The House at Rose Creek

by Proctor, Jenny

  Kate looked around the cluttered room. It stretched the full length of the house, and small windows at each end filtered in soft sunlight, casting dusty shadows around the room. Much of what filled the attic was quickly discernible as junk—stuff Kate was sure she would, as soon as time allowed, clean out and simply throw away. But it couldn’t all be junk. Kate found herself itching to dig through the long-forgotten boxes to unearth the history and happenings of years past. Drawn by old habit, she walked to the one corner of the attic, where she knew exactly what she would find. Most of what was in her parents’ home when they died had been sold or given away, but before anything had been taken, Aunt Mary had walked Kate through the house and told her to point out anything she wanted to keep. Her childlike vision of value did not extend to furniture or fine art or anything else a casual observer may have considered lovely and worth keeping. But to her, what she kept were treasures without price: a small porcelain figurine of a mother smiling down at an infant child in her arms, a gift to Kate’s mother, she was told, when she was born; a smooth wooden bowl, brought back from her parents’ honeymoon in Hawaii; her mother’s purse; her father’s reading glasses; and the soft, silky robe her mother put on when she made breakfast in the morning, among other things.

  For the first few years after her parents’ death, Kate kept her side of the bedroom she shared with Leslie full of her parents’ belongings. Eventually, though, as she grew up, things that expressed her own personality replaced her parents’ possessions: posters covered her walls, and music and books covered the surfaces of her dresser and desktop. Some things had remained—her mother’s jewelry box, supplemented by Kate’s own trendy offerings, and the shoebox that housed all of the pictures from Kate’s first seven years of life. But everything else was eventually relegated to this quiet corner of the attic. Even into her teenage years, when Kate felt overwhelmed, she would escape to her small attic refuge, close her eyes, and imagine her parents close by.

  Kate smiled as she looked through the old orange crate that held so many of her childhood memories and emotions. She picked up her mother’s old robe and held it close to her face, breathing in the scent of the flimsy fabric. Any lingering scent had faded years ago, but the action alone was enough to trigger Kate’s memory and fill her mind with the wispy scent of roses and sweet honeysuckle.

  Kate returned the robe and noticed a single picture standing sideways in the corner of the crate. She picked it up. It was a snapshot of her parents standing next to a forest service sign for Morgan Falls Trail. Kate had hiked the trail numerous times herself. It was a short loop just a few miles outside of town, with a beautiful waterfall at the end. Kate’s mother was pregnant in the picture, her father standing behind her, hands resting on her swollen belly. Kate wondered who had taken the picture. A stranger, most likely, willing to help the happy couple capture the moment, freezing their dreams and aspirations all in one single frame. She traced the outline of her father’s dark hair that nearly touched his shoulders in the photo.

  It’s so much like mine, she thought, running her fingers through her thick and often unruly hair. Thanks for that, Dad.

  She turned away from the crate, keeping only the picture with her, and remembered once again why she’d come up to the attic in the first place. “If I were a paintbrush, where would I be?” She spoke out loud, disturbing the stillness around her. After several minutes of fruitless searching, Kate gave up, deciding to go to the hardware store first thing in the morning.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Kate stood in front of the large wall of paint colors at the hardware store, wondering why on earth there had to be so many different shades of white. She held sample cards of eggshell white and misty dawn white and picket fence white up to the light, searching for some variation. Finally, she settled on the aptly named farmhouse white and hoisted two cans of the mixed paint into her cart. Loaded down with brushes and rollers and anything else she thought she’d need to paint a house, Kate turned the corner and moved toward the front of the store. She passed the service desk, where several customers were waiting in line, and recognized Andrew approaching the counter. She ducked behind a large display of toolboxes so she was hidden from his field of vision but not so far away that she couldn’t hear him speak. She listened as the old gentleman working behind the counter said hello.

  “How are you, Andrew?” His tone was familiar, like that of an old friend. He shook Andrew’s extended hand. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I was hoping you could sharpen this for me, Bill.” Andrew lifted a heavy ax and placed it on the counter.

  “Sure, sure. You’ve got some wood to cut, then?”

  “Actually, I just finished. I borrowed the ax from a neighbor and thought I’d sharpen it up before returning it.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows, impressed with his thoughtfulness. She could tell he’d been working outside. He wore blue jeans, dirt stained and ragged, and an old T-shirt with a soft flannel on top. He also wore a baseball cap turned around backward, which Kate thought made him look much younger than he actually was—unless, of course, he really was only fifteen. Kate smiled at the thought. Bill was nearly finished with his sharpening. She wanted to talk to Andrew but struggled to think of a graceful way to appear from behind the toolboxes without looking like she’d been hiding there on purpose, listening in on his conversation.

  “There you are, son,” Bill said as he handed the ax back to Andrew. “That’s sure nice of you to sharpen an ax before returning it; seems stuff like that hardly happens anymore.”

  Andrew smiled. “It’s a great way to guarantee my neighbor will always lend me his ax.” He took the ax from Bill and thanked him again. Forcing her courage to the surface, Kate took her cart and wheeled out from behind the display. She caught Andrew’s eye and smiled as he recognized her.

