The House On The Creek

by Sarah Remy

  The car gunned and then pulled to a precise stop in front of the garage. A shiny black door sprang open and the driver unfolded himself. Hair bleached light as tow, a little too long for the latest fashion. Lennon style sunglasses balanced on a sharp nose, blue lenses reflecting light. As Abby watched, the man squatted in the driveway before the left front tire, apparently examining the treads.

  He ran a careful hand over black rubber, searching. His fingers were long and graceful, his bare forearms darkly tanned. After a moment, apparently satisfied, he rose to his feet and turned his attention to the house.

  He rounded the front of the car and skirted the garage, stopping twice to touch brick. He paused to stare down her tulips and examine a bed of daffodils. He turned away from the flowers and looked at the main house. Then he stopped, head tilted.

  Abby held her breath. She thought he couldn’t see her past the edge of the roof. But he did. He took two easy steps back, turned, and looked right at her.

  His lips quirked, wry, as he examined her with the same consideration he had given the garden. He stuck one hand into the pocket of his slacks, jingling change or keys, and used the other to pull away his shades.

  He had wide green eyes, clear and dark as the Creek. His cheekbones were as sharp as his nose, but his mouth was softened by laugh lines. His smile turned from dry to self mocking, and Abby found herself grinning in return.

  “Why, Abby Ross,” he said in a husky Virginian drawl. “You still trying to grow wings?”

  Abby nearly fell off the roof.

  From two stories below, Everett watched her sway. In a flash he was a teenager again, frozen in place, watching little Abby Ross throw herself from the boat house, his heart pounding as she crashed through trees and into the Creek. She’d gone under twice before he had managed to grab her arm and free her from the water. And then she’d slumped so still in the bottom of his skiff, so limp and lifeless, he had been sure she was dead.

  She hadn’t been. Merely concussed and half drowned. But it had been the end of their summers together and the end of his youth.

  “If you fall on me again, Abby Ross,” he said to the woman who rocked on the roof of his new home, “this time I’ll crack your skull myself.”

  But she had already righted herself. His breath caught as she squatted at the very lip of the roof, and he had to swallow hard to keep his guts from squirming.

  “Ev?”

  “Who else?” The empathetic thumping of his heart made the word a growl. He wished she wouldn’t stand so near the edge.

  “But I thought...” She trailed off and began again. “Have you come for my house?”

  “Edward’s house,” he corrected sharply. He took a breath, replaced his sun glasses, and stuck both hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. She’d driven him mad, that final summer, climbing everything in sight; trees, buildings, bridges. She knew he hated heights and she’d taunted him with it. And here she was, a woman grown, teetering on the edge of disaster. She hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Come down from there, Abby.”

  “All right. Sure. Just a sec. Let me get my things.” She disappeared from view, and he heard her scrambling about on the shingles. “Okay. Be right down. Don’t go anywhere.”

  And where would he go? He thought, regarding the garage from narrowed eyes. Hadn’t he waited his entire life for this small triumph?

  A ladder stood slanted against the bricks. As Everett watched, hands still buried in his pockets, slim brown legs appeared over the lip of the shingle and then Abby slithered into view. She dropped two stories, barely touching ladder rungs, and hit the ground with a smile.

  He studied her through blue lenses as she crossed the drive. She was still small. He found himself inexplicably glad she hadn’t over topped his own mediocre height. Her hair was cut short, to just below the edge of her chin, and the style gave her an elfish look. Wide, dark eyes added to the spritely air and her grin was full of guilt or mischief.

  She bypassed his car, stopped before the pretty flowers and held out a delicate, grimy hand. “I thought you were somewhere west. Seattle.”

  “I was.” He took her hand and felt the blunt ends of her nails against his palm. He remembered, suddenly, those same hands, cool and wet against his skin as she wrestled with him in the Creek.

  Usually their water battles had started over possession of his battered skiff and ended in a bout of heavy breathing. She’d made his overactive teenage hormones boil. He’d dreamed nightly of her body and their kisses. She had been sweetness and freedom when he had spent most of that summer trapped in the dark.

  Everett found his gaze lingering on Abby’s curving mouth. Immediately, he released her hand. “I’ve taken some time off. Come back to revisit my roots. Find some peace.”

  Abby frowned and studied his face. Everett was glad of his shades.

  “I thought you’d gone on to better things.”

  “So I have. And now I’ve come back. For my father’s house.” He made a show of studying the manicured yard and pointed bricks. “You’ve done a fine job. A miracle, really.”

  But she still frowned. “I thought - I mean, a Mr. Windsor -”

  “My agent. I like to do business quietly. The check’s cut, Abby. And the money’s good, I assure you.”

  “Of course.” She spoke absently, and then turned to look at the house. “Well. Would you like a tour?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  He thought he glimpsed a flash of regret on her mouth, but if so the emotion was quickly gone. Then, as though she hadn’t heard the indifference he’d carefully injected into his tone, she smiled and started away from the garage.

