It’s cereal and toast for breakfast this morning. I don’t have the energy for anything else.
Last night, I tried to get Caitlyn to talk to me more about ‘Katherine’, but she refused. She said that she was ‘mad at her’. I eventually gave up. Caitlyn went to bed and I went around the house, collecting the spent tea candles. As I walked through every room, I caught myself taking furtive glances around corners and behind doors, almost expecting to find Caitlyn’s imaginary friend hiding there.
I made no pretense of almost sleeping in my room. It was going to be another couch night. I watched a Chicago Cubs game I had DVR’d and tried to make sense of it all. In the end, I nodded off somewhere around two in the morning, after having convinced myself that my fatigue and grief were causing me to see and hear things and Caitlyn had used it to reinforce her imaginary friend, who now had a name. That has to stop but I can’t do it, right now. I don’t want to upset her and then send her to Mildred’s. I’ll wait until after the sleepover. Two more days won’t hurt.
I avoid the conversation when she comes down for breakfast and she doesn’t seem to want to talk about last night, either. Instead, we talk about the sleepover.
“After you get on the bus, I’m going to take your stuff over to Mildred’s,” I tell her, pointing to the pillow and Disney Princess duffel bag she’s brought down from her room. “When you get dropped off later today, you can just go to her house. She’ll be waiting for you.”
“Okay,” she replies through a mouth full of Corn Pops.
“If you need anything, you tell Mildred, and she’ll call me.”
“Dad, I know. You already told me.”
“And you be good for Mildred. It’s a really nice thing she’s—”
“Daaaaaad.”
“Caitlyn, this is a big deal. It’s the first night we’ve spent apart since—” I catch myself but it’s too late. “It’s a big deal, sweetheart.”
She nods, lost in thought.
“I love you, kidd-o.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
*
I step onto Mildred’s porch and knock on the door.
She answers with a cup of coffee in her hand and warm smile on her face. “Come on in.”
“Just dropping off Caitlyn’s things.”
The aroma of fresh coffee and the faint trace of her clove cigarettes hang pleasantly in her kitchen as I walk through the door.
“You can set that stuff anywhere. The guestroom is all made up.”
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Mildred. She’s really excited.”
Mildred laughs. “So am I.”
“If anything happens, if you need anything, just call me. I should be home all night.”
“Oh God, I hope not. Go out. Have an adventure. Bring home a companion.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “What about you? How was your night? Did you have a ‘gentleman caller’?”
She slyly smiles over the rim of her coffee mug.
“A lady never tells.”
*
For three hours, I’ve been cranking out page after page in the Writing Room. It’s not my best, but it’s better than what I’ve been writing, and now, I can no longer ignore the fact that I’m starving. I close my notebook, go to the kitchen, and make myself a sandwich.
I carry it to the alcove, sit at the table, and stare out at the lake as I contently chew and mentally begin outlining the next chapter. Maybe I could get it in before calling it a day. That would be some serious progre—
… drip … drip …
I stop.
… drip … drip …
“Damnit,” I whisper and stand.
… drip … drip …
I have to find that damn leak. It’s here, in the kitchen. At least, one of them is, because I’ve heard them all over the house. I scan everywhere and inspect every inch of the ceiling, walls, and take everything out of the cabinets, but there’s not a sign of water anywhere, even under the sink.
“Enough,” I say out loud.
It’s time to call the plumber.
I sit at my computer in the Writing Room and pull up Yelp on the computer. I begin scanning the entries for local plumbers and comparing the reviews. I dial the number of the one with the highest rating.
“So, you’re hearing the dripping but you haven’t seen any signs of water damage?” a man with a heavy New England accent asks after I complete my rambling description of the problem.
“Yeah. I’ve searched everywhere.”
“Hmm … That could be a problem. To find it, we may have to rip up some of the walls.”
“Fantastic.” I suddenly feel a migraine coming on.
“Do you know when they’ve done any remodels?”
“I can find out.” I have Stelowski’s phone number here on my desk, somewhere. “You think they may have done a shoddy job?”
“It’s possible. More likely that they haven’t changed all the plumbing in the place. Who knows how many patch jobs they’ve done? Might be something as old as the house.”
This is getting more expensive by the moment.
“Shouldn’t be too hard find out about the remodels. You said the house was old?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“If it’s historic, you can sometimes find some of that stuff online.”
“Give me a second,” I say and began typing.
“Oh, you don’t have to look, now—”
“Hold on. Let me see.”
I’m on a mission. If there’s more damage happening in the walls every moment that I can’t see, I want to take care of it, now.
I enter ‘Nightingale House’ into the search bar.
There are hundreds of hits, mostly real estate listings, and some photos.
“This could take some time,” I sigh in defeat. “I’m not even sure what I’d be looking for.”
“No worries. It’ll be in the public records, which I think Kingsbrook has online. What we can do is run a scope through the walls, along the pipes, and see where it’s coming from …”
He continues laying out his plan while I continue scrolling. This is going to be an ordeal. He’s asking something about how attached I am to the hardwood floors. I try to find older articles, hoping to get lucky. There’s a society piece from the Kingsbrook Herald that’s dated 1900, announcing the arrival of the Carringtons at the Nightingale House for the summer holidays. I recognize the names from our tour of the Kingsbrook Historical Society.
I distractedly click on the link.
The page loads.
Suddenly, I’m not breathing.
“Mr. Price?” the plumber asks. “You still there?”
“Yeah … yes … sorry. I’m going to have to call you back.” I hang up the phone before he has a chance to answer.
A photo accompanies the article on the screen—a photo of the Carrington family. The caption below reads:
Thomas and Abigail Carrington and their daughter, Katherine.
