“I’m broke!” Sammy insisted.
Theo roared with laughter as a single penny, a broken crayon, and a miniature dinosaur figurine fell out of Sammy’s pockets. I set him down and pretended to collect my earnings.
“You’re a Lego short,” I told him. “And I don’t do discounts.”
He ran off without a word and returned with a plastic building block. “It’s not a Lego because Mom says they’re too expensive, but she also says they’re the same thing!”
I inspected the building block with one eye closed. “I suppose it’s acceptable.”
At the end of the night, I returned all of Sammy’s things to him, told him not to default on his loan, and put my coat on to leave. As I walked to my car, Theo ran down the stairs after me.
“Peyton, wait up!” She caught me by the sleeve and lifted my hand to place my phone in it. “I don’t think you want Sammy to keep that all day. You’d never get it back.”
“Ah! Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” Theo’s eyes glistened under the street lamps. She hadn’t yet released my sleeve, holding on to my arm with gentle insistence. “Sammy hasn’t snuck out of the house since you started hanging out with us. You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”
“It’s not,” she said. “He’s so happy and tired by the time he goes to bed that he sleeps through the entire night now. That’s never happened before. Never. He’s always been the lightest of sleepers.”
When I hugged Theo, she rested her head on my shoulder and squeezed back. “I’m glad to help,” I told her. “Sammy’s a great kid, and you’re an amazing mother. You both deserve the world.”
“Thank you,” Theo sniffled. “So do you. I’m sorry Ben never realized that.”
One morning during my usual breakfast at Black Cat, Della Gordon showed up with a heavy black case. She dragged her cumbersome baggage through the line, ordered a coffee and a croissant, then scanned the busy café for a place to offload. I waved from my two-top in the middle of the room. When she spotted me, I beckoned her over.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Della said. “Is your lovely husband here today?”
“Nope. That seat’s all yours.”
“Are you sure, darling?”
“Of course.” I pulled the spare chair out and helped Della put down all of the things she was holding. “You and Basil were nice enough to share your table with us on our first day in town. I’m returning the favor. What’s in the case?”
“Camera equipment,” she answered. “I have loads of it. Been collecting since I was twelve, but Basil thinks I’m a hoarder.”
“Are you selling it?”
She stared wistfully at the case. “That was the plan, but I’m not so sure I can part with it. Chester would die to have some of the things in that case.”
“The photography store guy?”
“Yes,” Della sighed. “I love him so, and he’s the only one I trust to make sure my things end up in capable hands, but it’s just so hard, you know?”
“I totally get it,” I said, stirring another packet of raw sugar into my mug. The coffee was stronger this morning than I was used to. “I haven’t taken a picture in years, so Ben suggested I sell my DSLR. I put it up on eBay, but when someone bid on it, I had a legitimate panic attack.”
Della chuckled. “Forgive my laughter. Were you an avid photographer? I meant to ask you the other day at Chester’s, but we were distracted by the muffins.”
“I used to be,” I told her. “I started on the yearbook staff in high school, and I loved it. It was the only thing I was good at, and I wanted to do it professionally, but—”
“But finding professional photography gigs is about as difficult as locating the Holy Grail?” Della nodded in sympathy. “I’ve been there. It’s a struggle for sure, but if you love it enough, you’ll go after it with every fiber of your being.” Mason brought Della her order. She buttered half of her croissant before offering the plate to me. “Want the rest? I can’t eat the whole thing.”
I’d been at Black Cat for so long that my breakfast had already digested, so I happily accepted the other half of the croissant. “Any advice for someone who wants to get back into photography?”
“Be persistent,” Della offered. “Take hundreds of photos. Bring your camera everywhere with you. Shoot every day. You can’t call yourself a photographer if you’re not out there taking pictures.”
“There’s not much in Falconwood to photograph.”
Della’s expression mimicked that of a schoolteacher scolding a poorly behaved student. “Bite your tongue! First of all, a true artist can find beauty in anything. Second, Falconwood has some of the most amazing wildlife in the area. Get out on the trails and photograph some nature.”
As if to emphasize Della’s point, a beautiful swallow swooped past the window. She beamed at it like she was Cinderella.
“Is that what you used to do?” I asked Della.
Between her and her husband’s somewhat wild appearances, I figured they were “of the earth” kind of people. They hosted their yoga class three nights a week, and though I had yet to attend a session, I’d overheard the yogis in town talking about how lovely and talented Basil and Della were. Through word of mouth, I’d learned the older couple lived on an acre of land, but instead of building a huge house, they lived in a sleek silver Airstream. Apparently, they’d driven all over the United States in it, found Falconwood to be their favorite, and bought a plot of land to park on. In the summer, they grew herbs on their property, made fresh juice from organic sources, and even raised chickens. In the winter, they weaved reusable bags out of recycled plastic. Every Sunday, they had their own stand at the Farmer’s Market to sell their wares. I loved how simple and happy they were. Della found joy in educating the town about reducing waste while Basil, though quieter and more reserved than his wife, could always be seen reading a book from the library.
