The After House

by Michael Phillip Cash

  Eli pulled her close. “Charlotte knows her papa very well.” He kissed her nose gently. “I didn’t want to leave you pregnant, Sarah. I didn’t want to the last time, and I don’t now. I have little choice in the matter.”

  Sarah sniffed resentfully, her eyes downcast.

  Guilt assailed him. She was in a delicate condition. He had no right to make these demands on her, yet so many women did it without complaint. Why couldn’t she make it easier? His heart was breaking too. He tipped up her chin, whispering against her lips.

  “I mean to make you a wealthy woman. I owe a responsibility to your father. I have a job to do, Sarah.” He grazed the tops of her ample breast with the pads of his fingers. Lowering his fingers into her bodice, he caressed the whalebone busk sewn into her garment, close to her heart.

  “I love you, Sarah. You are my life.” He touched the busk, his eyes gazing into hers. “Haven’t I carved those words to lay next to your heart?”

  “And the two shall become one flesh.” Sarah whispered the private words Eli had carved onto her busk during his last voyage, for her eyes only. All the sailors did it for their sweethearts. The women sewed the whalebone busks into their chemise to wear close to their hearts. Their hands entwined over the busk.

  “One flesh, Sarah mine.” He bent down to kiss her, their tongues dancing in the age-old movement of passion. “I will not be gone four years this time. I will be back within eighteen months. It’ll go fast, I promise.”

  “Mama!” Charlotte called from outside. “Thaint Johnth ith ringing the bellth again. We will be late.”

  Eli laughed at his daughter’s lisp. “It’s bad. I hardly understand her.”

  “By the time you come back, she’ll have all her adult teeth,” Sarah said pertly, her eyes sparking.

  Eli wrapped his wife’s cape around her shoulders. “I love you, Sarah. I love our family. I wouldn’t do this if I had a choice.”

  Sarah grabbed her reticule with resignation. She wanted to tell him everyone had choices. They just made different ones.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cold Spring Harbor, 2014

  “Heard you had a break-in last week.” A man stood in the entry of her studio, shaking the dusting of snow from the slouchy hat he wore. He tugged off his glove with very straight, white teeth while he stamped the powdery snow from his feet on the mat outside the door.

  “Excuse me?” Remy walked over gracefully, holding her broom so tightly her knuckles turned white. She was barefoot and the cold air made her toes go numb. She curled them up. “Do I know you?”

  She tilted her head, looking at him hard. The air seemed to thin, and her breath hitched. Once, when she was about Olivia’s age, she had fallen from a treehouse. The ground had rushed up to knock the air from her body. She had the same breathless feeling now. The world tilted, just a bit, and she lost her center.

  Pausing, she inhaled deeply, counting in her head, restoring her equilibrium. She stared at his face, feeling something, as if the atmosphere had gelled around them.

  “Well, no, no, really, and...” He backed away at her aggressive stance. “Are you quite all right? I’m not going to hurt you.” He held up his hands defensively. “Your mother suggested I stop by.”

  “My mother?”

  He extended a long, tanned hand. “Hugh Matthews. How do you do?” He had a slight British accent, just enough to let you know he’d spent some time there. He filled the small studio with his height. He wasn’t big like Scott, but more lanky, with an endearing awkwardness, as though he hadn’t grown into his body yet. His brown hair was long, bordering on shaggy, and he flipped it back with a wave of his head. Penetrating slate eyes watched her intently, but it was his well-shaped lips that drew her gaze. He had the sexiest lips she had ever seen on a man.

  Remy caught herself staring as he spoke, realizing she was gawking like a horny teenager.

  “You’re from England?”

  “No, no, my mother was born there. They sent me to my grandparents for the summers growing up. I’m afraid it’s all her fault. Does the accent bother you?” He looked down at her, his gaze intent. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” Remy blushed, then laughed. “I mean, yes, you can come in, and no, your accent doesn’t bother me. I didn’t mean to be rude.” The air crystallized in frosty clouds when she spoke.

  Hugh shifted from one foot to the other, his clear gray eyes assessing her. Remy smoothed the wild curls, wishing she had blown them out this morning rather than let them air dry into a tumbleweed mass. Absently, she brushed at a spec on her cheek, smearing the smudge to cover her cinnamon colored freckles.

