The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  She glanced back at him as she retrieved the butter and milk from the fridge. “We still play bridge in the same club.”

  “Yeah, but seems after losing her husband and all you’d be—”

  “Don, I know full well what happened to the Novaks.” She opened the oven for the rolls. “The rolls are ready. Grab that bread basket, son.”

  “I’m taking her to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Who? Irene Novak?” Mom dumped the steaming rolls into the basket and covered them with a cloth. “Take that to the table.”

  “Everleigh, Mom. Everleigh.” He ducked into the dining room, greeting his sister and her husband, Troy. Mom was waiting for him when he came back through to change his clothes.

  “What do you mean you’re taking her to dinner? You have a lovely girlfriend in Dallas. Don’t mess that up, Don. Women like Carol Ann don’t wait for any man. And is it fair to Everleigh? Don’t toy with her affections. Mark my words, Don, Carol Ann is the kind of woman you need by your side.”

  “Doesn’t hurt she’s my boss’s daughter, does it?”

  Mom patted his face. “Not at all. You treat her right and your future is set, my handsome boy. Now, go change.”

  Don tugged at his tie, the comment, the warm kitchen suffocating him. How did he tell Dad he wanted to do something else? To work with George Granger?

  In his old room he hung up his starched work shirt and tugged a light sweater over his T-shirt. Back in the kitchen Mom had Dad carving the meat.

  “Did Standish tell you we’re moving ahead with the merger?” Dad dropped a thick slice of beef onto the platter.

  “Dad, I’ve never understood why you want to merge with him.” Dad was successful in his own right yet somehow viewed Standish as the popular kid he wanted to pal around with. But this wasn’t sandlot baseball. This was Callahan Cars. “He’s a hard business man, Dad. It’s his way or no way.”

  “Exactly. What we need at Callahan. Together we’d own the south central Texas car business. He has the business mind while I possess the gift of a salesman. You’re the heir to both businesses, so why not merge? It’s a good decision, Don. I’m surprised you can’t see it.”

  “Oh, I can see it. But for Standish. Look, Pop, I know you’re old friends, but he can be, well, cunning.”

  “And won’t it be great to be on his team?” Dad waved the knife, slicing the air. “Once you marry Carol Ann, the sky is the limit. I’ve waited my whole life for this kind of opportunity.”

  “Dad, Callahan’s is doing well. Why give up control to Dewey?”

  “Son, if a kid comes along while you’re playing marbles and says, ‘Can I play?’ then shows you his bigger, better marbles, what’re you going to say? No? You partner with him and play against all the other kids. Next thing you know, you’re at the drugstore buying Sugar Daddy’s and jawbreakers with money left over for the piggy bank.”

  “So we’re stealing the other kids’ lunch money now?”

  “You’re inviting them into a game of chance. Such is life. You have to be better than the other guy. Dewey is better than the other guy. This is a good strategy, Donny-boy.”

  “Harold,” Mom said, hands on her hips. “That meat isn’t going to carve itself.”

  “On it, Sher.” Dad motioned for Don to move close while he sliced more meat. “Don’t tell your mother, but I’m talking to a builder. Going to move her into Castle Heights like she’s always wanted.”

  “How do you propose to keep that a secret?”

  “Shhh, she’ll hear you.”

  “What are you two going on about?” Mom inspected the meat platter. “That’s enough for now, Harold. Oh, the gravy, I forgot to make the gravy.” She shoved Dad aside and dropped a skillet on the burner. “Five minutes. Pearl,” she called, bending toward the dining room. “Come get the meat. Cover it with the lid from the breakfront.”

  Dad glanced at Mom as she frantically concocted the gravy and pulled his pack of rumpled cigarettes from his pocket.

  “Smoke on the porch, Harold. Not in my kitchen.”

  Don followed Dad into the cold, crisp air.

  “I was thinking of a summer wedding,” Dad said, propping against the porch post, striking his match and setting the flame to the end of the cigarette. “You’re saving for the ring, aren’t you? Can’t go cheap with a girl like Carol Ann.”

