by R. S. Lively
I shove a few cards back into place in the slots along one side, then tuck several bills into the pocket. A couple receipts go into a slot beneath the cards. There's only one thing left on the floor, what looks like a piece of white paper with a number scrawled on the back. It could be a year, but if it is, it's a decade ago. As soon as I feel the paper, I know it's a picture, and when I turn it around, I feel my breath catch in my chest. I sit down hard, my muscles seeming to give out on me as I look down at the image in my shaking hand.
Much younger versions of Cade and I smile back up at me. We hold each other tightly as we sit on the couch, our legs tangled together and our heads leaned to touch in the middle. Memories burst through my mind as I look at the picture. I remember when it was taken. It was only a few days before the very last time I saw him. He showed up at the house and we spent the afternoon together. Just before he left, Grammie came in and found us sitting on the couch that way, our bodies overlapping in as many ways as we could manage.
"Do you think the two of you could sit any closer?" she asked.
I'm sure we tried.
She had the picture printed and gave each of us a copy. I gave Cade’s to him the last time I saw him. Mine has long-since been torn to shreds and tossed into a river. Ever the drama queen.
I don't know what to think as I stare at the picture. The edges are worn, the corners rounded and bent, telling me he's carried it with him for a long time, probably since the night I first handed it to him. I don't understand. Why does he still have this? Why has he been carrying it for so long?
I glance at the wallet again, wondering if it is possible he tucked the picture away inside and then forgot about it. That thought quickly dissipates. This definitely isn't the wallet he carried when he was younger. The supple leather, hand-stitching, and tastefully embossed initials in the corner aren't characteristic of a twenty-year-old's wallet. This belongs to a grown man. That means Cade purposely took the picture out of his old wallet and transferred it into this one. I rush to shove the picture back into the wallet and scramble to my feet. Pushing his sheets into the basket with the others, I hurry out of the room and down the stairs, wanting to lose myself in meaningless chores instead of obsessing over that picture and what it means.
An hour later I'm in the parlor, trying to reclaim a seemingly forgotten curio cabinet from layers of dust. If I didn't know how quickly dust accumulates out here, I would think Grammie hadn't touched it since the last time I was at the house. In reality, it has probably only been a few months. Even still, the intricate scrolled carvings in the sides of the piece are holding on to their hordes of dust bunnies with determination, and I'm quickly losing hope in the rag and cleaner I brought as my only weapons. I've stuck my fingernail into the rag and am trying to use it to dig into the curves when I hear someone behind me.
"It looks good in here."
Reluctantly, I turn around and find Jace standing behind me. I throw him a quick smile before returning to the task at hand.
"Thanks," I say. "It's really old, beautiful furniture. I've always liked this room."
I hear him take a few steps toward me.
"It's not the furniture that's looking so good," he sneers.
Discomfort coils through me.
"Shouldn't you be helping Cade with something?" I ask.
"I'm sure he can handle it himself," Jace says. "That's what he does, right?"
"Yes, but you are being paid to help him, aren’t you?"
I feel Jace coming up close behind me, and I walk away from the curio cabinet, side-stepping him to start on another piece of furniture in the room. I hope the movement will dissuade him, but he follows me. Shit.
"Don't you think I deserve a break? It sure is hot and sticky out there. I could use some time to cool off and relax."
"Jace, I really think you should go and find Cade."
"Why would I want to do that when you’re in here? I think I'm just going to take off my shirt and cool down a bit. Care to join me?"
I feel him touch my back, and I whirl around to get away from his hand.
"Don't touch me," I hiss.
"Don't be like that, baby," he says, his voice still soft and gentle as if he's trying to lull me into cooperating with him. "I know you want me just as much as I want you."
"No, I really don't," I say.
I duck away from him and start across the room, but his hand wraps around my wrist and Jace pulls me back so I slam into his body.
"You don't have to play hard to get, baby," he says, rubbing himself against me. "I'm already interested. Cade's distracted for a while. We have plenty of time all to ourselves."
"I said don't touch me," I say, struggling to escape from his tight, vice-like grip.
"Let her go."
Cade's voice booms from the doorway and Jace's hand instantly falls away from my wrist. I take several steps back, not knowing where to go.
"It's no big deal," Jace says, trying to laugh the situation off. "Just a little misunderstanding. No harm done."
"She told you not to touch her," Cade says. "I don't see how you could misunderstand that."
"Look," Jace says, the friendly note from before now vanished from his voice. "She's been coming on to me since the minute I walked into this house. I'm just going after what she offered me."
Anger blazes through me. This little prick.
"I didn't offer you anything," I say.
"I think it’s time for you to leave now," Cade says.
Strength and dominance radiate from Cade, and it's obvious Jace is intimidated. Even without yelling, my childhood friend’s clear anger creates a foreboding presence, and I can see it is affecting Jace, even though he’s doing his best to act unbothered.
