Downstairs, Bodhi was already awake. He was a morning person. He rose and set with the sun. I padded softly into the kitchen in socks to find him sitting cross-legged on the counter, a mug of instant coffee between his hands. He had opened the window above the sink, and as he gazed toward the lightening horizon, his back rose and fell with each rhythmic, lengthening breath. I lingered in the doorway. Bodhi alone was a foreign species. As soon as he was aware of other people, his shields went up. I savored the rare opportunity to see him unprotected.
I stepped heavily into the kitchen, rewarded with a loud creak from the aging floor. As Bodhi turned, I over-exaggerated a yawn. “Morning.”
“Hi. How’d you sleep?”
“Well enough.”
“Even with the—?”
I looked down at the linoleum. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good. Coffee?”
“Please.”
He hopped off the counter, opening a cabinet beside the quiet refrigerator. It was stacked with ceramic mugs in various earth tones. Bodhi caught my eye as he reached for one the same color as the blue-gray ocean outside.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” he asked, rinsing dust off the mug in the sink before filling it with hot water from a kettle on the stove. “Time forgot about this place. The mugs. The kettle. There’s an entire set of fine china locked away in a display cabinet in the dining room.”
“Please tell me you didn’t find the coffee here too.”
He cracked a smile. “No, I walked into town earlier this morning. Picked up some fresh biscuits too. The bakery even had clotted cream and homemade jam.”
“Wow.”
The mug passed from his hands to mine. He lifted a paper bag on the counter. “Would you like one?”
“Maybe later.”
“Okay.”
There was a fleck of dust floating in my coffee. I picked it out. Took a sip. Wrinkled my nose. Instant coffee might have done the trick for Bodhi, but to me it tasted like dirty water. I set aside the mug, wondering if its previous user would gasp in horror at the thought of it holding anything other than the highest quality whole bean brew. Something told me the Winchesters woke up to their coffee made for them.
“What are we supposed to do with all of this stuff?” I asked Bodhi. “Milo doesn’t want it, and it seems like such a waste to throw it all away.”
“Donate it?” suggested Bodhi.
“That piano is Steinway and Sons. Those things cost about as much as some of the houses we’ve rebuilt.”
“Then sell it. We could use the extra cash. Milo doesn’t care, remember?”
“I don’t know. It feels wrong. I can’t explain it.”
Bodhi kicked himself up onto the counter again, the heels of his bare feet bouncing against the cabinet doors. “The sinkhole house had an entire collection of vintage surfboards.”
“Yeah, but the owner came back for them, remember?”
“I think it’s safe to say that the Winchesters won’t be back anytime soon to collect their stingray.”
“Steinway.”
“Right.” He dipped his finger into the open jar of jam. “It’s going to take us forever to clear out this house. We’ll have to work the house section by section. That will give you time to figure out what you want to do with Mr. Stingray over there.”
There was a flash of teeth. He was pulling my leg. “I guess since we didn’t get the opportunity to name the house, we’ll have to settle for branding the piano.”
“It does have a nice ring to it.”
“Mr. Stingray it is.”
Bodhi offered me the jam jar and a spoon. I took a bite. “Apricot?”
He nodded, licking a rogue dollop of jam from his pinky finger. “They’re in season. What are you planning today? I called Ethan Powell earlier, and he wants to meet with me.”
“For what?”
“He’s already recruited a couple guys to work on the house. Carpenters and such. I figured I’d check them out. Plus, he said he would take me on a tour of the lumber mill. It was refurbished a few years ago, so he knows the town’s guidelines for this kind of stuff.”
“Wouldn’t the guidelines for houses and lumber mills vary a bit?”
“It’s still nice to meet someone who knows the process,” said Bodhi. “He’s got connections, this guy. We shouldn’t run into any problems. Remember that lake house in Tahoe with the jackass next door?”
“Vividly.”
“Knowing a guy like Ethan Powell helps us avoid confrontations like that.”
I lifted my mug. “To Ethan Powell.”
Bodhi clinked his glass against mine.
“Hey, Bode?” I ventured carefully. “Don’t forget to lock up at night, okay?”
Coffee sloshed over the lip of his mug as he set it down on the counter. “I did.”
“I saw you close the French doors, but I don’t think you locked them.”
“Bailey, you asked me to lock the doors, so I locked the doors.”
“Well, they flew open in the middle of the night, so I’m not sure you did.”
He stared at me, quiet. His eyes, usually a rich amber, looked black beneath the shadow of his messy curls.
I swallowed hard and lowered my gaze. “Maybe the lock’s busted or something.”
“I’ll check it later.”
I sipped my instant coffee and instantly blanched. In my periphery, Bodhi rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll stay here today,” I announced. One more sip. Tight lips. No flinching. “I want to get to know the house better. Take pictures for the blog, sketch out some ideas, clean a little more.”
His cell phone chimed a reminder tone. “That’s for my meeting with Ethan,” he said, dropping from the counter and sliding into his shoes. “You’re staying here then?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. Have you seen my keys?”