  “Granny gave me her ring.”

  “That ring is older than Methuselah, and looks it too.” Dad tapped ashes over the railing. “Use that for a Christmas present or an anniversary. Carol Ann needs a new ring. From Tiffany’s. I’ve a meeting in New York next month. Want to tag along?”

  “I’m working.” Through the kitchen door came the sounds of laughter, the sounds of love. All the things that anchored Don during boot camp, during the cold, dark nights when he was a million miles from home, during his first days on Baylor’s campus as an old man in his early twenties.

  “You sure? I’ll bring you a catalog then.” Dad squinted at him through cigarette smoke. “Everything okay, Donny?”

  “Sure, why do you ask?” Coward. Come on, fess up. Just say it. You want to go into the insurance business with George Granger.

  “I sold three trucks to Cameron Air and Heating today,” Dad said, tapping the loose ashes over the flower bed. “That’ll look good on the books for the merger.”

  “Dad, listen, be sure to read the small print with Dewey. Remember three years ago when he bought Trainor Trucking? Flick Trainor was supposed to get a cut of the profits for twenty years.”

  Dad regarded him, listening, smoke twisting through the cold night air.

  “But not if sales dropped below a certain number—and don’t you know Standish made sure no one bought a Trainor truck for over a year. Totally cut Flick out.”

  Dad chuckled. “I’m sure there are two sides to that story. Standish is savvy, I’ll grant you, but he won’t cheat me. And if I have any doubts, son, you’re my ace in the hole. Sher, how’s that gravy coming? I’m weak from hunger.”

  Ace in the hole? Speak up, you idiot, before the merger.

  “Put out your cigarette and come on in.”

  Dad took a long drag and stamped out the burning tobacco.

  “You know you should give those up,” Don said, aiming for a soft segue. “They cause cancer.”

  “Doctors are always going on about something.” Dad dropped the dead Marlboro into the standing ashtray and clapped Don on the back. “My grandpa smoked, my father—you better get going, son, you’re breaking tradition.”

  “You can keep that one.” Say it now. “Dad, I’d like your advice about something. George Granger called and—”

  “Can we do it later?” The screen door clapped as Dad went inside, leaving Don to face his back. “You know my advice is no good on an empty stomach.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Don hesitated with his hand on the latch.

  He’d been to war. Slept in the open. Waded through rivers and streams with water up to his chest. He’d killed the enemy.

  Yet he couldn’t find the words to tell his father he hated working for Standish Dewey. Or that Carol Ann, while as comely as any dame in Hollywood, bored him silly. Fifty years married to her would make him a madman.

  He couldn’t tell his dad he’d met a woman tonight who made his heart feel soft and warm, and maybe, if he was lucky, she’d look back at him and see something worth having.

  chapter eleven

  Beck

  By day three, she still felt like an interloper in someone else’s life, but she was getting used to the house, the quiet, the gobs of light spilling through the many windows, and the song of the night birds.

  She went by the bank as Mr. Christian instructed and asked for Rebekah. She signed the bank card and took two hundred dollars from the account just because.

  But it didn’t feel right. Peering out the upstairs bedroom window, she held Beetle in her arms.

  He sniffed her neck, then stretched to see out, barking when a
black Mercedes eased into view, under the sprawling bare limbs of an oak.

  “What? You don’t like that black car? Did Vinny drive one like that?” She scratched his ears and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry, he won’t bother you again.”

  Beck watched the car for another minute as it crept slowly down the lane, and her cop senses tingled. One of Vinny’s connections?

  Beck, stop. That’s crazy.

  The lowlife dealer had bigger worries than a suspended NYPD sergeant.

  Pulling the curtain closed, she set Beetle down and headed for the shower.

  Let’s see . . . what else?

  Oh, yesterday afternoon Everleigh’s broker called to see how Beck wanted to handle the annuity.

  She talked shop with him, calling upon her decade-old Columbia finance courses before deciding to keep going with the minimum monthly payments. He verified her New York address and social security number, and just like that she was, as they say, “in the money.”

