The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  “Oh, no worries, honey! Thank you for going. So everything went okay?”

  Still smiling at the children, Tracey nodded absently. “Sure! It went fine.”

  Delilah continued to eye her, trying to decide if the young woman was only putting on a façade and pretending the shopping trip had gone smoothly. Tracey must have heard her silent question. She shrugged.

  “Well, we had a little hiccup, but Aidan and I . . . we worked it out.”

  “Hiccup? What hiccup?”

  Tracey shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Like I said . . . we worked it out.” She strolled toward the tent and stooped down so that she could see through the parted, makeshift curtain. She rested her hands on her knees. “Can I come in?” she sang.

  “What’s the password?” Caleb’s muffled voice asked through the curtain.

  “Mommy is awesome?”

  “Wrong!” Caleb replied.

  “Is it . . . Mommy is the best mommy ever?” Tracey asked, yanking open the curtain, revealing her children, who were doubled over with giggles.

  “No!” Caleb squealed.

  “Well, I’m coming in anyway!” Tracey yelled, making monster sounds and crouching on all fours as she barged inside their tent. The children laughed even harder.

  Delilah gazed at them, taking it all in. She wondered if Tracey realized how radiant she looked with the children in her arms. She wished she could take a picture and show it to her later.

  “Whenever you’re frightened . . . whenever you’re sad, remember this moment,” she would tell her, handing her the photo.

  But instead, Delilah walked out of the living room in search of Aidan—her other concern. As she neared the front of the house, she heard the sound of his truck door slamming shut. She found him walking up the porch steps, carrying the last of the plastic grocery bags in both hands.

  “You two had a hiccup?”

  He frowned, stopping in his tracks. “Huh?”

  “Tracey said you had a hiccup but ‘worked it out.’ What hiccup? What happened?”

  Aidan rolled his eyes. “Nothing happened, Dee. Everything is fine! Stop worrying.”

  She dropped her hands to her hips. “I’m not worrying! I’m just—”

  “Yes, you are. You worry about everything and everyone. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you weren’t worrying.” He paused in the doorway. “But everything is fine—I promise.”

  She stared up at him, hearing a tone in his voice and a look in his hazel eyes she hadn’t witnessed in quite a while. He actually looked . . . happy. She guessed the shopping trip had gone better than she’d thought.

  “I’ll set these in the kitchen and then get started on the stuff in the garage,” he said, brushing her shoulder as he walked into the house. “Let me know if you need me to do anything else.”

  Delilah stared after him, then turned to face the driveway. She rubbed her arms against the chill and squinted into the sunshine.

  Could things really be taking a turn for the better? After all these years, could she finally put her mind at rest, be at peace?

  Everything is fine, she thought.

  She then repeated the words aloud.

  “Everything is fine. There is nothing to worry about.”

  Delilah tried to let the sense of peace wash over her, to let it sink in and fill her up, but a niggling sense of apprehension lingered. She just couldn’t relax. She chuckled.

  “Maybe I should take up that yoga like Tracey. Maybe that would help me.”

  She turned back to head inside the house, but paused when something caught her eye at the foot of the stairs. It looked like a small, white sheet of paper. It was probably the receipt from Milton’s Grocer that had tumbled from one of the bags, she speculated.

  Delilah could never stomach littering and, even worse, trash on her pristine lawn. She sauntered down the wooden stairs, leaned down with a grunt, and grabbed the sheet of paper. She began to shove it into the pocket of her sweater, but stopped short when she noticed the words scribbled in black ink:

  CHAPTER 23

  In the course of six weeks, Aidan found four letters around the Harbor Hill property. Today, he found another.

  The letters were rotten Easter eggs hidden in the most random of places—taped to the underside of the lid of a recyclables bin or stuffed inside the bird feeder in the center of the driveway. He had even found one on the kid’s play set about a month ago, on Christmas day, sitting at the top of the yellow slide under a rock, like a present left behind by Santa Claus. Thankfully, he had discovered it before the children had come out to play that day. He had kept it in his jeans pocket as he tossed a football to Caleb and pushed Maggie on the swing.

  His initial reaction to the letters was annoyance. Aidan had known about Delilah’s criminal past for most of his life. It was impossible to have lived in Camden Beach and not heard some whispers about it. She had never hidden it from him or his mother, and they had accepted her tear-filled explanation when they had questioned her about it.

  “You judge people for what they do . . . how they treat you, mijo!” Aidan’s mother had told him. “Not for what they’ve done.” And Delilah had always been kind and protective of him.

  But he knew not everyone felt the same way. That was evident from the content of these letters. And with the discovery of each new note, he felt an ominous foreboding. His stomach would drop, and his lips would form into a grim line. He wondered who the culprit was. Was it an angry neighbor or a stranger in town? Why were they doing this? Why now?

  Delilah was content to pretend the letters didn’t exist.

  When he’d shown her the first set, she’d gotten a look on her face like she was going to be sick and upchuck right there on the kitchen’s terra-cotta-tiled floor. He had instantly regretted showing them to her, wondering if, despite the medication she was taking, she would freak out again and start raving like that time in the pantry closet. But instead, she had regained her composure. She’d pushed back her shoulders and taken a deep breath.

