Silence.
Maybe Jacob had left for work and Kara Anne had gone back to bed. That was my hope as I made a break for the kitchen. I waited outside the doorway until I was sure it was quiet. Then I made a dash for the door.
"You're up early."
I froze, my heart pounding in my ears. Slowly, I turned back to see my big brother sitting at the kitchen table. He was cradling a cup of coffee in both hands, his expression fretful between the lines of a forced smile.
I managed to smile back.
"Going to work?"
Of course I was. He knew that.
Meaning he wanted to talk. Not good.
I glanced around, looking for Kara Anne, half expecting her to come bursting back into the room, guns hot, at any moment. The last thing I needed was her screaming in my face.
Once I was sure she wasn't lurking nearby, I shuffled over to pour myself a cup of black coffee and sat down across from him.
Jacob shifted in his seat. "So how's the new job working out? It's been what, two weeks now? Things still going well?"
I shrugged. They were going about as well as I'd expected. It was a lot of work for one person—renovating a house that size that was basically left to rot. But I was making progress. So far I hadn't broken any of Pearce's sacred rules and Rhonda was keeping me well supplied with delicious sandwiches.
"I still can't believe there's actually someone living there. Long as I can remember it's sat empty," he continued. Jacob still talked like I could answer out loud. I couldn't decide if it was out of habit or out of courtesy. Either way, I liked it. He was one of the few people who didn’t make me feel pathetic. "I can only imagine how much work it is. But the money's good, right?"
I smirked. Yeah. It was decent. Not oncologist pay, though.
"Kara's pushing me to move you out again." He finally got to the point. "She wants your room for a crafting space."
I arched a brow. What the hell was a "crafting space" anyway?
Jacob shook his head like he could read my mind. "Something she found on Pinterest, I'm guessing. Anyway, I talked her down for now. But she'll keep doing this every few months. And … she does have a point."
I cringed. Here it was, the real reason he'd wanted to talk.
"You're doing well, in spite of things. You've gotten some good work experience under your belt. Made good money." He was trying to soften the blow. "But you can't hide here forever. Sooner or later you'll have to start over again, right? Find your own path?"
I wasn't sure how to respond. It's not like I enjoyed being a mooch. But frankly, the idea of moving out was daunting. Here I had a relative cocoon of safety. I had a routine. People who knew me and didn't look at me like a mutant or treat me like a retard. Even Kara Anne, despite being a cold-hearted bitch, knew I wasn't slow. She had known me before.
The idea of moving somewhere new, of having to adjust all over again, made me nauseous. How long had it taken before? Weeks, months—it’d all been such a blur. Countless nights waking up in the dark, drenched in my own sweat, screaming and shaking while the demons in my brain frolicked.
Was I ready to go through all that again?
"I want more for you, Joseph. I want you to have a full, happy life. I'm not forcing you out. I'm not even asking you to leave. I want you to think about what you want out of life, ok? Then maybe we can figure out how to get you started on that path." Jacob was using his cancer-doctor's voice. He put a hand on my shoulder.
Trouble was, I didn't know what someone in my situation was supposed to do. What was the next step? I mean, I couldn’t go back to the way things were before. Even if my old school buddies still hung around the same watering holes and dive bars, I couldn’t go there anymore. They didn’t treat me the same, and I hated the sense that they were all treading lightly around me, afraid of setting me off like I was some kind of land mine.
I missed them, though. I missed feeling comfortable around people and knowing what to say or when to crack a joke. Now I was a loose piece that didn’t fit into my hometown puzzle anymore. I had no one but family to turn to, and no idea what I wanted out of life now. I was drifting, silently orbiting around the rest of humanity.
My head was boiling over with questions as I drove to the Filibrault place. I parked in the front drive and began to unload my tools from the back, still mulling it over in my mind. Overthinking everything was my favorite pastime these days.
I ducked inside long enough to show Pearce that, once again, I was here on time. Then I hung my coat on the rack by the door, put on my gloves, and got to it.
After a few hours of taming the hugely overgrown hedges out front, I took a break to get some lunch, something to drink, and pick the bits of leaves out of my hair. Rhonda had gourmet pimento cheese and cucumber sandwiches today and a hot pot of dark coffee waiting for me. That woman was charming her way right to the top of my list of favorite people.
"Looking a little down today, sweetie?" She patted my back as she walked past. Every time I saw her, she was always cooking something that smelled fabulous. She had a work ethic that would’ve made even the meanest drill sergeant smile. She never stopped moving, and I had yet to see her sit down.
I shrugged and crammed half a sandwich in my mouth.
"Lady problems, I bet. Cute young man like you probably has them lining up," she teased.
I grinned around a mouthful of food.
"Ah, see? I was right. I’ve got a nose about those things. Comes from raising boys, you know. And you got that kind of smile that makes the girls come running. Sinful sweet—that’s what my mother used to call it. Got to watch out for those sinful sweet smiles."
I blushed and looked away. She tugged on my ear when she made her next pass. I guess technically she was right, just not about it being my lady necessarily. Thank god for that. Kara Anne was not the kind of woman I wanted as one of my problems.