June 17th, 1900
Every morning, I’ve been waking and getting to the pharmacy early, hoping that it will be the day that Thomas places another order, and today, just like my wish to see him, I was finally rewarded!
When I went out to the kitchen for breakfast, I found Father sleeping on the sofa in the parlor. I tried to be quiet but he awoke. He made some excuse about staying up too late and accidentally falling asleep on the sofa, as if I don’t know what’s going on with him and Carol. They hardly ever talk anymore, and I think Father has started drinking.
Working at the pharmacy has become somewhat of an escape for me. I can’t stand to be around either Father or Carol. It isn’t much of an escape, but at least I’m away from the house. I’m incredibly lonely but there’s always the hope of a letter from Thomas.
This morning, I opened the pharmacy a full hour before our posted time. There wasn’t much to do, so I took one of the local newspapers and read for a while. Father arrived at the normal hour. He tried to sound upbeat, as he always does, but the bags under his eyes proved too heavy. Father went to the back to do the bookkeeping. I dusted the shelves and bottles, just as I had done yesterday while keeping an eye on the front door. I couldn’t help myself, and multiple times, I went out to the street to see if the courier was approaching.
Finally, at eleven o’clock, the courier arrived. Father appeared from the storeroom at the sound of the bell and the courier handed him the letter. Father cut open the envelope with the penknife he keeps in his desk in the storeroom and glanced over the note.
I asked if it was from Mr. Carrington, although I knew full well that it was.
Father nodded.
“It’s smaller than last week’s order,” he said with a frown and began assembling the items on the list. To my surprise, they were more feminine in nature—perfume, hair conditioner, cosmetics, etc. I was confused at first and then had a wonderful thought. He was clearly buying them as a present for me! (I could not have been more mistaken, as what follows will tell.)
I placed the items in the bicycle basket and pedaled to the Nightingale House.
This time, I took care that I was presentable after the ride, making sure no hair was out of place and smoothed out my clothes. I pulled the chain next to the door and heard footsteps. I was prepared to meet him with my own wicked little smile.
The door opened and it was his wife.
She regarded me as if I was a stray cat.
“May I help you?”
I stammered like a fool but finally said, “I have a delivery from the pharmacy.”
Thankfully, Thomas hurried in from the living room to save me.
“Ah, here it is.”
I can’t be sure, but I thought I saw Mrs. Carrington recoil from him as he approached.
“I meant to tell you. I ordered some supplies from the pharmacy in case you had forgotten anything in Boston.” He took the items from my arms and gave me a glance that told me to play along. “This is the girl from the pharmacy.”
Mrs. Carrington said it was nice to meet me. Thomas pointed out that we had met before at my birthday party, which caused her to be embarrassed and worried.
“You bought me that lovely journal,” I offered, trying to be helpful.
“Of course, of course,” she said, shaking her head. “Forgive me. These past few days have been a whirlwind.”
I told her I was sorry to hear about her mother. “I hope she’s feeling better.”
“Thank you, she is feeling a little better … but … how did you know about my mother’s health?”
Thomas came to my rescue, again. “I dropped by the pharmacy to pick up a few things while you were away and we had a brief conversation. She thanked me for the journal. I told her the gift was your idea, which led to her asking about you.”
I thought the excuse was perfectly clever.
There was the sound of the back door in the kitchen banging open and small frantic footsteps approaching. Through the dining room burst a young girl with long, straight blonde hair and wearing a very pretty dress. She was laughing but stopped when she almost crashed into Thomas. His look of annoyance caused her to shrink backwards. She shrank even further when she saw that there was a stranger in the room. She drifted towards Mrs. Carrington and clung to her leg. Then, a man entered from the kitchen, out of breath. I recognized him from the party as the driver of the Carringtons’ carriage.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “We were playing tag and I told her to stay outside, but she didn’t listen.”
“She seldom does,” Thomas grumbled.
Mrs. Carrington introduced the man as their valet, Theodore Whitlock. She then turned her attention to the little girl, hiding behind her hip. “And this little one is our daughter, Katherine.”
“Hello, Katherine,” I said, but she said nothing.
“You’ll have to forgive her. She’s painfully shy,” Mrs. Carrington said.
I nodded.
She glanced at her husband, then at me. “I can’t remember; have we invited you to the Fourth of July Celebration?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. We shall see you then.” She looked at her daughter. “Say goodbye, Katherine.”
“Bye,” the girl whispered.
“It was very nice to meet you, Katherine,” I replied.
“I’ll show you out,” Thomas said, and escorted me to the door.
We walked down the path to the street, where the bicycle was resting against the bushes.
“She was supposed to be gone for a few more days,” he quietly said. “I only received the telegram yesterday that she was arriving this morning.”
I asked him why he didn’t tell her that I had made a delivery to the house before.
“My wife can be suspicious, sometimes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s understandable around such a beauty as yourself.”
Can you believe he would say those words while only a few yards from his home and wife? I can and I relished it.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t kiss your hand as before but there might be eyes watching us.”
I told him that I understood.
“If I had my way, I’d kiss more of you,” he said.
I fought to keep from smiling but lost.
“There also won’t be a delivery next week. I’m worried she’ll grow more suspicious, but I do expect to see you at the Fourth of July Celebration.”
“You may count on it,” I said.
His eyes gleamed with approval.
“Until then,” he said and walked back towards the house.
My eyes followed and I was certain for a split second, I saw Mrs. Carrington watching us from an upstairs window. The curtain fluttered and she was gone.
I know it’s dangerous. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t care. It’s harmless fun. Besides, I have no friends, the pharmacy is failing, and Father and Carol rarely speak. Those beautiful eyes and thrilling conversations are the only good things I have in this town.
I will now begin counting the hours, minutes, and seconds until the Fourth of July.
Good night.