  “Let me at least show you the fuses. You’ll need to know where they are.” She climbed the front steps with the grace he’d always admired and glanced over her shoulder. “The locks are funny. You have to jiggle, a little. I kept Edward’s old door handles. Just cleaned them up some.”

  Everett eyed the gleaming lockset. “Remarkable.”

  Abby opened the front door and stepped over the threshold. Everett followed. The interior was cool and smelled of beeswax and lemon. During his childhood the walls had stunk of beer and sweat and sorrow.

  “I refinished the entry floors.” Abby said. “They’re good hardwood. A few of the boards needed replacing. And the banisters.”

  Everett followed Abby through the entryway. He remembered the spacious rooms and the high wide fireplaces. He didn’t remember the large windows or the color of the afternoon across wood floors. The old man had kept the shades drawn and shag carpets over the wood.

  Abby led Everett down a bright hallway and into a shining kitchen. She opened a small cupboard.

  “Fuses are in here. Box used to be just bare on the wall, but of course you know that. I had the shelving built around to hid it.”

  Everett fought unwelcome surprise. “The counters are new, and the appliances. And did you cut a new window, here?”

  Abby flushed and nodded. Everett watched the pink creep into her cheeks. He wondered if she still smelled of spring and wildflowers.

  “It must have taken quite a bit of time. And money.” He said after a moment. “To fix this place up.”

  She shrugged. “Around here, a girl like me has got nothing but time. And I’ve made the money back five times over. As soon as you hand me that check.” She grinned at him.

  “Who knew the old man had managed to keep from drinking every dollar.” Everett turned in the center of the kitchen and placed his palms on the granite counter tops. “Who’d have guessed he’d leave what he had left to the Ross girl.”

  He heard her sharp inhale. “He had good reason.”

  “I’ll be he did.” Everett regretted the words as soon as they were said. But the heat of anger eased some of the constriction in his chest.

  Abby gaped. And then her palm flashed up and out. Everett caught her hand before it could connect and squeezed her fingers between his own.

&nbs
p; She seethed in his grip. “Let me go.”

  “Abby. We both know about my father and his women - “

  She didn’t let him finish. Her knee came up, quickly, and might have brought Everett down if he hadn’t seen the spark of intent in her eyes. He shifted, and her kneecap rammed the inside of his thigh. He’d forgotten her strength and he gasped, bent almost double. Her fingers slipped free.

  Everett heard the clatter of keys across the countertop. She squatted before him, eyes dangerous.

  “The check, please. And then we’ll be done with business.”

  He swore aloud. Abby’s expression didn’t change. She waited, palm up, mouth hard. Rubbing his thigh, he straightened, and reached into his coat for the money. He found he couldn’t take his eyes from her mouth. She’d been a nibbler, sharp almost bites across his lower lip. And she’d made little sounds, softy weepy breathes as he’d ravaged her tongue. He still remembered. He wondered if she did.

  Abby snatched the check from his hand, glanced at the signature, and stood up.

  “I imagine your money is nearly as dirty as Edward’s. But I’ll take it.”

  Everett winced. Abby was already across the kitchen and down the hall. He limped after, and caught her elbow just as she reached for the front door.

  “Abby.”

  “Shut up. Just shut up!” She pulled free and leaned back against the door. In the white light of the windows, temper leaping in her eyes, she seemed too hot to touch, to wild to soothe.

  “You shouldn’t have come back, Ev. Why did you come back? You should have just stayed the hell away!”

  Everett opened his mouth but couldn’t force a reply past the bile in his gut. Abby shot him a last burning look and then she fled, slamming the front door at her back, leaving him alone in his father’s house.

  Alone with the ghosts of his past.

  Rain fell in sheets. Water pounded cracked walls, turning the already stifling basement air humid as a hot shower. Everett leaned his elbows against the sill of the one narrow window that let light beneath the house and peered up and out at the world beyond his father’s kingdom. In the summer cloud bursts came like clockwork and this shower was right on schedule. Five o’clock, by Everett’s battered Timex. Nearly supper time.

  In a moment he would stir himself, climb the wood plank stairs from the basement to the kitchen, and scrounge up something edible. The old man was probably already snarling with his hunger.

  If he hadn’t passed out before the boob tube, beer can slipping from lax fingers, adding another stain to the mildewing shag carpet.

  In a moment, Everett would go. In a moment. For now it felt safe and somehow soothing to watch the rain fall grey across the Creek woods. Wildflowers nodded their heads against the onslaught, and birds fluttered beneath dripping shrubs. Down below, the Creek would be swollen, the air cooled by black clouds. It was a perfect evening for a swim or a sail.