"I really didn't do anything," he argues. "It's not my fault she suddenly decided to play the innocent and chaste routine."
"I said, it's time for you to go now," Cade says, taking a step further into the room.
Jace looks between us and shakes his head. He starts toward the door.
"Fucking slut," he mutters under his breath.
"Let me give you a hand," Cade says.
Pulling the front door open, he takes two long strides toward Jace. Cade grabs him by the front of the shirt and drags him out of the parlor, through the entryway, and to the door. I watch from the doorway as he picks Jace up and tosses him off the front porch. Jace lets out an angry grunt as he hits the dirt, then scrambles to his feet. He turns to glare at Cade as if he's going to say something, but then thinks better of it and walks away. Cade steps back into the house and closes the front door.
"Thank you," I say.
He comes toward me, his eyes filled with concern as he looks me over.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine," I say. "He didn't hurt me. Well, maybe my perception of myself."
"What do you mean?"
I feel heat creep across my cheeks.
"I did flirt with him," I point out. "Maybe I led him on without realizing it."
Cade steps closer, looking directly into my eyes.
"I don't care if you stripped down naked and ran through the house without a single piece of clothing on. He doesn't get to treat you like that."
My heart swells, warmth spreading through my chest as I laugh.
"That's an image that's going to stick with me."
"Me, too," Cade admits, a mischievous smile on his face.
10
Cade
"So, you're down a worker now," Fiona points out.
The fury I felt after facing off with Jace after his wannabe assault on Fiona has started to dissipate, but I can still feel it humming in my hands and pounding in my heart. Tossing him out of the house wasn't enough. I wanted to pound him into oblivion. But I held back, not wanting Fiona to see that side of me. Not wanting to give into those demons. Instead, I had to settle for just getting him out of my sight. I'll make sure his business never gets off the ground. He fucked with the wro
ng person.
"To be honest, that's probably for the best," I say. "He wasn't exactly the most dedicated of workers. He was already starting to piss me off with all his whining."
Fiona laughs again, and it reverberates through me, causing me to smile. I had forgotten how amazing that sound was, and now that I'm hearing it again, I feel like I’ll never get enough of it.
"I guess you're stuck with me helping you after all," she says, a smile forming on her lush lips.
"I could do worse," I say. I glance at the door. "As we've proven, I could do much worse."
She pretends like she's offended, but I notice the tension in her body has lessened, and she seems more at ease than before.
"I guess we should get started, then. It's not like I have anything else to do now that Grammie isn't here. Should we go outside?"
"No," I say. "I'm almost done with the outside and haven't gotten much accomplished inside. There's no telling how long Grammie is going to be away, so I want to make sure as much is done as possible for when she gets home. Besides, it's so freaking hot out there today. I'd much rather be inside with the cool AC for a little while."
"Then why have you been spending so much time outside?" she asks. "Why didn't you just start in here?"
I meet her eyes.
"I didn't want him near you," I admit.
Our eyes are locked for a few intense beats before she looks away, making a show of gazing around.
"What's first?"
The truth is, there's so much to do inside the house, it probably doesn't matter where we start. No matter what we choose as the first thing to tackle, we have a long road ahead of us, and there's plenty more to do after that. Finally, I gesture for her to follow me, take a resolute breath, and start toward the door leading to the basement. Fiona falls into step behind me, then stops beside me when we come to the narrow door at the back of the kitchen. By the way the latch had resisted me when I pried it open my first day here, this door probably hasn't been opened in years. That makes sense. Grammie doesn't really have much reason to go down into the basement. It's mostly storage, along with the hot water heater.
"Should we start here?" I ask.
My eyes slide sideways to look at Fiona. She's staring down the door like she's doing her best to intimidate it. I know she's never been fond of the basement. When we were younger, she always talked about it in hushed, frightened tones like it was worse than the origin story of every horror movie in existence. I'll admit, it used to give me the creeps, too, but as an adult, it's just a room to me now. Fiona doesn't seem to share my sentiment, however.
"You want to start down in the basement?" she asks.
I nod.
"Why not?"
"I guess you're right," she says. "At least if we start down there, the only place to go will be up."
I laugh.
"That's the spirit. I promise it won't be so bad once you get down there."
She draws in a breath and nods as she lets it out slowly.
"OK. I'm as ready as I’ll ever be."
Even the air conditioning has not been enough to combat the moisture in the air over the years, and the old, warped wood again resists being opened through a few hard tugs. Finally, I convince it to open and a rush of musty smelling, damp air greets us from below.
"Well," she says, holding her nose, "That's delightful. I think I’ll go and make us some sandwiches instead."
"That sounds good," I say. "Call me when they're ready. I'm going to go down there and go through everything and figure out what we're going to do with it all, and what needs to be repaired or replaced."
"I wonder what’s down there. Do you think Grammie even remembers?"
"I doubt it. But we can call her and see what she wants us to do with it."
