nibbled it, then stuffed the rest in his mouth and scaled the nearest tree in nothing flat. Watching him brought me unexpected joy.

I gathered my things, scrunching the kid’s meal bag into mine, when I felt something inside. I pulled out the cellophane-wrapped toy that came with the meal. It was a tiny book, and my breath caught as I read the title. On the Train.

I searched the cloudless blue overhead, drinking in the moment, then propped the book against the gravestone.

Halfway home, my cell jingled. The number wasn’t familiar, though I did recognize the 770 Atlanta area code. I answered.

“Hi, I’m calling for Mrs. Claire Powell, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Mrs. Powell, this is Rhonda Hadley from Faulkner and Faulkner, the Atlanta attorneys handling your closing on 42 Gardenia Blossom Trace. I’m doing the final review on your file for your Monday closing. I’ve tried to connect with Mr. Powell, but his phone keeps going to voicemail. I need to confirm some details. Is now a good time for you?”

“Sure, Rhonda, that’s fine, as long as I don’t have to look anything up. I’m driving.”

“No, these are easy questions, mainly confirmations. First, congratulations on the purchase. That’s always exciting—and somewhat stressful.” Her genteel Southern accent had a comforting cadence.

“Thank you, and yes, it is.”

“I’ve actually worked a closing on this property before, so I’m somewhat familiar with it.”

“Really?”

“In fact, I’ve actually been to the home, besides having driven by it for years. The Thursmann Mansion is a beautiful place.”

“The . . . Thursmann Mansion?”

She hesitated. “That’s what we locals call it. Named for the folks who built the house before the War between the States. I grew up around here, Mrs. Powell, so—”

“Call me Claire, please.”

“Claire,” she repeated, a smile in her voice. “So I know most of the old houses, along with their stories.”

“And does ours have a story?”

She laughed. “Oh, sure. The usual ones about Confederate or Union soldiers camping on the property, the house being used for military meetings, and how some notable figures visited back in the day. But the most recent one might be the best. When they were digging the hole for the swimming pool—a couple of owners back—they found the remains of a Civil War soldier.”

“Really.”

“Oh, that’s not uncommon here. History’s buried all over the place.”

“Were they able to identify him?”

“Gracious, no. Too much time had passed for that.”

I detected no condescension but felt a little silly for having asked the question.

“He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but they do think he fought for the Confederacy. The metal buttons, his gun, and his ammunition were all common to the South. But the newspaper reported that the remains were different from others they’d found from that era.”

“Different how?”

“Experts said the man had been shot in the back of the head at close range. With a rifle, they think, judging by the size of the hole in his skull. But it definitely wasn’t from a cannonball filled with grapeshot, which is what most of those soldiers died from. Either that or disease.”

“You’re a history buff, I take it?”

“Oh, yes, have been all my life. Stuff like this used to be found all the time when I was growing up. Not so much anymore, though. But with the really old homes, like yours, where a lot of the original land still lies undeveloped, it happens on occasion.”

I’d seen the pool in the backyard the weekend we were there and imagined the body of that soldier being buried there all those years. I had to wonder who had buried him and why he’d been buried alone.

Rhonda ran through a long list of details and logistics, then told me when the closing would be. I pulled into the driveway, still finding myself praying that something would come up before then to throw a major wrench in the works, though that wasn’t likely.

“Oh and, Claire, one last thing I’ve been debating whether to share with you. The seller’s agent called me this afternoon, and she’s left it to my discretion. But I don’t want you and your husband caught off guard Monday.”

I chuckled. “Well, now you have to tell me, or I won’t sleep a wink.”

Her laughter was rich and deep. “Oh, it’s nothing bad, truly; and it’s public record. But bottom line, the sellers are in the midst of a messy divorce. They’ll be in a separate office from you, but if you do bump into them or there’s any drama, just please know it has nothing to do with either of you. So there you are. Consider yourself warned.”

Even without knowing the sellers, I felt sorry for them and wondered what had led them to that brink. I thanked Rhonda for the heads-up nonetheless.

“You bet! Oh, and if the wife tries to tell you the house is haunted, pay her no mind. She’s definitely on the eccentric scale.”