by Becky Melby
So maybe there were a few differences between spinning in therapy and the real thing. One, she had to get on, and two, she had to get off. She eased the kickstand back then tried to figure out her next move. After a moment, she tipped it toward her and lifted her leg over the crossbar then righted it. With a deep breath for courage, she stepped on one pedal, lifted her other foot off the ground, and began pedaling. “Whoo-hoo!” She turned onto the highway with a freedom she hadn’t experienced in well over a year.
Her GPS led her to a corner restaurant in Waterford. Miraculously, she dismounted without making a total fool of herself. Walking into the restaurant was another story. She had a love/hate relationship with the piece of curved metal in her right hand. At the moment, sidling to the door like a born-on-a-horse cowpoke, she was grateful for it.
A whiteboard just inside the restaurant advertised down-home specials. A potted aloe plant decorated the juice dispenser behind the cash register. Baskets filled with thick-sliced bread in plastic wrap lined the backsplash in the waitress station. It had the feel of all small-town restaurants—the kind of place where people walked in and said, “I’ll have the usual.”
The thought had no sooner materialized than a waitress called across the room to a man in bib overalls sitting in a booth, gnarled hands folded on the table. “Belgian waffles, Tom?”
The man nodded. “Of course.”
Emily followed the hostess past the counter to a table beside a floor-to-ceiling mural. Two pillars flanked a fountain and a blue lake shimmered in the background.
The left-hand page of the menu tempted Mexican specials like 3 Tacos De Chorizo Con Huevos. Would she someday wake up hungry for chorizo sausage first thing in the morning? Would she someday wake up hungry?
Her waitress, in black slacks, white blouse, and black apron, was the one who’d called across the room to the guy in overalls. “Morning.” She flashed an enormous grin. Highlighted waves tumbled across her forehead as she poured coffee. “Ready to order?”
“I’d like the yogurt parfait. And do you happen to have a phone book?”
“No prob.”
The book was in her hands in seconds. As she searched the yellow pages for resale shops, it fell open to REMODELING. On a half-page ad for Braden Improvements, the owner’s picture took up most of the space. Emily raised an eyebrow. Smart move. Even in black-on-yellow, the man was startlingly handsome.
Remodeling, additions, sunrooms, basements. The man did it all, albeit reluctantly. Their talk in the attic had ended with him offering to make the attic habitable for her while they discussed possibilities. Gazing at the yellow face, she questioned her motives for giving him a second chance. How much did she owe him for rescuing her from the tower? And did gratitude really have anything to do with it?
“Can I help you find something?” The waitress filled a coffee mug. Dangling the pot from her fingers, she folded her arms across her waist. “I’ve lived in the area for thirty-one years. There, I just admitted my age.”
“I’m looking for a secondhand store that sells furniture.”
“There are a couple in Burlington. Can I ask what you’re looking for? If you can wait a week or so, we’ll be getting stuff together for an estate sale. Some antiques, some just old, but all quality.”
“I’m not in a hurry and I don’t need modern. I don’t even need quality. I just bought an old house in Rochester. I need a table, a couple of lamps, and a window air conditioner. I’ll be living there during the remodeling and then trying to sell it. I just need enough creature comforts to get by for a few months.”
“Technically I live in Rochester, too, but we’re out in the country. Hey.” The woman tapped a fingertip on Jake Braden’s eye. “Are you the one who bought the Ostermann place?”
Speechless, Emily nodded.
“My cousin Sherry lives across the street from you. Have you met Sherry and Rod yet?”
Emily shook her head as her imagination pushed PLAY on a Disney tune. It’s a small world after all.… “I met two little boys. Are they—”
“Russell and Michael. Aren’t they adorable?” She set the coffeepot down and pulled out a chair. “I’m Tina Palin-as-in-Sarah. No relation. I watch the boys on my days off sometimes, so we’ll probably run into each other.” She tapped again, this time on Jake Braden’s lips. “Did you hire Jake? I heard he was bidding on it.”
“Well, I…” It’s a small, small world…. The music warped like the background song for a scary carnival ride.
“He does amazing work. He did our family room. We couldn’t find a fireplace mantel to match our woodwork, so he made one. Hand-carved. It’s beautiful.” She waved at two middle-aged women. “Coffee’s on its way, girls.” She tapped her finger on Jake’s face. “I’ll have to stop by and see your progress.”
“Um…” Emily aligned the salt shaker with the pepper. “Thank you.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you first dibs on the estate sale. Call me next week and tell me when you can stop over.” Tina scribbled her name and number on a napkin, laughing as she did. “People think waitresses do this all the time, but I only wrote my number on a napkin once before—and I married the guy.”
“Very romantic. How long have you been married?” And why am I asking?
“Six years next week. We have two kids and…” She dipped her head and looked around. “Don’t tell anyone, but number three’s on the way.”
Emily swallowed hard. “Congratulations.” She took a long, slow slurp of coffee.