  “I found one too about a month ago,” she’d announced, making him stare at her in amazement.

  “Wait. You found one too? Well, why didn’t you say anything, Dee?”

  “There was nothing to say. It’s all nonsense! Just rip them up and throw them in the trash.” She’d shoved the paper back at him and turned away, refusing to look at the letter again.

  “We can’t rip them up! We have to show them to the police or . . . or someone. It’s evidence!”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Evidence of systematic harassment, Dee. Someone is obviously stalking you!”

  She’d sucked her teeth in response. “The cops don’t care! You think this is the first time this has happened? I used to get letters like that all the time . . . worse than that, calling me all kinds of things! Nigger . . . coon . . . bitch . . . You name it! I told the police, and you know what they did? Absolutely nothing! It comes and it goes, Aidan. It’ll stop—eventually. Besides, if I tell the police, what if it gets back to Tracey? The poor girl has enough on her plate. She came here for peace and quiet! I won’t have her worrying about whether some wacko is creeping around the house at night while the babies are asleep!”

  He’d stood in front of her, staring at the letters in his hands and thinking about those angry words. He’d wanted to dismiss them like Delilah, but something didn’t feel right. He’d slowly shaken his head. “This could be serious, Dee. What if—”

  “Enough, Aidan! I’m done talking about it! Just get rid of them!” she’d snapped before leaving him alone in the kitchen.

  After that, Aidan stopped showing Delilah the letters, but the lawyer in him wouldn’t allow him to throw them away like she’d said. He sealed them in a plastic bag that he stuffed in the bottom of a dresser drawer. He added each new note to the growing stack. Every now and then, he would examine them, rereading each word. He’d felt the urge to talk about the letters with Tracey, to ask her what she
thought about all this, but so far he hadn’t done that.

  He and Tracey talked a lot nowadays—over cups of coffee in the morning, in the living room after the children went to bed, or standing on the back porch, watching the children as they played. Their conversations weren’t like the ones he’d had with the other women who lived at Harbor Hill. With them, it felt less like a chat and more like a therapy session, with Aidan playing the therapist, patiently listening and interjecting a few words while they rambled. But Tracey wasn’t comfortable with his extended silences. She constantly asked him questions.

  At first, it had felt as if she was prodding at a sore tooth, and he’d wince before beginning a story about himself, but after a while, he became more loquacious. Some stories he still wasn’t brave enough to tell. Whenever they wandered onto the topic of his life in Chicago and his marriage to Trish, he would steer the conversation in another direction. But he still told her a lot; he told her more than he told most people.

  And once again, he felt the urge to confess to her. He read the note in his hand, “GET OUT, you LYING MURDERER!” and exhaled.

  Aidan wondered if it would it escalate past letters, whether this was benign or if he really should be concerned. Would a rock come crashing through the living room bay window one morning? Would they find tires slashed or a burning bag of dog poop on the front porch?

  “Hey! What are you up to?” Tracey said from behind him, startling him.

  He quickly shoved the letter into this coat pocket and turned to face her. He painted on a smile. “Nothing. Just . . . uh . . . daydreaming. What’s up?”

  “Delilah is keeping the kids occupied with a craft project to give me a breather. I came out to ask you if you wanted to go for a walk.”

  “Sure! Lead the way.” He gestured toward the yard and the path they usually took.

  She nodded and stepped forward, raising the zipper of her coat and pushing her hair out of her eyes. Aidan tried his best not to stare at her.

  He had predicted Harbor Hill would physically transform Tracey. Aidan had seen it enough times—the way the women looked so much better after the weight of the world was lifted from their shoulders. Their hair would take on a luster and a bounce. Their skin would glisten. Skinny frames and hollow cheeks would fill out, and hefty bodies would become strong and lean. But Tracey wasn’t just pretty now—she was downright beautiful. She also smiled and laughed readily, enhancing that beauty even more. She’d taken on an almost ethereal glow.

  “So,” she began over the sound of frozen grass and strewn leaves crunching underfoot and the rumble of the bay in the distance, “I wanted to get your opinion on something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was . . . I was thinking of signing up for courses at the local community college in Prince Frederick.”

  She cut her eyes at him after that, like she was waiting for him to voice an argument against it. He didn’t.

  “I was a few credits shy of my degree when I left school to have Cabe, and I figured that now might be a good time to finally take those classes. I’m saving money living here, and Delilah watches the kids for me. The semester started last week, but I wouldn’t be that far behind if I started now. I could take one or two classes, if they still have spots available, and see how it goes.” She glanced at him again. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a good idea! You’ll never know when you’ll get an opportunity to do something like this again. Living at Harbor Hill comes with its advantages. I’d seize them if I were you.”

  “Famous last words!” She pushed the strands of hair blowing into her face out of her eyes and nudged him playfully with her shoulder. It was an innocent gesture, but even through the wool of his jacket he felt the tingle of her touch. “You may not be so eager for me to take classes in the evenings when Caleb is bored and bugging you for attention. Maggie too.”

  “I can take it,” he said—and he truly meant it.

