The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  “I’ll steady you,” he said, holding his hand between the boy’s shoulder blades, feeling the thick cotton against his palm.

  “Okay,” Caleb said uneasily, holding the hammer and sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth. He squinted in concentration.

  Aidan often wondered whether, if things had been different, if he and Trish would have had more kids. Would he have had a son, and would Aidan be doing projects like this around his own house in Chicago with him? Would his son be timid like Caleb, or would he be brash and go charging up the ladder?

  “All right! Let her rip,” he said, and Caleb hauled back the hammer so far over his head, Aidan was worried he’d fall off the ladder.

  He swung, banging a few times, and the nail went in. The head was a little warped, but it wasn’t a bad job.

  “I did it!” Caleb exclaimed, grinning. “I did it!”

  “Yep, you did it!”

  They both jumped, startled, at the loud pounding against a nearby window. The boy dropped the hammer and teetered back from the ladder with his arms windmilling wildly. Aidan caught him just before he lost his balance and crashed to the porch.

  “Caleb!” Tracey screamed, yanking open one of the French doors. She had the little girl perched on her hip. “What were you doing up there?”

  “I was . . . I w-was fixing the t-t-trim,” Caleb stuttered as Aidan lowered him to the porch.

  “What?” she screeched, looking and sounding hysterical.

  Caleb’s eyes went bright with tears. He sniffed. “I-I-I was just—”

  “You know you’re not supposed to do that! You’re never supposed to climb ladders. You know better, Caleb! You almost fell. I saw you!”

  “He almost fell because you scared the hell out of him,” Aidan said with a chuckle, patting Caleb’s shoulder. He handed him back the Hulk and watched as Caleb clutched the doll in front of him like it was a talisman, like it could protect him. “He was doing just fine before that. We had it covered.”

  Tracey shifted her gaze from Caleb to Aidan. She pursed her lips before lowering the little girl to the porch.

  “Cabe, take your sister inside, please? I’ll be a minute.”

  Caleb wiped his nose with his mitten again and nodded. He grabbed the little girl’s hand, and they went back in the house. When they did, Tracey shut the door behind them and whipped back around to face Aidan. She was wearing only a turtleneck and jeans and was shivering, but Aidan wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or her anger.

  “Aidan,” she began, “my son isn’t allowed to climb ladders. He knows that.”

  “But it wasn’t like he was climbing just for the hell of it!” Aidan pointed to the trim. “He told you he was—”

  “And I don’t appreciate you challenging the instructions that I’ve given to my son,” she continued tightly, ignoring him. “I especially don’t appreciate you doing it in front of him!”

  “Hey, I wasn’t trying to ‘challenge’ anything! He asked me if he could—”

  “Yes, you were!” She took another step toward him. “Look, I understand that you don’t particularly want me and my family here, but while we’re living here, I ask that you respect me.”

  He frowned. How had she gotten the impression he didn’t want them living there?

  Well, you don’t, a voice in his head mocked.

  Maybe, but that was beside the point. He had been cordial to her and her two kids. He had even let the boy help him with the trim, and she was acting like he had popped the kid in the mouth.

  “Lady, I wasn’t disrespecting you! If anyone was doing any disrespecting, it was you, yelling at the kid like some . . . some lunatic. He was fine! He didn’t need you embarrassing him like that!”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry, but do you have kids?”

  Aidan’s firmly set mouth softened. His throat went dry. He took a steadying breath, sending a mist into the cold air. “No. No, I don’t.”

  Not anymore, he wanted to add.

  “Well, then I’d appreciate it if you’d let me raise mine.” She then yanked open one of the French doors and slammed it shut behind her, leaving him standing alone on the porch.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Girl, what are you doing?” Delilah called out, making Tracey raise her head from her yoga mat.

  She saw the upside-down image of Delilah standing in the doorway of the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel and staring at her in amazement.

  Tracey gave a tired smile, rolled upright, and pushed the sweaty hair that had escaped her ponytail out of her eyes. “Kapotasana.”