“I don’t want my boss treating me special or worrying that I’m going to quit. I worked up to my ninth month with the other two.” Her chair scraped on the wood floor as she stood. “Anyways, give me a call and come on over, and I’ll stop by your place when I’m in the neighborhood. I’ll check in on your progress”—she patted her belly discreetly behind the coffeepot—“and you can check on mine.”
Wrapping both hands around her cup, Emily closed her eyes. She’d left Traverse City because her sister had finally gotten pregnant.
And Emily couldn’t figure out how to be happy for her.
CHAPTER 4
Adam Sutton rummaged in the back of a bathroom drawer that should have been cleaned out months ago. There had to be something in here that could camouflage the lump on his cheek.
When he found a tube labeled “concealer,” he had to work up the guts to pull the cap off. Just opening the drawer made the whole room smell like Mom.
He was reading a book on the brain and how memory works. The olfactory bulb is part of the brain’s limbic system…closely associated with memory and feeling…sometimes referred to as the “emotional brain.” He looked up at the clock that used to make bird sounds every hour and the birdhouse border surrounding the room. He’d laughed at Mom for stenciling it. “Looks like little outhouses,” he’d told her. The candle on the back of the toilet was covered with dust. Black crumbles of wick speckled the wax. It hadn’t been lit in almost a year. He picked it up and held it to his nose. Green apple. Smell has the power to call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously.
As he pulled the cap off, he breathed through his mouth. The olfactory bulb has intimate access to the amygdala, which processes emotion. Science had theories and rules to explain just about everything.
But sadness didn’t follow rules.
Running the tip of his finger over the rounded top of the tan concealer, he tried not to think that the last skin it had touched was his mother’s. Dabbing it under his eye, he winced at the sting, and at the kind of hurt that didn’t show up swollen and purple.
In movies, people talked about being afraid that the face of the person they loved wouldn’t stay in their memory. Maybe that would happen to him someday, but there wasn’t a night he didn’t see his mother’s smile—so clear that at times he actually reached out to hug her as he pulled up his own covers and tucked himself in bed.
He replaced the cap, closed the drawer and his eyes.
New
smells filtered under the bathroom door. Eggs, toast, bacon.
He put his hand on the doorknob. Smells would not trigger memories, however, if it weren’t for conditioned responses. He walked out to the kitchen, where a miniature replica of his mother stood in front of the stove, one hand on her hip, the other stirring eggs in a pan. “Morning.” He took four pieces of toast out of the toaster and began buttering.
“Good morning.” Lexi waved a spatula at him. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “I’ll get to it.”
Lexi was always protecting him. Adam’s mouth hadn’t learned how to stay shut like hers. “If I get in trouble for butter—”
“Get out!” The floor vibrated as Ben slogged into the kitchen. “You got time on your hands? Get started on the lawn.”
Adam’s fingers coiled around the knife. Lexi warned him with a look. He turned away from her, stared at the chunk of butter sliding off the knife and onto the bread. He’d promised Mom he’d take care of his sister, and standing back and watching her cook every meal and wash every dish wasn’t taking care of her. “I’ll get out after I eat.” He spread butter on the last piece of toast and reached into the cupboard for a plate.
Two heavy steps lumbered toward him. The floor groaned. The toast hit the floor. Adam’s back hit the refrigerator.
He didn’t care about the place on his arm that would match his cheek by the time he got to school.
He did care about the tears on Lexi’s face.
One arm wrapped around a bundle of two-by-fours, Jake descended the rickety cellar stairs. The cool was a welcome relief from the heat of the attic.
Working around two other jobs, he’d managed to rewire and insulate Emily’s third story in just over a week. Determined to convince her to put the wrecking ball away and stick her money into new fixtures and cabinets, he’d dedicated his few spare moments to drawing up plans.
Emily wanted to get involved, so he’d suggested she refinish the corner cupboard in the kitchen. The rest of the cabinets had been installed in the fifties or sixties. They had to go, but she’d grudgingly agreed to give this one original piece a second chance. She’d been on her knees, totally engrossed in sanding when he’d peeked in a moment ago. Whether or not she admitted it, she was enjoying the job.
The woman would learn to appreciate history if it killed him.
He dropped the boards and aimed his worklights at the shelves. He’d cut half a dozen braces when he heard halting steps behind him. Emily held out a glass of iced tea.
He took the glass. “Thank you. How’s it coming?”
She shrugged. “It’s coming.”
Hands on hips, Jake studied her. Something about her tone sounded fakely bored. He waited.
The tiniest of smiles snuck across perfectly bowed lips. “I know what you’re up to.” One finger wagged at him. “You’re hoping that cupboard and I have a bonding moment.”
“And? Are you?”
She looked away. “I will admit it has potential.”