  It hadn’t taken him long to become attached to the kids. He still felt a slight ache when he looked at Maggie, a tug of remembrances, but it was nothing compared to what he had experienced when the trio first arrived at Harbor Hill. He liked Maggie and her silly little ways. He enjoyed his time with Caleb.

  “Maybe I’ll take them out one evening when you need to study. He’s been begging me to take him to a basketball game.”

  “I don’t know how well Maggie would do at an arena.”

  He shrugged as they walked and squinted at the setting sun that filled the sky with broad strokes of orange, red, purple, and blue. The bright colors refracted off the bay’s choppy water. “Okay, well, maybe we’ll just make the basketball game a guys’ thing. I’ll have to figure out something else for Maggie.”

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  He shrugged again. “It’s no problem.”

  “No, really.” She grabbed his arm, halting him in his steps. “Thank you, Aidan! I know I’ve said thank you before, but I mean it. You’ve been so kind to the kids—Cabe especially. You’re one of the reasons he’s so happy here. I think he likes you almost as much as the Incredible Hulk.”

  Aidan chuckled. “Well, that’s quite an honor.”

  “I think he always wanted to do the sort of things he does with you, with his dad. He wanted Paul to take him to basketball games. He wanted to build things with him, to play football, and Paul did it sometimes, but it wasn’t really his . . . his thing, you know?” She pursed her lips. “He was the provider. I was the nurturer. I thought that’s how it worked. I thought it was what our family needed.”

  Aidan grimaced, not at her words, but at the memory of the dynamics in his own marriage. He and Trish had played similar roles. She had her job and he had his, and he thought they were doing their jobs well—until it all fell apart.

  He watched as Tracey let go of his arm. She started to walk again, so he followed suit, watching as the wind made her dark hair whip around her shoulders. Her lower lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth.

  “When I think about all the . . . all the shit that I put up with . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that the pale lids started to jitter. “When I think about . . . about the days I felt like utter hell and how I let myself become a punching bag! I used to fantasize about hanging myself just so I could make it all stop. I put myself through agony because I thought Paul was giving me, giving us what we needed . . . the life we wanted. I thought it was worth the sacrifice, and now I realize I was all wrong!” She opened her eyes and looked off into the distance, at the roiling sea. It and the sun were reflected in her big, dark eyes. “I wasn’t happy. The kids weren’t happy. Why didn’t I realize it back then? Why did I stay so long?”

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her hand, forcing her to turn to look at him again, “you did the best that you could, okay? Not everyone could’ve survived what you went through, let alone find the courage to finally leave. Don’t beat yourself up about it!”

  “Who else should I beat up?”

  “Your husband, maybe. Or all male kind! We’re pretty shitty creatures, to be honest.”

  She squeezed his hand back. “You’re not.”

  “You’re giving me too much credit. You should’ve seen who I was five years ago.”

  “Were you hitting your wife? Were you covering her with bruises? If not, you were still miles ahead of Paul.”

  “No, I never would’ve done that to Trish. Never! But . . .”

  He lowered his head, no longer able to meet her gaze. They were talking about the past again. They were treading onto ice that was so thin he feared he might fall through.

  “But what?”

  “But I was . . . selfish, driven . . . emotionally stunted; at least that’s what Trish told our counselor. You wouldn’t have liked me.”

  “Now who’s beating themselves up?” she whispered.

  “No, Trish was right. That’s who I was, and she deserved better. She needed me, and I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t ready to put her fi
rst. To put our family first. I wish I could’ve . . .” His words drifted off. He gazed at the grass beneath their feet.

  “You wish you could’ve what?”

  “I wish I could’ve been better to her, better for her.”

  Every day, forever and ever, he thought. He knew now it was the wishes that could never be fulfilled that you longed for the most.

  Maybe that’s why he tried so hard with all the other women at Harbor Hill. He didn’t just want them to feel comfortable around him; he’d wanted to embody their every hope, every desire. He would mold himself into whatever they needed at that point in their lives—from a passionate impresario to a tender boyfriend—because he had fallen so pitifully short of what Trish had needed. All he had done was disappoint her.

  Tracey placed a gloved hand on his cheek, catching him off guard. “If being the guy you were then helped you become the man you are now, I’d think it was worth the journey if I were you, Aidan.”

  He was struck mute by her words, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak.

  Aidan had never hugged Tracey before, let alone tried to kiss her. He often wondered why he was so reserved with her. He had never been like this with the others. It certainly wasn’t because of lack of desire for Tracey, because that is what he felt as she trailed her thumb over his beard stubble, as she looked into his eyes. Something was holding him back.

  He knew that, unlike the others, Tracey wasn’t just looking for a respite. She wouldn’t lie with a man one night and then pretend nothing had happened the next day. If he started something with her, it would be different than what he had done with the other women. This would be something more—a real romantic relationship, something he hadn’t experienced since Trish—and the idea terrified him.

  After all this time, could he take that leap?

  She dropped her hand from his face and glanced in the direction of the house. “We should head back. I bet Delilah is waiting for us. Are you ready?”

  He slowly nodded. “I think I am,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers for their first kiss.

  CHAPTER 24