I put all thoughts of lady problems out of my mind as I stepped outside. I still had a lot to get done. The mornings were generally sunnier, so I tried to spend them doing the outdoor work. The evenings got gloomier and cloudier as the day went on so I focused more on the indoor repairs. I'd already patched up and hung some new drywall in several rooms. Eventually, I'd have to take Pearce to the hardware store to select paint colors. But until then, I was in the process of dismantling the plumbing in the downstairs bathrooms. It was all rusted and in dire need of new fixtures.
I needed to make another run to the store for more glue for the pipes and caulking for around the drains. Pearce had threatened to have me put down new tile, so I needed to grab some samples for her to pick from that might come close to matching the original. I stopped in the downstairs washroom to rinse the dirt from my face, neck, and hands before I grabbed my coat off the hook by the door.
A door slammed behind me suddenly, followed by the soft thump, thump, thump of footsteps retreating up the stairs.
I whipped around.
No one except Rhonda was supposed to be down here. But she wasn't anywhere in sight.
Nothing but the cold, drafty foyer and me.
Ghosts.
My skin tingled, making all the hairs on my arms and neck prickle. It was all I could think about as I got in my truck to go. It gave me a little thrill of panic that I wasn't used to these days. My stomach swirled and flipped as I sat in the driveway for a few minutes, watching the upstairs windows for a face to appear.
But I never saw one.
At the hardware store, I rolled a squeaky wheeled cart around the aisles until I had most everything I needed. Then I stopped at the tile department and waited at the service counter. It took a little while, a few rings of the "I need service" bell, but finally an employee appeared—a bright-faced woman with a plastic nametag on her orange work apron.
"How can I help you today?"
She was all smiles until I brought out the notepad, then I got that typical confused stare and awkward silence while I scribbled down my request for porcelain tile and gro
ut color samples.
"Oh. Squared or rectangular tiles? Or would you like to take a few of our sample catalogs?"
Catalogs would be great. I need to take a few to my employer so they can pick something out for a renovation job.
The woman smiled. “Of course. What about some samples for grout colors?”
I had to turn to a new, blank page to answer.
Only, it wasn't blank.
There, in curly feminine script, someone had left me a message. One word, smack dab in the middle of the page so I wouldn't miss it.
Hello.
I stared at it.
Pearce hadn't written it. I doubted Rhonda had, either. And Kara Anne had handwriting like a middle school kid.
This was way more elegant. More … educated. The H was swirly and intricate. The rest of the letters were small, slanted, and neat.
"Everything okay, sir?"
I glanced up at the tile department employee who was still waiting on me to give her some direction. I'd forgotten all about her.
Turning to a different page, I quickly asked for all the sample catalogs she could spare, promising I would bring them back when my boss had made a decision. She obliged, and I left with an armload of trifold cardboard sample books and a weird knot in my chest.
Someone in that house had left me a note.
The ghost. The face in the window.
4
THE GIRL UPSTAIRS
—Joseph—
The more I thought about it on the drive back to the house, the more upset I became. No way it was a ghost. I’d never believed in that kind of stuff, and I wasn’t about to start now.
So that meant that someone—a girl—had gone through my notebook.
I was totally exposed. Reading my notes meant she knew basically all there was to know about me. Hell, the first ten pages were canned responses to common questions so I didn't have to write them over and over.
Hello, my name is Joseph Clancey.
Yes.
No.
Thank you.
You know, stuff like that. And let's not even go into the fact that I had my name, birthdate, social security number, address, and my brother's name and number written on the inside cover so I could get help in a medical emergency.
Yes, like a damn dog.
"If lost, please return me to … "
Damn embarrassing, that's what it was. And I could only assume she had read all of this. Meanwhile, I knew nothing about her. I hadn't even known she'd existed outside my imagination until now.
By the time I parked in the driveway, I felt violated and a little pissed off. I glared at the window in the tower. No one was looking back though. The sunlight peeked through the clouds, shining off the old, wavered glass of the windowpane. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and mulled it over a little longer.
What to do … What to do …
I couldn't exactly go to Pearce about it. I had a sense I wasn't supposed to know about the girl upstairs. Hence all the secrecy and the rules about not being allowed up there unescorted. And Rhonda? Well, it would've been safer to ask her about it, but then again I didn't want to get anyone else in trouble with the old hag.
So it was on me.
I took out my pen, unfolding my notebook to the page with the mysterious greeting on it, and started to write.
Hello. I'd introduce myself, but I guess you already know I’m the new groundskeeper.
I briefly debated putting in a pleading request that she not steal my identity and open up a credit card. I didn't have that much money to start with. But in case she hadn't thought of that yet, I decided not to give her any fresh ideas. Instead, I scribbled out my social security number and shut the notebook. I crammed it and the pen back into my coat pocket, then I left it in the usual spot—on the hook by the door.
Now I had to wait.