  How could she do good with this windfall? Share the blessings?

  She ordered groceries from Publix and had them delivered.

  Last night Beck popped a big bowl of popcorn—carb lovers unite—and sat down to season one of Gilmore Girls. The ninety-year-old Everleigh was no slouch in the techno department. She had internet and cable and a smart TV with Netflix and Amazon Prime.

  “Show me what you got, Gilmores.”

  In high school her friends were gaga over some guy named Luke, the diner owner, gruff but sweet. There was also a Dean, Jess, and Logan, who divided her friends into teams. Suzie Gunter had a huge falling out with Gracie Fausnaugh over Team Jess versus Team Logan.

  Beck had been too busy for television and fights over TV boyfriends. She had sports and schoolwork, and the business of adjusting to a stepfather, a baby brother, and Wednesday afternoons with a therapist. Which did no good. She still had no memories of her father.

  In between Gilmore Girls episodes, Beck slept—growing a baby was exhausting.

  She explored the house more, curious about photos in the upstairs bedrooms.

  Photos of smiling faces, women with linked arms, men holding fishing poles. One in particular captured Beck’s attention—a large black-and-white picture of a young couple in a gilded frame. Everleigh and Don?

  Beck had no idea what the woman looked like, and while the walls downstairs were decorated with paintings, these were the first personal photos she’d seen.

  Most were black-and-white. Beck examined the backs looking for clues. One said, Tom Jr., Alice, and kids. Another had the word Pearl written on the back, but nothing more.

  There were no notations on the other four photos. Beck recognized the Studebaker in one. A woman wearing a nice suit and heels leaned against the hood, her handbag dangling from her hand. It had to be Everleigh.

  She was pretty, with an expression that was more than smile-for-the-camera.

  The last photo was small. Not even in a frame. Just tucked between the others. A little blond boy rode his tricycle toward the camera’s eye. The color was faded, and the make of the car in the background was old-school. The date stamp on the yellowing edge was 1960. Stepping into the shower, she soaked herself in warm water.

  “Everleigh, if you meant to leave me your life, why didn’t you at least call me?”

  Maybe Joshua Christian could answer a few more questions. It was one thing to deal with her own whitewashed past, but making assumptions about someone else’s seemed unjust.

  She glanced down at her growing belly. While her past had blank spots and her present, question marks, her immediate future seemed clear.

  In four months she was having a baby, and she had absolutely no concrete plans.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered to the shower wall, to herself.

  She wondered how, or if, Everleigh faced a crisis. Did she have an unexpected blow? Did her parents die young? Did she lose a sibling or a friend?

  A baby? If she was childless, chances were she knew some sort of grief.

  Mom might know, but Beck doubted her memories. While she didn’t have amnesia, Mom had done a good job of stuffing things away, never to be recalled.

  Bruno’s mom was her best bet for Everleigh’s history. They’d finally met yesterday when Beck took Beetle Boo for an evening potty break. They talked briefly on the curb just after Natalie arrived home.

  Stepping from the shower, she wrapped in a towel. She dressed in yoga pants today—her jeans were too tight—and a loose top.

  From the edge of the bed, Beetle Boo stared up at her, his pink tongue peeking out. He grew stronger every day but still maintained a vigil on Beck, whining if he lost sight or scent of her.

  Last night he slept with his paw on her face.

  She dried her hair and clipped it back, then scooped him from the bed. “Let’s see what Lorelai and Rory are up to this morning.”

  She paused by the second-floor master bedroom window and pulled back the lacy curtain, squinting against the light. This room was entirely too bright. She still preferred her night.

  They settled in the BarcaLounger, Beck pausing to check email, then Facebook on her phone. She didn’t post much, but last night she couldn’t resist a snapshot of the endless sunset over the river.

  She had a bunch of comments like “wow” and “Where are you?” Her friend Ellie posted, “Call me.”