  “Hey! It’s Kate, right?” He walked over to her cart, looking curiously at the display of toolboxes from which she’d just emerged. “Were you looking for something?” he asked, glancing behind the toolboxes, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Um, no,” Kate stumbled. “I mean, yes, it’s Kate, but no, I wasn’t looking for something. I was um . . . just looking at the toolboxes,” she continued. “I thought maybe the ones in the back were a different color.”

  Good grief! This is a hardware store, not the shoe department at Macy’s!

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “Just getting this sharpened for a friend.” Andrew held up the ax. “I thought you were leaving town yesterday. Did your plans change?”

  Kate muffled a small laugh as she thought of how much her plans had changed in the past week. “I . . . well, yes. They did,” she answered. “I’m going to be in town for a few weeks after all.”

  Andrew looked over the items in her cart. “So what are you painting? A fence?”

  “A house,” Kate replied. She held up the color sample she’d deliberated over for so long. “See? Farmhouse white.”

  For a brief moment, Andrew looked completely incredulous, but the surprise on his face was gone as quickly as it had arrived. Kate wondered if she had been seeing things.

  “It must not be a very big house,” he said sheepishly. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his tousled hair.

  Kate paused. She wasn’t an expert, but she knew enough to know a house as big as hers would require a much larger amount of paint than two cans. She must not have been thinking but quickly backpedaled to keep Andrew from realizing her misjudgment. “It’s a really big house, actually. But I thought I’d start small, make sure I really like the color before I buy all that I need.”

  “That makes sense. You’ll probably need upwards of ten gallons, maybe more depending on how big your ‘big house’ actually is. Better to be sure on your color before you spend money on that much paint.”

  Kate could tell he was still calculating and wondered how “really big” translated into number of
required paint cans in a man’s head. He turned back to her, smiling, something she decided he really needed to stop doing if she was ever going to maintain her composure.

  “So, painting a house seems like a big job for just one person,” he said.

  Kate took a deep breath. “Well, it’s my house,” she answered. “Newly acquired, and it needs paint. That’s really as far as I’ve thought it through. I guess I’ll have to get help eventually, but it feels good to get started.”

  “Simple enough,” he said as they started walking toward the checkout. Andrew shifted the ax from one hand to the other and glanced at his watch.

  “I’ve got to run,” he said. “I’m due back at work in half an hour, and I still have to return the ax. It was nice bumping into you again.”

  “Same to you,” Kate said. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again—while we’re running, even.”

  Andrew paused for a moment. “That would be nice,” he said.

  Later that afternoon, Kate stood on the front porch and prepared herself and her supplies for painting. As she worked, she thought back over her conversation with Andrew and was thoroughly embarrassed. It was bad enough she had told him she was looking for a different color toolbox—as if they came in various shades of lavender or pale pink. But then, to practically beg him to go running? She sighed as she filled the rolling pan with the clean, crisp farmhouse white then started to paint the square of house in between the front door and the large living room window. The color looked refreshingly white against the weather-stained boards of the old house. It encouraged Kate, and she happily started painting what little house she could reach just standing on the porch. It was weary work, and though in some ways it was therapeutic, Kate quickly realized painting the entire house was, just as Andrew had predicted, a job much too large for one person.

  “Katherine Isabelle! What in Sam Hill are you doing?” Kate hadn’t heard Linny arrive and was startled by her boisterous and very sudden question. She turned, paintbrush in hand, with a smear of white across her cheek and several streaks woven into her hair.

  “I’m painting the house,” she answered simply.

  “Well, I can see that clearly, but by yourself?” Linny asked, validating Kate’s concerns. “Your uncle Grey would hire an entire team of men to come paint this house, and it would still take them all day. You got plans to do anything else while you’re here?”

  Kate put down her paintbrush and stretched her tired muscles.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Linny. I just thought the house needed new paint.” Kate sat down on the porch steps and yawned. The drive and determination she’d felt to paint the house was quickly fizzling out. “I’ve got a list of other things I was going to have Mr. Brumfield fix for me. Does he paint too?”

  Linny scratched her forehead and pushed a few loose strands of silvery hair out of her face. “You haven’t seen Mr. Brumfield in a while, have you, dear? He’s good for a bit of mending here and there, but he’s much too old for something like painting this big, old house. I’ll check with Charles to see if he knows someone who could do it for you without charging you too much. He’ll know somebody, I’m sure.”

  “Speaking of Charles,” Linny continued, “our heat just went out at the house, and I’m worried about him getting cold in the evenings when the temperatures drop a bit.”

  Several years older than Linny, Charles’s health had declined rapidly in recent years. He was a gruff and stubborn old man, and only the women in his life knew he had a softer side. Though his mind was still sharp, he struggled physically and didn’t get around as much as he used to. Linny took it all in stride, caring for Charles with the same iron devotion that bolstered her efforts all over the community. She was good at taking care of people—most especially Charles.