  Everett guessed Abby was probably already down on the bank, absurd and eager in a bathing suit two sizes two small. He wondered if she would wait for him. Maybe, if Edward was out before the TV, he’d steal himself a snack and sneak down to the water.

  Thunder rolled overhead, not the natural rumble of the storm, but the growl of heavy feet on old floor boards. Then the rattle of glass as the fridge door was thrown open and slammed shut again.

  “Everett!”

  No time for a swim, then. Maybe he’d escape after dark, sail the Creek by moonlight, as the Confederates had done during the Civil War. He’d found an ancient bullet down on the loamy shore one fall afternoon and was sure it belonged to a Bluecoat. He’d take the skiff out, patrol the currents, keep the enemy at bay...

  “Everett, dammit! Get your ass up here!”

  The rain was slowing up, anyway. But the thunder overhead grew closer.

  “Have you got a joint down there?” Cowboy boots creaked to a stop at the top of the basement steps.

  “No, Dad! Coming!” Everett jerked from his position by the window. Edward rarely descended into the depths of the house but it wouldn’t do to give him reason.

  “What’re you doing down there?” The old man’s voice was slurred and pitiful. “Lookin’ at girlie magazines?”

  Everett felt rage and shame heat his cheeks.

  “No, Dad.” He set his hand against one concrete wall, and started up the steps.

  “You know your mother wouldn’t approve.” Edward’s whine deepened dangerously. “You lookin’ to chase her away again? You with your drugs and magazines. You think I don’t know? You think she don’t know? Come up and apologize to your mother, boy.”

  Everett stood very still on warped wood and gazed up into the square of kitchen light, regarding his father’s shadow uneasily. If there was a woman up there in Edward’s territory, she wasn’t his mother. One of the town whores, or a College girl who hadn’t learned any better.

  His stomach turned, and he swallowed hard to keep the sour taste down.

  “Everett!” His father stuck his head into the stairwell, and Everett could see yellowed eyes rolling in rage. “Move!”

  Chapter Three

  “MOVE!”

  The shout echoed in the empty house. Everett woke and sat upright. His mouth was dry, his palms dampened by the nightmare. The sound and scent of Edward vanished with waking, but the better part of rain and wind remained, solid and real against fading memories.

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d fallen asleep without meaning to. Sat down, for just a moment, in a spot of sunlight on the living room floor. And then, apparently, fallen asleep.

  Not surprising, really. The drive from DC had been arduous, and the shock of seeing Abby again after more than a decade had set him reeling. The sun warmed floorboards and the view through the newly re-paned windows had been irresistible.

  But he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Not here, not yet, not until he’d regrouped and gathered his defenses.

  He hadn’t dreamed of the old man, or even of the his house, for at least five years. He’d chosen Seattle because it was worlds away from Virginia, and he’d purposefully kept life busy. He’d made a point of forgetting his past, his roots. And he’d done a good job of making a new life.

  Until Windsor, ever vigilant, had handed Everett a press clipping. Windsor knew which details were important and which were not. The small real estate add had been very important. If the Anderson homestead was on the market at last then Everett wanted it.

  So he sent his agent to make sure the sale happened.

  But Windsor hadn’t mentioned Abby Ross. Everett had made an effort not to wonder where the old man’s legacy had gone. He’d schooled himself not to care.

  Windsor had made the check out to Chesapeake Renovations. A start up company, Everett supposed, as he sat on the smooth maple floors, listening to the rain. He wondered if Chesapeake Renovations was doing for Abby a fraction of what Westex Investments had done for him.

  He wondered if she were happy.

  She’d looked it, he thought. She’d looked healthy and at ease and full of energy. The memory of her tilted grin made him frown.

  “Damn.” Everett climbed carefully to his feet and crossed the living room. On the east wall huge bay windows looked out across an expanse of new lawn.

  Twelve years ago the lawn had been a sludge of mud and weeds. Now grass gleamed emerald beneath evening shadows. The sun had disappeared behind the trees and the clouds were beginning to shred away. Right on time.

  “Welcome to Virginia,” Everett muttered, and set his forehead against cool glass.

  Beyond the edge of the lawn pink and yellow tulips bobbed alongside a freshly whitened gazebo. The Creek woods looked almost inviting.

  He wondered how she’d handled the boat house, whether it still slumped alongside the Creek, or whether she’d renovated it alongside the mansion. Or had she taken it down, torn old bricks at last from the reluctant earth?

  He moved away from the windows, meaning to find his way out of
the house and down to the water. Fully intending to see what Abby Ross had done with their boat house.

  Instead his feet led him through the kitchen, around a beautiful new stainless fridge, and into the little alcove that hid the basement doorway. The door was still there, repainted, brass knob brilliant. She hadn’t boarded it up. But then, why would she? Abby had never had occasion to visit the boy’s lair.

  He turned the knob and the door swung open, creaking a little, as doors in old houses will, even when oiled. Everett remembered the sound well.