“Yes, I made it my mission to photograph some of the most secluded animals in the world,” Della said. “With the exception of anything under the sea. That was never my forte. Every day was an adventure. I trekked to places you wouldn’t believe, and I’ve received my fair share of scars to get the shot I wanted. See this?” She pulled down the collar of her sweater, revealing three jagged marks. “I got too close to a clouded leopard, but I also got the shot.”
I grimaced at the thought of a leopard’s claws buried in my neck. “Do you think it was worth it? All the traveling you did? All the times you could have gotten hurt?”
“Honey,” Della said, letting her collar cover the scars again as she leaned across the table and patted my hand. “If you love something, you don’t let it go because you might get hurt. You push through. What kind of photography did you want to do?”
“I did weddings for a while,” I told her, “but I wanted to be a journalist.”
“What would you have liked to report?”
“I never thought about it.” I absentmindedly stirred my coffee, increasing the speed of my spoon until the whirlpool separated enough to see the bottom of the cup in the center. “It was a fantasy I had in high school.”
Della relaxed in her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “When we’re young, adults tend to dismiss our fantasies and dreams as unimportant, but if you work hard, you can turn dreams into reachable goals. Sounds like you never had anyone to push you to do the thing you really wanted to do.”
“My mom encouraged me,” I said. “But I got married so young.”
“True love wasn’t worth it?”
“True love made me compromise on a lot of things I didn’t want to compromise on.”
Della reached over the table to still my hand as the whirlpool of coffee in my cup threatened to spill over the edge. “It’s not too late, honey. You’re still so young. Get out there. Go see the world. Become a photojournalist. People waste so much energy wishing for things because they think they’ve run out o
f time to go after them.”
A few weeks passed, and Ben continued his rigorous supervision of the renovation process. Jim’s crew of guys worked exceptionally fast. In no time, the entryway, kitchen, and a few of the first-floor rooms had been gutted and rebuilt. They kept it simple for time’s sake, but the updates made the house a hundred times cozier than before. In a day, the drawing room was transformed into a magnificent bedroom. The furniture store delivered my mattress and bed frame, and I spent that day turning my new room into the perfect place to spend some downtime. Ben seemed to be everywhere, constantly asking Jim for another favor or a new work order. He carried his laptop with him wherever he went, and I often spotted him wearing his hard hat as he worked on his technical writing job in the middle of whatever project Jim was engineering that day.
“I’m paying him double,” Ben said when I asked him how Jim and his crew were so motivated to get the work done this quickly. “I wanted to expedite the process.”
For the first time in several days, I’d convinced Ben to sit down and have dinner with me. Now that the kitchen was in better shape, I could actually get back to cooking. In an effort to bridge the gap growing between us, I’d offered to make Ben roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary. It was one of his favorite meals, and when I threw a loaf of garlic bread into the deal, he couldn’t resist.
“It smells good,” he said, glancing into the oven for a look at the whole golden-brown chicken. “We haven’t done this in a while.”
“I got some wine too.” I took the bottle of white from the fridge to show him the label. “Who knew Falconwood had its own winery?”
“Apparently, you did,” Ben said. “Did Theo take you there?”
“We went yesterday.”
“Hmm.”
I’d learned quickly not to bring up Theo’s name or what we did together unless Ben specifically asked. For whatever reason, he was oddly jealous of her, and though he couldn’t tell me what to do with my spare time upfront, I read his disapproval in every aspect of his body language. What his problem with Theo was, I had no idea. If I had to guess, he was unhappy that his plan to use the Abram Mansion to reunite us wasn’t going to spec.
“It’s a Sauvignon Blanc,” I said hurriedly, trying to get off the subject of Theo. “Your favorite, right?”
“It just goes well with chicken.” He checked the meat again. “Is this burning?”
I hurried to the oven and looked inside. The skin of the chicken was crispy and brown on top. One tiny spot had blackened. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“It’s fine,” I told Ben.
“As long as it’s not too dry.”
He set the table with two of the new plates I’d bought in town a few days ago. Since we’d settled in, I figured we should be eating off of something other than camp ware. The plates were hand-painted by one of the locals and decorated with delicate purple flowers. I loved them, but something told me Ben wasn’t sold. It didn’t matter anyway, since I intended on keeping them after the divorce.
“How’s Sammy?” Ben asked as he laid out the silverware. For all of his indifference toward Theo, he loved hearing about her six-year-old son. “Did his spelling test go okay?”
“He misspelled Virginia.”
“How’d he spell it?”
“Vagina.”
Ben, halfway through the process of opening the wine, snorted. The wine bottle knocked against the counter. “Well, you gotta give the kid credit for trying.”
“He was upset,” I said. “Then he got in trouble for trying to call his imaginary friend on the phone behind the teacher’s desk. Theo’s a little frazzled this week.”
I checked the temperature of the chicken and took it out of the oven as Ben poured two glasses of wine and set them on the table. With a new knife, he carved the chicken, whistling as the blade cut through the meat with stunning precision. He served me first, making my entire plate before sitting down himself. He even lit a candle in the middle of the table like we were at a fancy restaurant.
“Cheers,” he said, lifting his wine glass. “To finally getting a night together.”