  Delilah frowned. “Kapo-what?”

  “Kapotasana. I’m doing the pigeon pose . . . or at least a vague attempt at it.” She fell back to her shins and wiggled out her arms. “I’m a bit rusty, though.”

  She had taken up yoga again, something she hadn’t done in a year, not since leaving Paul. In the old days, she used to go to yoga class twice a week with the other stay-at-home moms, all preening in their Lululemon leggings and tanks, stretching their way through handstands and the lotus position and then meeting up for wheatgrass and acai berry smoothies after class. But that wasn’t her life anymore. Paying the bills and the rent and eluding her husband became her constant worry and main focus. She couldn’t afford yoga class, and breaking out the mat for thirty minutes of exercise and meditation had been the least of her concerns. But she was allowing herself the luxury now that she was living at Harbor Hill. Her worries hadn’t disappeared completely, but she could feel them peeling away slowly, like onion skin. It felt refreshing to focus on herself, to be aware of her own body.

  “Why were you rolling into a pretzel like that?” Delilah asked, stepping into the living room.

  “Maggie is down for a midday nap, and Caleb is engrossed in one of his games. I thought I’d get a little yoga in. It helps me center myself, to . . . to find peace.”

  Though to be honest, when she did yoga while she was still with Paul, she hadn’t found the practice very peaceful. Maybe because she was always glancing at her watch, wondering if she had enough time after class to get home and make dinner before he arrived from work. There would be hell to pay if dinner wasn’t waiting for him on the table. Or maybe it was because the silence of the yoga studio had been too overwhelming. Silence was when her voices of panic shouted the loudest.

  Delilah inclined her head. “Well, whatever works, I guess. To each his own! So how long do you think you’ll be doing that?”

  “Maybe fifteen more minutes. Did you need anything?”

  Delilah nodded. “I forgot a few things when I went to the grocery store last week. I need them to finish making dinner. I was wondering if you could get what’s on the list for me? I told the children they can help me with the pumpkin and sweet potato pies for dessert tonight. We can work on that while you’re at the store.”

  “Sure!” Tracey pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll get to it right—”

  “No, finish your yoga,” Delilah said, waving her hand. “There’s no rush, honey. I’ll have the list waiting for you when you’re done.” She then turned and walked back into the kitchen, humming to herself.

  But as soon as she turned around, Tracey began to roll up her yoga mat. She ran out of the living room and into the foyer so she could race upstairs, take a quick shower, and dress.

  She wasn’t going to make Delilah wait for anything, not when she had done so much for her.

  If Tracey had had any doubts about moving into Harbor Hill when she first arrived, they had disappeared within days of settling into her new home. It was a serene place that was spacious and open—unlike the shabby, confined quarters they had been living in for the past year. The children loved it, and they loved Delilah, who was warm and giving and watched over Tracey and the kids like they were her own kin.

  “You should meet her,” Tracey had told Jessica when she stopped by the Chesapeake Cupcakery last month to tell her friend she had moved out of the old ramb
ler. “She really is sweet, Jess. You’d like her!”

  “Yeah, I’ll take your word for it,” Jessica had said, putting the finishing touches on one of her confections. “I just hope you’re right, though. I hope you know what you’re doing moving in with someone with her . . . well, her background.”

  Yes, Delilah had been convicted of murder, but the circumstances leading to the crime made Tracey sympathetic, not fearful. It clearly had been an accident based on all the evidence. Delilah had been a young African American woman railroaded by the racist judicial system of the time. Even the appeals judge admitted the odds had been stacked against Delilah and had reversed the guilty verdict. Tracey would never hold what had happened to Delilah against her. One serious look at the woman she was today would easily convince someone it was impossible for Delilah to be a cold-blooded killer. It just wasn’t in her nature.

