hris cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his hands for packing. Most of his belonging sat in boxes lining the walls, leaving the living room free of clutter. Three or four more boxes to go and he’d be ready for the realtor to take pictures.
Silence stretched across the phone line before Matilda’s soft voice broke it. “Are you sure this is what you want to do? I know I pushed you pretty hard to sell, but I’ve changed my mind. If you want to stay in Mom and Dad’s house—”
“No. This is for the best.”
“Would you like me to come over? Do I need to sign the papers or anything?”
“I’ll have the realtor fax them to you when we’re done here.”
He hung up, tucked the phone in his back pocket, turned his attention to an old photo album lying on top of the coffee table.
After a quick flip through the pages, he dropped it into the box. Holding on to this house and his parents’ things wouldn’t bring his father back, nor would it prevent his mother from slipping further into dementia. Besides, a two-bedroom, low-maintenance condo would free up his time for the café.
The doorbell chimed, and Rusty yipped. Dropping the roll of packing tape onto the sofa, he answered the door, Rusty trailing behind him.
Darcy Trieman stood on his stoop holding a briefcase, camera, and a tripod. “Ready to sign the paperwork?”
He glanced toward Ainsley’s house with a heavy heart. Such a sweet, godly woman. Too bad it hadn’t lasted. Turning back to Darcy, he nodded and moved aside to allow her in. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I imagine.”
She surveyed the living room, her gaze lingering on the six-foot-tall box wall stacked between matching bookshelves. “I suggest you get a storage locker. You’ll want to clear as much of this away as possible.”
“I’ll probably donate most of it.” He swallowed. “Although I hate to part with it, too many people struggle to make ends meet to justify holding on to things they don’t need.”
“Are you OK?” Her eyes softened. “I know this must be hard for you. If you’re not ready—”
Chris shook his head. “I’m good.” As if sensing his sorrow, Rusty watched with droopy eyes before sliding his belly to the floor.
“Wanna give me a walk-through?”
He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “This is the living room.” He chuckled, although it fell flat.
Continuing across the room and down the hall, he showed her the guest bathroom, the master bedroom, and a small sitting area. Next, they moved upstairs to the three bedrooms that at one time created his safe haven. Rusty remained near the door, laying on his belly, muzzle resting on his forepaws, eyes sad as if he could sense Chris’s mood.
They entered his childhood room first, with its pale-blue walls and a sports-themed border. His bed, a twin with a metal frame, sat in the corner, a bedspread covered in footballs and field goals spread across it. His throat ached as a memory of his mother kneeling beside him as they said bedtime prayers surfaced.
Darcy paused in the middle of the room, watching him with a wrinkled brow. “You need a break?”
“Nope.” He inhaled and lifted his chin. “There are two more rooms down the hall, both about the same size.”
After showing her the other rooms, the second bathroom and a small office where his father used to pay bills and crunch numbers using an old, handheld calculator, he led her back downstairs.
“Is there someplace we can sit to go over these documents?” She lifted her briefcase.
They moved to the kitchen. He cleared the table, pulled out a chair for her, then sat beside her.
She plopped her briefcase in front of her, snapped it open, and pulled out a thick stack of papers. She went through each sheet word for word. When finished, she turned the documents toward Chris and handed him a pen. “Time to sign your life away.” She grinned.
How true those words were. Fifty years worth of history and thirty years worth of personal memories would soon be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter what they did to the house, no matter who purchased the donated furniture, nothing could erase the images forever engraved in his heart.
When they finished, he walked her to the door.
“Based on the comparables, I think your house will sell quickly.” Darcy smoothed back her hair. “Let me know when you’d like to go condo shopping.”
“Will do.”
With a parting nod, she turned around and traveled down the walk, returning to his lawn a moment later carrying a For Sale sign. Her face contorted as she struggled to stab it into the semi-frozen earth.
Chris ran to her side. “Let me get that for you.”
Holding the sign, he glanced up as Ainsley pulled into her driveway. They locked eyes for a moment. His breath caught in his throat as he stood, frozen.
Undo this, Ainsley. Tell me not to leave. Tell me you believe me.
Tell me you love me.
Ainsley stared at the For Sale sign clutched in Chris’s hand, tears burning her eyes. Inhaling, she gripped the steering wheel tighter and looked away. Her wounds would heal. Slowly perhaps, but they would heal.
Then why did the ache in her heart grow worse every time she saw him?
Her heart cramped as she glanced at the apartment rental guide lying on the passenger seat. It sat on top of classified ads from three newspapers—one from Kansas City, one from Overland Park, and the other from Belton.
Lord, help me out here. How am I supposed to forget Chris when my entire life is entangled in his?
But at least he changed days at the shelter. That remained her one safe haven, even if his absence actually produced the opposite effect.
Once inside, she dropped her things onto the kitchen table. Gripping the counter, shoulders slumped, she stared across the lawn toward Chris’s house. The realtor’s sign stood like a sharpened dagger, glimmering in the low-lying sun.
No matter how hard she tried to bar him from her heart, memories arose. A thousand times a day she fought against them. Now that her gut-reaction dimmed beneath rational thinking, she knew he told the truth in regard to Candy. But it didn’t matter. Her heart was too bruised to go another round. Regressing fifteen years, she felt like that frightened child who waited for her father to come home, waited for her mother to notice her.
Love hurt and men stank. The years of pain enshrouding her mother attested to that.
Only her mother’s pain had been her own doing. Ainsley blinked as her mother’s words replayed once again in her mind.
Oh, Daddy! If Mom lied about the divorce, did she lie about your desire to see me as well?
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and sifted through her contacts for her father’s number. Her stomach churned as she pressed Call Send. It rang four times before going to voice mail. And extended beep followed. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth. Then closed it, ending the call.