I close the door to the basement and pull out my phone before Fiona has a chance to. The last thing we need is for Grammie to answer the phone in the middle of a steel drum concert and have to explain that she's now in music therapy for an ankle injury.
"Cade!" Grammie exclaims breathlessly as she answers the phone.
"Hi, Grammie. How are you feeling?"
"Am I on speaker phone?"
"No."
"I'm fabulous! Arthur and I went on a shore excursion today. Swimming with pigs! Can you even? I can't even…. What does that mean? I hear that a lot these days."
"Who's Arthur?"
"How goes the repairs in the house?"
Masterful skirting around of that question. Grammie really is a pro.
"Going fine. Fiona and I just have a quick question for you. We're cleaning out the basement, and I’m assuming there's quite a bit down there. Do you have any thoughts about what we should do with it?"
"Let me talk to her," Fiona says.
I look over at her as she holds a package of lunchmeat in one hand, reaching for the phone with the other. I hand it to her, taking the turkey she offers me in exchange. She's already laid out a row of bread across the cutting board on the counter, and I begin doling out the turkey.
"Grammie?" she shouts into the phone. "How is your ankle? Who's Arthur? Arthur, Grammie? Turkey... Yes, it is enough... Yes, it is… Pickles... I don't have any potato salad… I'm not going to make potato salad... Who is Arthur?"
Fiona wanders out of the kitchen, and I stare down at the half-made sandwiches on the board. I had planned on emptying the basement, but I managed to get stuck with preparing lunch. Shrugging, I head to the refrigerator and pull out some condiments, Swiss cheese, tomatoes, and half a head of lettuce. By the time Fiona comes back in, the sandwiches are towering, and each plate is piled high with potato chips.
"How many people are you planning on feeding?" she asks.
"Us," I tell her.
"Have you decided we're going to stay in the basement for a few days?"
I hold out one of the plates to her, and she takes it, staring at the food like she's trying to make a plan of attack for it.
"What did Grammie say about the stuff in the basement?"
"Huh?" She looks up from her apparent fascination with the sandwich to me. "Oh. She said we can go through it and do whatever we think is best."
"Great," I say. "If we find anything you don't think we should keep around, I'm sure we can bring it to the antique shop in town."
When we finish eating, we head back to the basement to start picking through the nearly overwhelming assortment of belongings scattered in the dimly lit, musty room.
"I don't know how many people are going to be interested in some of this stuff, honestly," I say. "What is this?"
I pick up what looks like a large metal owl.
"A lamp," she says. "I vaguely remember it being in the living room when I was really little. Scared the hell out of me when Gramps plugged it in. The only light it gives is its eyes glowing."
"What's the point of that?"
"To give me a lifelong terror of birds, I'm assuming."
I reach into another box and pull out a strange metal object, that looks like it may have partially disintegrated from years of neglect.
"And on this afternoon's episode of What the Hell Is This?" I show it to her. "This thing."
Fiona looks at the strange, misshapen object, then takes it from me. She turns it around in her hands a few times, opens her mouth, then closes it again. She turns it one more time.
"I have no idea. Maybe it melted?"
I laugh and toss the object aside.
"This might be more work than I thought."
"That's alright. We'll intersperse it with other projects, so it's not so mind-numbing."
"I don't know," I say, reaching for a truly horrific velvet painting. "This is pretty amazing."
Fiona
The next morning…
By the time I'm done with breakfast, I can already hear hammering ringing out from the living room. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and settle the mug in the sink beside Cade's. Turning on the faucet, I rinse away the remaining sticky residue of the donut
s that were waiting for me when I got up. I planned on waking up before him so I could make breakfast, but even though I dragged myself out of bed before the sun, Cade was already standing in the kitchen, ready for the day, and drinking coffee. I'm fairly certain much of the motivation behind that is the sheer pleasure of using the new coffeemaker he bought. Rather than throwing away the old one, he's left it unplugged in the back corner of the counter. I think he might be trying to torture it.
The sound of hammering guides me into the living room, where I find Cade on his knees beside the hole in the floor. I remind myself to ask Grammie what the heck happened here the next time I talk to her. Somehow, I feel like there's a story attached to this particular mishap. I watch as Cade pauses and uses a measuring tape to check the hole, and then pieces of plank beside him.
"Good morning," I say as I walk toward him.
"Morning," he says, looking back over his shoulder at me. "Want to help?"
"That depends,” I tease. “What are you doing?”
"Trying to get this subflooring supported so I can repair the hole."
"You're taking away the exotic basement skylight."
"Sometimes we have to make hard choices.”
"When you finish fixing it, won't that area of the floor be a different color than the rest?"
Cade sits back on his heels and stares down at the work he's already done.
"I've thought about that. Eventually, the whole floor is going to have to be stripped and refinished."
"Is there anything we're going to do that isn't going to just result in adding something else to the list?"
"It tends to happen when you're doing projects at this scale."