  “Would you like to stay here?” Kate offered. She thought she would actually enjoy the company. After Sam and Bryan left, she managed her first night alone in the house just fine but still found the silence of her solitude in the big house a bit heavy and overwhelming.

  “Are you kidding me?” Linny remarked. “And ask an old man to move himself and his favorite chair and everything else he needs in order to be comfortable? Maybe if it were twenty degrees, dear, but not for just a touch of spring chill.” Linny smiled at Kate. “Thank you for offering though. Your aunt Mary would’ve done the same thing. I was just thinking I could grab those space heaters up in the attic. Would you mind if I borrowed them?”

  “I saw them up there yesterday afternoon when I was looking for paintbrushes. I’ll go get them for you.”

  “Oh, come on now. Don’t rush off on me yet. Just grab them before I go. I’ll sit here for a few minutes if you don’t mind it.”

  Kate leaned on the railing of the porch and looked down at her paint-stained hands, wondering again what she was really trying to accomplish.

  “Have you talked to Leslie today?” Linny asked as she leaned back next to Kate.

  “No. Have you?” Kate looked up, hopeful, but saw Linny’s answer in her eyes before she spoke.

  “I told her she ought to come over here, give you girls the chance to talk things out, but she’s not having any of my suggestions,” Linny said calmly. “Just give her time though, Katie. She can’t stay mad forever.”

  “I didn’t do this, Linny. I didn’t take the house from her. It just happened.”

  “I know that, and so does she,” Linny responded. “But she’s got a lot of pain to work through. Just give her a little bit of time. If you keep reaching out, eventually, she’ll reach back. I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s not easy,” Kate said softly.

  “No one ever said it was.”

  The women sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes before Linny moved to leave.

  “Well, I best get back to Charles,” she said. “He hasn’t had anything to eat yet, and you know how men are when they’re hungry.”

  Kate hurried into the house and retrieved the space heaters from the far corner of the attic, where they sat on top of a large wooden trunk. She didn’t recognize the trunk and, touched by curiosity, moved several other items off the top so she could open it. A small, rusty lock held the trunk closed, and it was unyielding to Kate’s efforts. She thought perhaps with a bobby pin or a nail file she might be able to pick it open, but the thought of Linny waiting caused her to abandon her efforts and hurry downstairs.

  “Do you ever go in the attic, Linny?” Kate asked as she returned to the porch with the heaters.

  “Not in years and years. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s just so much stuff up there—stuff that seems centuries old,” Kate responded. “I figure I ought to go through it all, see what’s worth keeping and what’s not.”

  “Who knows what you’ll find up there, though ‘centuries old’ may be stretching a bit.” Linny picked up the heaters and started walking to her car, but she turned back to Kate. “Just don’t do too much too fast, okay? There’s no rushing needed around here.”

  Kate walked over and gave Linny a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Linny. Will you come over tomorrow?”

  “Of course I will, dear.” Linny climbed into her station wagon and then, as an afterthought, rolled down her window to ask Kate one more question. “Did you ever hear back from the attorney?” she asked.

  Kate shook her head. “I figure if the house really was in danger, he would have let me know by now. Everything must be okay.”

  “That’s good. I’d hate to see anything happen to this old place. And you feel that way too, I can see. I can already tell you’re invested.”

  “I was invested a long time ago. I just forgot for a while, that’s all.”

  “It’s nice to have you back, Katie.” Linny smiled and then pulled away.

  Kate watched Linny move down the driveway, the sun hanging low in the afternoon sky. In her haste to start painting, she had completely skipped lunch and found herself suddenly ravenous. She cleaned up the paint and took t
he brushes to the large outdoor sink behind the garden shed for rinsing. The sink sat next to a wooden workbench and storage table, where Mary had kept all of her gardening tools. Kate turned and looked at the garden behind her, freshly plowed and ready to be sown. It was nearly warm enough. Mary would probably have planted in the next few weeks, generous rows of green beans and tomatoes, squash and zucchini, and enough cucumbers to make pickles for all of Rose Creek. Kate had spent so many summer hours standing at this very sink with her aunt, cleaning cucumbers, scrubbing, and laughing. The tears came with little warning, the heat on her cheeks a stinging contrast to the icy water now running over her fingers. She shook the brushes and dropped them into a bucket stored under the sink then hurried into the house.

  It was impossible to get away from it. Every corner, every sight, sound, and smell of the house reminded Kate of Mary. She angrily wiped away her tears and stormed into the kitchen. The process of Kate’s grieving happened in waves. She would continue along at an even keel, calm and controlled, until, like the moment at the garden sink, the reality of life without Aunt Mary would wash over her anew, tormenting her every nerve and casting her into a miserable pit of desperation and loneliness.

  “It’s too much!” Kate cried. “This is just too much to endure!” Unable to stop the tears, she sank to the kitchen floor and pulled her knees up to her chest. She cried until her tears were all used up, then sat in the quiet stillness of her solitude. When the pain and sadness dissipated, all she felt was emptiness.