  “Charming, not rude.” Hugh smiled, causing a sea of butterflies to erupt in Remy’s midsection. Remy got flustered, dropping the broom. They both reached for it, and their heads collided with a loud whack.

  “Oops,” said Remy.

  “So sorry. I’m clumsy.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” Remy said as they wrestled with the broomstick, then looked at each other, smiling shyly.

  Hugh held his hands up in the air. “I give up. You win.” He cocked his head. “I meant to come by sooner, but I’ve been busy with some antiques that have been donated.” It sounded like a lame excuse, and they both knew it. He was here because her mother had bugged him to come. Remy rubbed the sore spot on her forehead where they’d collided, her face red with embarrassment. She pressed down so hard on the broom that the bristles bent.

  Hugh cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. “Looks like you’re between classes. Would you like to get a drink?”

  Remy looked at the clock. “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.”

  “It doesn’t have to be alcohol.” Hugh grinned, looking like a boy. Remy’s breath stilled in her chest. “Tea shop’s right down the street. Starbucks is around the corner, if you prefer.”

  “Did my mother put you up to this?” Remy asked baldly, then gasped at her boldness.

  Hugh smiled a lazy grin, then laughed. “Well . . .yes. Not very polite of me to admit, but I believe honesty is the best policy.” He paused, his eyes dancing with mirth. “I have to say that I’m glad I finally took the time to meet you. What about that drink?”

  “I. . .” Remy reached in her mind for an excuse. Any number of things popped into her head, but the appealing gray eyes made her reconsider for a minute. Hugh waited expectantly. Remy reconsidered her first response. There was no reason she shouldn’t go. “I’ll get my coat.”

  They walked down Main Street, making sure there was a polite distance between them. Every so often, Hugh reached over to take her elbow, helping her over the ice remaining on the frozen sidewalk.

  “They’re supposed to put salt out,” he said.

  Remy smiled, wondering why he acted as though it was his responsibility. She nodded at his small talk, moving a shade closer to hear his smooth voice. He gave her a commentary about the tidy shops they passed, pausing here and there to point out something of interest. It was clear he loved the town and all its inhabitants. Remy found it sweet, and interrupted occasionally to ask a pertinent question. Several times she noticed the various shopkeepers wave to him in a friendly matter.

  He stopped a time or two, shaking hands, asking a question, but overall it appeared the man was simply adored by everybody. She expected bluebirds and butterflies to hover over his head while angels sang. It was really too much. She wished she had worn her new yoga pants, the ones that hugged her body, rather than the tired ones she had on. Hunching her shoulders, she made herself small, feeling unlovely next to this lovely man.

  Hugh held the door open. He ducked ever so slightly when they entered the cozy tea shop. The bell announced their arrival. Hugh placed his hand on her back and led her to a small table. Remy’s skin sizzled when he touched her, and her face reddened. He was greeted warmly by the proprietor, a heavyset woman with a belly as large as her chest. The woman insisted they move to a bigger table, covered with flowered chintz, near the counter. />
  Remy sat quietly listening as Hugh chattered away with Mrs. Travis, discussing the drainage problem troubling Main Street. It was the same place she had met her parents a few weeks ago. Every so often, Mrs. Travis would narrow her beady eyes, as if she were measuring Remy, only to find her a poor specimen. She wished she could disappear into the cabbage rose wallpaper.

  Hugh informed her the shop had been in operation for almost a hundred years. They made all their own treats and served a traditional British tea. Finally, Mrs. Travis excused herself to natter with another regular about her grandchildren.

  They sat opposite each other, and Remy took off her coat. She turned to face him and noticed a perfect bruise forming on his forehead. Her brow furrowed with dismay. “Did I do that?” She laughed, reaching out to caress the mark.

  “You have a matching one.” His fingers grazed her forehead. Embarrassed, she evaded his hand. Tea arrived, this time from a sullen-faced blonde of about twenty-three. She placed the three-tiered plate of tiny sandwiches with a thud, glared at Remy, then sashayed back to the counter.

  “Mrs. Travis’s niece. I’m afraid she’s nursing a rather horrible crush. I’m hungry,” Hugh said, piling half the sandwiches on his plate.