“You left them on the counter.”
“They aren’t there.”
Any excuse to abandon the acidulous beverage. I left my mug of seawater on the kitchen counter and joined Bodhi in the living room. He checked behind the sofa cushions, but I spotted his keys right away. They were in the crystal tray on the table by the front door, nestled carefully next to the twenty-year-old car keys that I had found yesterday.
I rescued Bodhi’s set, jingling them overhead.
He made a grab for them. “Where were they?”
“In the tray.”
“Don’t put them there. It’s weird.”
“I didn’t put them there.”
“I left them on the counter, and only one of us sleepwalks.”
Before I could reply, he briefly kissed my forehead and left through the front door. I heard the rumble of our rental car firing up. When the hum of the engine faded down the hill, I took a biscuit from the kitchen and went back upstairs. With Bodhi occupied, the house was mine to explore at my leisure.
Yesterday, I investigated the first floor. Like Milo had said, the house had more than enough rooms to entertain. Beyond the kitchen and dining room, there was an office with a mahogany desk, a high-backed chair, and a velvet pool table. The next room over was a modest but extensive library, the spines of the books faded by the sunlight from the window. The ballroom—or whatever it had been—was the only one empty of furnishings. At the end of the hallway, an unmarked door hid a set of stairs that led down to the basement. I assumed the wine cellar was down there, but the swinging lightbulb flickered and died when I coaxed the switch upward, so I left the depths of the Winchester house to explore another day.
The second floor was mostly bedrooms and bathrooms. Bodhi had laid his suitcase out in what appeared to be a guest room, with generic decorations and no personal touches, but when I swung open the door to the next stop on my exploration, my stomach heaved at the sight.
A four-poster canopy bed dominated the room, framed between two curtained bay windows. A stocked bookshelf attempted to contain a collection of literature that looked as though it had been pilfered from
the library downstairs. The books were stacked haphazardly, placed at any angle to fit chaotically within one another like a bizarre game of Tetris. The wardrobe was open, revealing racks of evenly spaced hangers. They clung to cashmere sweaters, polo shirts, tennis skirts, and elegant dresses that were fit for high tea. A pair of riding boots peeked out from beneath a pile of discarded laundry. The room blatantly belonged to a girl—a young one, I assumed at first—but an open copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s The Ethics of Ambiguity in the original French lay spread-eagled on the dusty duvet. How many teenaged girls made a habit of dabbling in foreign existentialist literature?
I left without touching anything. The Winchesters’ possessions had gone undisturbed for twenty years, and I wasn’t ready to change that quite yet. I took a picture of the room for my blog and moved on. At the next door, I braced myself, anticipating what I might find on the other side. I turned the handle.
And screamed.
A parade of rats scurried out from under the bed, their devious little fingers whisking across the hardwood floors as they disappeared into an open vent in the wall. I pressed a hand to my chest, urging my lungs to work properly again. Rats were easily taken care of—Bodhi and I had dealt with them at a number of properties—but no matter how often we came across them, their beady eyes and sharp teeth never failed to set my pulse racing.
The rats’ room had previously hosted a high school athlete. Black and gold posters, emblazoned with Black Bay High School: Golden Eagles, adorned every wall. A collection of trophies—football and track—stood in formation along a shelf by the door. A small work desk, covered in ancient issues of Sports Illustrated and Car and Driver, looked like it had rarely been used for homework. I tiptoed over the threshold and reached for the nearest trophy.
“Forgive me,” I muttered to the tiny, faceless gold man. And then I chucked the trophy toward the bed. It thunked to the floor. All was quiet. No more rats.
Gingerly, I knelt down, lifted the red plaid duvet, and peered under the bed. It smelled atrocious, and it was no wonder why. The rats had made themselves comfortable amidst a pile of yellowing football pads and cleats. I withdrew, holding my breath, and took another picture for the blog. I could edit out the rat droppings later.
In the hallway, I skipped the last door. My heart—and nose—could only take so much. Craving fresh air, I went downstairs, out through the back door, and into the garden. As I pushed through a thicket of high grass and weeds, working my way toward the edge of the bluff, wild rose bushes snagged my T-shirt. The fluffy tendrils of dandelions took to the wind when I passed by, tickling my nose. I looked up at the sky. The garden could swallow me, and I would let it. Let the vines hug me into the ground. Let the flowers flourish in my pores. As long as I had a view of the stars at night, the earth would hear no complaints from me.
I stopped twenty feet short of the bluff. There, a delicate tree in full bloom undulated in the breeze. It was a plumeria tree, with shimmering flowers as pink as a hummingbird’s throat. It would not have been unusual aside from two things. First of all, plumerias were a tropical flower. I had seen them in Florida and Hawaii, but plumerias weren’t likely to fall in love with Black Bay’s dreary climate. Secondly, though the rest of the garden was wild and overrun, the plumeria tree looked as though it had been carefully tended to. The weeds did not snake up its trunk to smother the flowers, and its silky scent, reminiscent of coconuts, wafted unhindered across the sole patch of neatly trimmed grass.