“That’s always the first step in a relationship.” Jake took a deep draught of tea and watched as the comment sank in and her right eyebrow disappeared behind a lock of hair. “Good tea.” He set the glass on the ledge under the window.
“Anything I can do to help down here?”
“Sure. An extra set of”—pale, smooth—“hands would be a help. Grab that board.”
With an almost masked grimace, she picked it up and handed it to him.
Jake considered pretending he hadn’t noticed, but he wasn’t all that good at pretending. “Should you be doing that? If it hurts, don’t—”
“I’m just stiff from being in one position too long. I loosen up if I move.” She looked away. “I was in a skiing accident a year and a half ago. I’m basically recovered, just not as graceful as I once was.”
Now what was a guy supposed to say to that? He mimicked her eyebrow arch. “You used to be graceful?”
Her eyes glittered, lit by an actual smile. “I used to glide across the dance floor. Graceful as a swan.” Her arms lifted straight out, moving fluidly like soft waves.
Jake swallowed hard. What she’d intended as a goofy shtick mesmerized him. He managed a laugh. And managed not to tell her she was beautiful.
She put her hands on her hips. Every time she did that he had the impression she hadn’t always been the timid woman she appeared to be now. Her head tilted, giving him a new angle from which to appraise her chin. He’d always thought “heart-shaped” was a strange way to describe a face. Until now.
“I have a confession.” She rested a fingertip on her chin. As if he needed it pointed out. “A concession.”
He couldn’t help the grin. “You’re keeping the dining room wall.”
“Not a chance. But—I want to keep the old windows. The glass, anyway. Is that possible—to replace the frames but keep the old glass?”
“Of course.” His grin morphed to a smirk.
“Don’t go getting your hopes up. I’m not caving. I’m refining my vision.”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“You’ve got to be the only remodeler in the country who has to be begged to do more extensive work. My vision makes you money.”
He turned toward the shelf. “Oh, I’ll make money off you. Don’t you worry about that.” He picked up a hammer. “I started working on some ideas last night.”
“I’m hearing the cha-ching already.”
“That’s the sound of quality you’re hearing. You get what you pay for. If you want a decent return on your investment, you won’t cut corners.” And you won’t desecrate a historic landmark. “If you want cheap and fast…”
Her gaze hardened.
“Any problem with securing this to the wall?” He gestured toward the peeling bead board that showed between the boards.
“No. Whatever it takes. I’ve got all my earthly possessions in Rubbermaid bins.”
He rapped his fist against the wood. “It looks stur—“The entire wall swung inward a good inch, banging at the bottom. “What in the…?” He looked up. The top edge of the wood hid behind a ceiling beam. “Do you know what’s behind this?”
She shook her head. As if needing to test the wall’s stability herself, she pushed the panel. Again, it banged at the bottom.
Jake stepped back. The shelves butted up to the adjacent wall on the left, but not on the right.
“Why don’t you stand back a bit? I’ll try moving this.” He grabbed hold of the freestanding shelving unit. It swayed side-to-side, but he couldn’t budge it away from the wall.
Emily stepped in front of him and placed her hands below his. Her ponytail tickled his Adam’s apple. She smelled like the lemon slices floating in the glass on the ledge. “One…two…three.”
It didn’t move. They both stepped away. Jake looked again at the way the top of the wall was hidden from view. With one finger on his lips, he tapped out a nameless tune and then suddenly stopped. He took a closer look at the bead board. His breath caught. “There are two parts.” He pointed to the right side of the wall. “See if you can slide it toward me.”
“The wall?”
“Yes.”
Emily slid her fingers between wood and rock, pulled, and gasped. The entire thing slid, clanging into the far wall. “It’s a door!”
Cool, stale air wafted through the opening. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
Jake bent down and dug in his toolbox for a flashlight. He flicked it on and stepped behind her, lighting up the darkness.
“It’s a room.”
Tamping down his curiosity, he handed the flashlight to Emily. The light arced across rock walls. He tried to peer around her.
“Looks like an old cistern.” She slipped through the opening. “But there are shelves.” Her voice echoed.
Turning sideways, Jake squeezed through the opening and stared at the shadowy emptiness. Low, two-foot-wide boards braced with thick posts lined three walls.
Em
ily rubbed her bare arms. “It must be ten degrees colder in here. A root cellar maybe.”
He didn’t answer. The width of the bottom shelves reminded him of something altogether different—berths in the hold of an ancient ship.
The flashlight beam bounced from wall to ceiling and stopped at a square door in the wood above their heads. “Where does that lead? Wouldn’t it open under the porch?”
“It would now. Maybe the porch wasn’t there when the door was put in.”
Emily ran the beam across high shelves and a row of black hooks. “It looks like a coatroom like you see in old schoolhouses.” She lowered herself to a bench and scanned the room for a long moment then turned her eyes to him. “This feels significant. I can’t explain it. I guess that sounds crazy….” Her voice trailed to a whisper. She flattened her hand against a wall.