  Tracey returned downstairs thirty minutes later, washed and dressed in a sweater and jeans. Maggie was awake from her nap and perched on Tracey’s hip, playing with her mother’s wet hair, which now hung in thick clumps around Tracey’s shoulders. Tracey spotted Delilah at the foot of the stairs.

  “Here she is!” Delilah exclaimed. “See, Aidan, I told you that you wouldn’t have to wait long.”

  At those words, Tracey stumbled on the last step and would have dropped Maggie and face-planted on the cherrywood floor if she hadn’t caught herself. But even with her best efforts, she couldn’t hide the look of distaste on her face. She watched as Aidan shrugged into his wool jacket, then reached for a scarf dangling from one of the brass hooks near the door. She hadn’t known he was going to the grocery store with her.

  She did not like Aidan Dominguez, and she knew he didn’t like her either. Why else would he go out of his way to not be around her or her children by hiding in his room or leaving the house whenever they were around? Perhaps that’s why she had been so shocked to find Caleb not only standing on a ladder, but also standing there with Aidan. What did this man want with her son? And Aidan had had the gall to call her hysterical, to tell her she was embarrassing Caleb. Aidan must be insane to think she would take parenting advice from a childless bachelor, and a standoffish one at that.

  “Here’s the list,” Delilah said, handing her a folded sheet of paper. “Some of that stuff will be pretty heavy. Aidan can carry it for you, though. Meanwhile, I need to get back in that kitchen. Better get started!”

  “B-but . . .”

  Tracey didn’t get to finish. Delilah scooped Maggie out of her arms and began to walk toward the kitchen. “Come on, honey. Your brother is already in there. We’ve been waiting for you!”

  In Delilah’s absence, Aidan and Tracey stared awkwardly at one another, like two dancers forced together in a crowded ballroom. They listened to Delilah and the children’s conversation filtering through the kitchen wall, waiting for who would make the first move. After almost a full minute, Tracey relented. She finally walked toward the coat hooks and removed her jacket.

  “You know, if you have other things to do today, I can take care of this myself. You don’t have to come—really.”

  “No, I do have to come—really,” he replied, snapping closed the buttons of his jacket and rolling his eyes. “Dee will have my ass if I don’t.” He unlocked the front door, opened it, and gestured for her to step outside first. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  They didn’t speak for the entire ride to the store. Tracey noted that he didn’t even attempt to make polite conversation as they sat in the cab of his Toyota pickup. Instead, he turned up the volume on the radio, filling the car with annoying sports commentator banter, as if to ward off the possibility of talking. Tracey could take the hint. Rather than engage him, she stared out the passenger-side window at the passing scenery of Camden Beach, taking in the mostly deserted streets.

  The sweaty beach bums, oil-slathered sunbathers, and summer-vacationing families had left the town by the last week of September, and the frenetic up tempo of Camden Beach had died down to a tired lull. She had even noticed it at the hotel and resort where she worked. The customers barely filled the dining room, even at the height of lunchtime, and tips left under perspiring glasses and saucers were smaller than before or nonexistent. But Tracey didn’t resent the calm and quiet. In some ways, she may have been yearning for it all along.

  When she and Aidan reached the Milton’s Grocer parking lot, he hopped out first and headed to the store’s automatic doors—not looking to see if she was following, like she wasn’t there at all. Mumbling to herself, Tracey climbed out and slammed the door behind her. When she reached the store, she found him standing by a display of soda bottles stacked in a pyramid. He leaned against a grocery cart. At least he had waited for her, though she suspected that was only because she had the shopping list, which he immediately asked for.

  “Where’s the list?”

  “I have it right here,” she said, pulling it out of her coat pocket.

  “Let me see it.” He held out his hand to her.

  “No, that’s all right. I’ve got it.”

  “Trust me. You should give it to me. I’m used to Dee’s chicken scratch. Been staring at it for years. You’d probably need a Rosetta Stone to translate it.”

  Tracey bit the inside of her cheek, trying her best not to look annoyed. She handed him the sheet of paper. He scanned the list and nodded.