I approached the plumeria tree, plucked a bloom, and held it beneath my nose. With one hand on the trunk to steady myself, I stepped as close to the edge of the bluff as I dared. There was no fence, no barrier between me and the open air. The horizon boasted a solid, straight line, a peaceful dichotomy of sea and sky. I looked down.
Below, the water was far from tranquil. Waves gathered farther out, collecting energy as they rolled inward. Whitewash erupted as the rock interrupted each curl’s path, a violent surge of static that intensified with every ill-timed swell. The stone at the base of the bluff was jagged and raw. It split the waves to pieces without remorse.
My head swam. The water swam. No, that wasn’t right. It was the effect of my relaxed vision, the separation of body from mind. The water and rocks were alive. Awake. Breathing. Mortal. I stepped forward.
“Bailey!”
My shirt tightened against my throat as someone took hold of the fabric and yanked me away from the bluff’s edge. I woke from my stupor, spinning on my heel.
Milo, his blue eyes wide and burning, stood in the garden, his fingers still outstretched, reaching for me. For something that wasn’t there.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
I feigned innocence. “Looking.”
“Looking? You were about to step off!”
“Oh, please.”
I brushed by him, but he followed along after me, navigating the fickle garden with practiced dexterity.
“Wait, wait,” he said. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? The winds up here can be rough. It’s not safe to stand that close to the edge.”
“I wasn’t that close.”
“Look, if you need someone to talk to—”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, but if you do, I’m around.”
Milo trekked diligently after me as I stepped onto the deck. I whirled to face him. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I just wanted to know how you guys were settling in.”
“We’re fine, thanks.”
The wind blew his hair into his eyes. He squinted across the deck at me, sweeping a hand through his blond locks to tame them. “What usually makes you feel better?”
“Excuse me?”
He indicated the bluff’s drop-off. “At times like this, what makes you feel better? I like thinking about the future. Where will life take me? Where will I go? There are so many places I haven’t explored. Machu Picchu. Easter Island. Las Vegas. That’s a dream of mine.”
He babbled like a brook, a constant stream of words.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, turning away from Milo to march into the kitchen. To my dismay, he followed me like a persistent puppy.
“Sure you do,” he said. “I know what depression looks like, Bailey. I know what suici—”
“Cold water,” I blurted out. Milo fell silent. “A tall glass of cold water. Freezing, really. I have to be able to feel it, like it’s flushing out the rest of me.”
Milo opened a cabinet next to the sink, drew out a clear glass, and set it on the counter. His fingers brushed the back of my hand. “Good?”
I took the glass. “Good.”
“Good,” he said again. “I’ll let myself out.”
I waited until the front door closed again before unclenching my other fist. The plumeria bloom fell to the kitchen floor, its petals crushed and broken.
Bodhi returned in the early evening with takeout from an Italian restaurant in town. We ate chicken parmesan and drank wine out of the Winchesters’ cups on the big seat of the bay window in the living room.
“How was your meeting?” I asked Bodhi.
“It went really well,” he said, pausing to wipe marinara sauce from his chin. “Ethan’s going to be a real asset. His guys are great, you know? Smart and hardworking. Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve been this excited to get started.”
“I’m so glad.”
“What’s on your mind?”
I sipped from my wine glass. “What do you mean?”
“For the house. Any ideas?”
“Oh. Well, I think we should keep the bay windows.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Some of them anyway. The ones upstairs. This one might have to go. I think we should open up the entire first floor and install those massive sliding glass doors. That way, you have a view of the bluff no matter where you stand.”
“Open floor plan?”
“Exactly.” He jabbed his fork in my direction for emphasis. “At lea
st for the kitchen, living room, and dining room. I haven’t decided about the rest of the first floor yet.”
I speared a piece of chicken. “What about upstairs?”
“I quite like how cozy it is up there, actually,” Bodhi said.
“Me too. Have you been in those other rooms? The Winchesters’ kids’ stuff is still there.”
He tore a slice of crusty Italian bread in half, decorating the windowsill with a shower of crumbs, but paused before sweeping it through the sauce on his plate. “Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“I can clear those rooms on my own,” he offered. “You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “Really. It just… got me thinking.”
“About?”
My wine glass was empty. I reached for the bottle. “About how Black Bay might be the perfect place to raise a family.”
Bodhi stiffened. “What?”
I poured the wine and swirled the contents of my glass, keeping my gaze on the tiny bubbles that popped and fizzled in the alcohol. “I don’t know. Don’t you get tired of moving so often? I want a home. A place to be.”
“I thought you didn’t mind moving around.”
“It was adventurous and fun when we were younger, Bodhi. Now it just feels like we’re running away.”
“From what?”
“You know.”
He shoved his unfinished plate away. “No, Bailey. I don’t know. Please enlighten me.”
I gambled a glance in his direction. It was like looking into the barrel of a roulette revolver and knowing that the bullet had just clicked into place. “I just thought, maybe, if we were on the same page—”
The Haunting of Winchester Mansion Omnibus Page 4