  But she didn’t want to call anyone. She wanted to just be. Hide. Unpack this unexpected gift, like Mr. Christian said, and really contemplate her future. She wouldn’t have this kind of time ever again.

  Of course, the biggest question was about Baby Girl. Should Beck give her to a family ready, eager, and desperate for a baby? A family with a father and mother? Where no secret would destroy their love?

  She’d looked at a house to buy in her old Stuytown neighborhood. With the money she’d saved along with Everleigh’s windfall, Beck could buy a decent place. Hire a nanny.

  But—

  Amazon came up on the TV screen, and Beck aimed the remote at Lauren Graham’s face and hit play. At the end of her mental debate, nothing felt right.

  The Gilmore Girls theme song had just started when the doorbell chimed and her phone rang.

  She whacked Beetle in the head trying to pause on a view of Stars Hollow.

  Hunter’s name appeared on her phone screen. She answered as she went for the door, Beetle yipping and hobbling alongside her. She scooped him up before descending to the main floor.

  “How’re you doing?” Hunter Ingram sounded contrite and humble.

  “Fine. Can you hold on? Someone’s at the door.”

  She opened to find Bruno on the porch, wearing an LA Lakers jacket, leaning against the porch post.

  He straightened. “What are you—oh, you’re on the phone.”

  She waved him in, unsure what else to do. Slamming the door in his face seemed a bit rude, even though Hunter was on the phone.

  “Take a seat,” she said, walking through the kitchen and out the back door, fixed on a brick fire pit on the side of the garage-barn. “Hunter?” She stopped somewhere between the house and the garage-barn. The air was cold but the sunlight warm.

  “Beck, yeah, I just wanted to see . . .” He sighed. “Are you okay?”

  “I am. Don’t worry.”

  “But I do worry. How’s Florida?”

  “Nice. Colder than I imagined but warmer than home.”

  “What’s up with this house?”

  “Hunter, please.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “You don’t have to be my partner here. You’re my boss. You’re married. Let’s not pretend we are intimate friends even though . . .” She flashed on the moment they stumbled, drunk, into Rosie’s utility closet—Beck squeezed her eyes shut and crushed the images.

  Baby Girl might see and demand an explanation.

  “I know, but it’s my child too, Beck.”

  “So what are you saying? You’re going to tell your wife and make
us a threesome?”

  “No, no, I don’t know, but I don’t want to be left out completely. Do you need anything?”

  “Hunter, you were left out the moment you hooked up with a woman not your wife in a broom closet.”

  He sighed and the conversation wilted.

  “Let’s not complicate this,” she said. “I’m fine. In fact, this Florida woman left me some money, and until I decide what to do with this house, my job, Baby Girl—”

  “It’s a girl?”

  Beck smiled, facing the salty breeze. “I had an ultra before I came down. She’s healthy, Hunter, and very grainy with shades of gray.”

  His short laugh was sweet. “I’m sure she’ll come out in living color.”

  “Beck?” Bruno came through the back door. “Your dog is crying and I can’t—”

  She turned with a nod, holding up the just-a-minute finger. “Hunter, I need to go. Someone stopped by.”

  Bruno stepped back inside.

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

  Hunter was a man’s man, a cop’s cop. It wasn’t in his DNA to shirk his duty, no matter how uncomfortable. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him.

  “I-if you want, I-I’ll try.”

  “One more thing. I’m transferring. Midtown. Captain Leeds has approved the move. I’ll be on days. The change will be good for my—”

  Marriage? He didn’t say the word, but Beck felt the guilt in his confession. She hated that she was part of their story.

  “Good for you. Leeds is a great cop. You’ll learn a lot from him. Good luck.”

  “I’m not ducking out on you.”

  “I know.”

  “Without me at the Ninth, you can come back with no awkwardness.”

  Why did he have to be so nice? So supportive? She’d rather there be a wall between them, an unspoken resentment driving them to opposite corners.

  “See you, Ingram.”

  “See you, Holiday.”

  “Everything okay?” Bruno said, stepping back out onto the porch as she approached.