  “Right. Let’s head to produce.”

  They slowly made their way up and down the aisles as Aidan continued to be a list hog.

  He bore little resemblance to her husband; Aidan was dark-haired with olive-toned skin, while Paul was blond and could get a sunburn after fifteen minutes of direct sunlight. But Aidan still reminded her of him. Paul hated grocery shopping but insisted on barking out the list to her, rather than let her read it on her own. She was always secretly relieved when Paul decided to skip their trips to Whole Foods. She desperately wished Aidan had decided to skip today—or maybe she should have stayed home. As the minutes wore on, Tracey pondered why she was here at all since Aidan obviously could do it all on his own. Half the time he behaved as if she wasn’t standing next to him.

  When they reached the diary aisle, she watched, confused, as Aidan grabbed a giant tub of margarine and lowered it into the cart, shoving items aside to make room.

  Tracey squinted at the list in his hand. “Margarine isn’t on here. She asked for butter.”

  He shrugged and started to steer the cart away from the diary freezers. “She means margarine.”

  “No,” Tracey stood in front of the cart, blocking his path. “If she meant margarine, she would have written margarine, wouldn’t she? She clearly asked for butter!”

  She watched as he leaned against the cart’s plastic handrail. He leveled her with a gaze that conveyed not only fatigue but contempt. It also reminded her of Paul, the way he would look at her when he thought she had said something stupid or when he thought she was wasting his time.

  “Trust me,” Aidan began infuriating her even more. “She meant margarine. I’ve known her long enough that I—”

  “I get it!”

  She held up her hand, no longer hiding her annoyance. Aidan wasn’t Paul, and she was no longer the timid little housewife who had been married to Paul. She wasn’t going to bite her tongue anymore.

  “I get that you’ve known her for decades. You told me that already, but what was the point of her writing her list if we’re just going to disregard what she wrote? Maybe she needs butter for one of her recipes. You don’t know!”

  “No, but I do know that Delilah has high blood pressure, and her cholesterol levels have been elevated for the past two and a half years. She doesn’t need butter, and she knows she shouldn’t eat butter! That’s why I chose the brand I always buy for her because—”

  “Are you always like this?” Tracey asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Always like what?”

  “Do you always presume to know what’s best for other peo
ple? First, you lecture me about how to raise my son, and now you’re—”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” He shook his head, sending his dark, shaggy hair flying. He pushed himself away from the cart. Now even he looked annoyed. “I wasn’t trying to lecture you about how to raise your son. I was showing the kid how to hammer a nail—and you came out there screaming at the top of your lungs!”

  “I was not ‘screaming at the top of my lungs’! I was . . . was speaking firmly to my son because I was concerned about his safety, because he was doing something he knew he shouldn’t be doing. That’s how conscientious parents behave! If you were a parent too, you would know that!”

  “Lady, I may not be a parent—”

  “Please stop calling me lady! It’s incredibly patronizing!”

  “And it’s incredibly patronizing for you to keep pointing out that I don’t have kids like that makes you the authority on everything and I’m some kind of idiot.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides. “I never said I—”

  “Besides, I may not be a parent, but I’ve been a little boy before,” he continued, ignoring her, “and I know what it feels like when your mother is talking to you like you’re an infant . . . when she’s not listening to you!”

  “You don’t know anything about me or my son, so don’t try to—”

  She stopped her tirade when she glanced over Aidan’s shoulder and saw who was standing behind him at the far end of the dairy aisle, next to the shredded cheeses and yogurt.

  “Paul?” Tracey whispered.

  She went numb. All the blood seemed to drain from her head and fall straight to her toes, and the world around her started to tilt and swirl. She felt faint. Tracey took a shaky step back from the cart, then another. Her sneakers felt like they had transformed from fabric, foam, and rubber to solid lead. Her legs felt like liquid.

  “What’s wrong?” Aidan asked, furrowing his brows at her, taking in her ashen face and slack jaw. He looked in the direction she was now staring.