Easier said than done. I’m not an inherently patient person. I tried to work as usual, like nothing was going on, but I couldn't help but steal glances over my shoulder at any sound. I found excuses to go outside so I could check the window. Of course, she wasn't there.
By the end of the day, I felt even more like an idiot because I hadn't seen any trace of her. What proof did I have the note had even come from someone in the house? None. It could have just as easily been Kara Anne or one of her stupid friends trying to screw around with me. If so, it was working beautifully.
I went over the catalogs with Pearce, which didn't require much dialogue or the use of my notebook. She understood through my Tarzan-esque gestures "tile go here" and "you pick tile." Not much else to it.
I packed up to leave, crossing off another workday. Grabbing my coat off the hook, I trudged to my truck and sank down behind the steering wheel. It took all I had not to look up at the window again.
But before I could stop myself, I took out my notebook and began thumbing through the pages for the very last one.
My heart stopped for the second time that day.
You weren't smiling as much today. Usually you smile while you work.
I swallowed. She'd been watching me. But how? From where?
There was one more line, written like an afterthought further down the page.
My name is Beverly.
5
THE MAN OUTSIDE
—Beverly—
He came and went like clockwork.
He was nearly religious with his predictability. Every morning at 7:45, he arrived and worked outside until noon, then he came inside and ate lunch. At 1 PM sharp, he began working again, depending on the weather. On clearer days, he stayed outside to wrangle the wild gardens and overgrown foliage. Otherwise, he came inside and rattled around downstairs—often where I couldn't see.
Our new groundskeeper was a bit strange, though. As far as I could tell, he didn’t speak. I didn't notice it right away. After all, he spent most of his time outside. But the more I watched him, the more I longed to hear what he sounded like. It had been a long time since I’d heard the voice of someone new. And after a week of sitting with my ears pressed to the floors or against the windows in the hopes of catching even one word from him, I began to suspect something was peculiar about him.
He never made a single sound. Not a cough. Not a hum. Not even so much as a whistle. Rhonda talked to him, and he never replied.
I had seen him outside, jotting things down in a little pocket-sized notebook. At the time, I'd assumed he was a stickler for keeping good work notes or taking lists of Mrs. Pearce's demands. Now I suspected it was more than that.
Though the only way to be sure was to see the notebook for myself. And that wasn't so easily done.
Mrs. Pearce didn't want to tell me anything about him. She must've liked him quite a lot. He did seem to have a good work ethic, something I knew she would approve of. So by keeping him from me, she was ensuring that he wouldn't have any temptation to get too curious and lose his job. Our past three groundskeepers had been too old to find me interesting. They'd been lazy, wasteful, or late, and any of those things were fireable offenses by her standards.
This guy, however, looked like he might only be a few years older than I was.
And he was handsome, which I was sure hadn’t had anything to do with Mrs. Pearce hiring him. It was almost certainly a cruel coincidence. His dark hair was cut short in a clean, no-nonsense style. He didn’t dress fashionably. In fact, I was beginning to speculate he might not own anything other than old t-shirts, stained work jeans, and flannel.
Normally, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to a man like that. I wasn’t much of an outdoorsy person, even before. His features more than made up for it, though. He had a squared jaw flecked with short, dark stubble and a well-defined brow. Working outside had tanned his skin to a pleasing, healthy bronze and there was a serene gentleness to his gray-blue eyes.
Personally, I enjoyed the way he smiled while he worked, as though he were holding a private conversation with himself. His smile was utterly contagious and pu
t dimples in his cheeks. On gloomy days, I haunted every window near where he worked, watching for that smile as earnestly as someone stretched out under the night sky waiting to spot a shooting star.
Every time he went inside, my heart sank. All the color drained from my world. I was sucked back into the shadows of my room, desperately trying to visualize that smile. I missed him, even if I didn’t know anything about him. I missed watching his casual feats of strength as he worked and the way his forehead creased a little whenever he was concentrating. I missed the silly things he did when he thought no one was looking, like pointing the leaf blower at his face to make his cheeks flap.
So if Mrs. Pearce wasn't going to give me anything, I was forced to find out more about him on my own.
I had to plan carefully. Getting caught was not an option. I waited for a day when I knew Mrs. Pearce would be taking her own lunch in the parlor downstairs. Then I put on a long turtleneck sweater with my tights and socks. I wrapped a scarf around my head so that only my eyes peered out.
And I crept down the stairs. My heart fluttered erratically, battering against my ribs like a caged sparrow. Every step, every tiny sound, made my body tense.
I couldn't hesitate. I only had a few minutes. I moved quiet as a cat to the base of the stairs and peeked through the keyhole.
There he was, sitting at the counter eating sandwiches with his back to me. Rhonda was chatting with him, and yet he still never said a word. When he turned his head to the side, however, I could see his face was flushed like he was embarrassed. I wondered why.
I grabbed the heavy glass knob and twisted, slowly and carefully. It creaked. My heartbeat clashed in my ears.
Then it was open.
Cool air from outside rushed in. The smell of trees, dirt, sawdust, and rain, it washed over me and made my eyes fill with tears.
The Distance Between Stars Page 2