I tapped my glass against his and took a sip. The wine coated my tongue, but somehow it didn’t taste as good as it did yesterday when I was at lunch with Theo.
“What do you think of Sammy’s imaginary friend anyway?” I asked Ben. “It’s normal for kids to pretend about that kind of thing, right?”
He inhaled a quarter of his chicken in one bite. “I had an imaginary friend when I was his age. My mom let it play out. She set a place for him at the dinner table and everything. Eventually, I grew out of it.”
“Sammy insists that his friend lives here,” I said, cutting up my food into smaller pieces. The roasted carrots were too mushy, but the potatoes were too hard. “Every time Theo drops me off at home, he asks to come inside so he can say hi.”
“We’re talking about the same kid who walked several miles in the snow and broke into our house through the doggy door,” Ben reminded me. “Sammy’s weird. All kids are weird. One time, my niece yelled at me because I wasn’t using magic markers to write at work.”
“I can’t help but wonder if it’s not all in Sammy’s head.” I mashed the potatoes with the back of the fork, added a pat of butter, and kept mixing. “Ever since we got here, I’ve felt like this house has weird vibes. Remember when I told you I heard voices in the walls?”
“Yes, and I told you it was probably rats.”
“There are other things too,” I insisted. “The face I saw in the window that day the chandelier fell. Later, I took a picture in the attic, and I could have sworn someone else was in the room with me.”
“Peyton, I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again.” Ben sighed, setting his fork on his plate to make sure I know I have his full attention. “This house is old. The pipes rattle and the floors creak. That’s all there is to it.”
“What about Sammy’s friend?”
“He’s a kid,” Ben said as he went back to his chicken. “Let his imagination wander. Just don’t let his imagination get into your head.”
Since the renovations, Ben had been staying in the bedroom across from mine. It was a comfort to have him right on the opposite side of the hall rather than all the way out in the foyer. We moved our toiletry kits to the larger bathroom on the same floor, abandoning the servants’ bathroom downstairs. The new bathroom sported an enormous, claw-footed tub. Ben thought it was cumbersome to take baths instead of showers every night, but I loved it.
Late that night, after Ben had already gone to sleep, I got out of bed and ran a bath. Something had been keeping me awake, gnawing at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Lying in bed only fed the restless thoughts. I filled the tub with warm water, added a bath bomb Sammy had picked out from the soap store in town, and slipped into the water. The bath bomb fizzled like a can of Coke underneath the surface, turning the water a shimmering blue hue. It smelled like lavender and eucalyptus. As I inhaled the soothing scents, my mind finally quieted. The candlelight flickered as I lowered my head beneath the surface of the water.
There was something calming about being underwater. It distorted the entire world. When I was a kid at camp, I’d hold myself under the lake and stare up at the sun, watching the pattern of the water warp the sky. It muted everything too, from the sounds around you to the thoughts in your head. I stayed under for as long as possible before coming up to take a breath.
When I surfaced, it was like turning up the volume on the TV. Everything seemed a hundred times louder. Water dripped from the faucet. The radiator hummed. The last pebble of the bath bomb fizzled out. And a voice echoed overhead.
I held perfectly still, straining to listen to the voice over the rippling water. It seemed to be coming from the floor above me. Across the hall, Ben snored loudly, so it definitely wasn’t him upstairs. The voice sounded like it belonged to a woman anyway.
Water sloshed over the edge of the tub and
poured off my legs as I stepped out. I shook off the excess, wrapped myself in my robe, and put on my slippers. I followed the muted voice down the corridor and into the entryway, where the aggravated tone became clearer. Up the stairs, I crossed the mezzanine, relying on my ear to locate whoever had taken up residence in our house without permission. At the end of the second-floor corridor, Ben had placed a strip of caution tape to block off the parts of the house we hadn’t explored yet, but the voice radiated from somewhere beyond it. I stepped over the yellow barricade.
The east wing of the house was dark and drab. It had not yet been touched by Jim’s crew and likely never would be. It would take months to redo the mansion entirely, and our stay here had an expiration date. This wing played host to more bedrooms and bathrooms. The long hallways and multiple doors made it look more like an ancient hotel than a house. The voice carried from somewhere down the hall. My heart thudded in my rib cage as I crept toward it.
It was definitely a woman, and she was upset. I recognized her bitter intonation as the same one I used with Ben when he was acting particularly righteous. I reached the last door at the end of the hall. A flickering light emanated from the crack at the floor, and the shadows of a pair of feet walked to and fro. I held my breath and listened.
“I can’t take it anymore,” the woman hissed from the room. “We’re leaving, and you won’t be able to stop us.” There was a few moments of silence, as if the woman were listening to someone respond. Then: “Don’t you threaten me. I’ve had enough.”
My heart hammered against my chest. Who the hell had broken into our house to have such a heated argument with thin air? I hovered on the threshold, trying to decide what to do. The safest solution was to call the cops or at least get Ben as backup, but something kept me rooted to this corner of the expensive, hundred-year-old rug.
“Don’t come near me!” the woman shouted. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper, as if raising her voice had been unintentional. “I’ll shoot you. I swear I’ll shoot you.”
The Haunting of Abram Mansion Page 9