  Remy looked after the girl, who now stared daggers in her back.

  “Should I be afraid to eat?” she asked Hugh.

  “What? Oh, Cynthia. No, don’t worry. She knows I’m too old for her. She’s fourteen.”

  “Fourteen? She looks older.”

  Hugh shrugged. “Not wiser. She quit school. I got her into a work program at the library in Huntington. She’ll be fine.”

  Hugh explained he worked at the museum on a grant, which was funded by a big corporation. He had a history degree, which he admitted was pretty much useless. She listened intently, staring at his mouth shaping each word. A thick silence made her realize the lips had asked a question. Remy squirmed, backtracking the conversation, wondering what in the hell he asked her.

  Taking a shot in the dark, she cleared her throat, muttering that there wasn’t much for a degree in communications either. She looked up to find his gray eyes dancing with amusement, and she wondered if he knew what distracted her. She realized he was talking about dinner.

  “Dinner. I asked if you would like to go for dinner Friday.”

  “Um. . .”

  “It’s not a trick question. We’ll eat, and then talk some more. I promise you’re going to like it,” he said.

  Remy placed her used napkin on the plate and rose to her feet. “Thanks.” She held out her hand. “It was nice meeting you. I, um. . .I’m newly single, you see. It’s been a long time, and. . .I don’t think I’m ready.”

  “How long?” Hugh asked gently.

  “What?” she asked, her voice slightly raised. All talking had stopped. Remy looked around apologetically, repeating, “What?” in a lower voice.

  “When did you divorce? How long have you been single? I make it a habit not to be the rebound guy.”

  Remy stiffened. “How often have you been the rebound guy?”

  “Often enough to know it’s not pleasant.”

  “Well, I guess that’s that.” She shoved the chair under the table and turned to leave.

  “What do you mean? I got the feeling from your mother that it’s been a while,” Hugh said as he stood. “I don’t know why I didn’t run when we banged heads in your studio. Not an auspicious start to our relationship, head butting.” He laughed.

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” she demanded hotly.

  “Oh no, our first fight,” he said with a smile. “Come on. That was funny.”

  An unexpected chuckle bubbled up from her throat. He was absurd, but in a good way.

  Remy opened her mouth to say good-bye but found the words wouldn’t come. It was funny. He was funny, made her laugh. It was as though her mouth and head lost connection. Remy sighed in resignation and told him, “It’s been close to a year.” She didn’t like to talk about it but found herself slipping into a comfortable feeling with him. She struggled with her coat. It was hooked on the arm of her chair and she couldn’t get it off. “I am such a nerd,” she said with exasperation.

  “How close?” Hugh easily lifted her coat off the back of her chair, then helped her into it. He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly.

  “Eleven months, three weeks,” she said. She almost added five days, but her tongue instinctively stopped before she could utter it. She pressed her fingers to her temple. This was hard, meeting someone new. She wasn’t good at it when she was younger. She might as well hang a sign around her neck that said something like “loony tune ex-wife who can’t let go.” Or, “the rejected one.”

  Next he was going to ask why. She knew it. What could she say? That she wasn’t enough for Scott, so he had to look elsewhere? She enraged her husband enough to strike her. He preferred another woman’s bed. He was in his new relationship for almost two and a half years with a Hooters waitress who looked happy enough. Why was it working for them and not for her? She had been so sure of Scott. Could she ever trust herself again? Maybe they should put a sticker on her bumper asking people to call to report bad wifing. She frowned, her face lost thought. She wanted to scream at him, “Run, I’m not normal yet,” but the words died on her lips. She paused, looking up at his concerned face. He stood quietly, considering her, respecting the silence between them. There was no pity in his face, and he didn’t ask why Scott left. He patiently watched her struggle, then smiled encouragingly. Ice melted in Remy’s heart. They stared at each other, sounds around them muted, as though they were alone. Remy took a deep breath, allowing it to cleanse her soul. The serenity felt good—for both of them.

  “I think it’s long enough,” Hugh said softly. “Maybe it’s time to join the living.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be the rebound guy,” Remy said, turning to look up at him. He had his hands in his pockets. Remy suddenly had the insight that he wasn’t all that comfortable either. It was liberating.

  “I don’t plan to be. Just a dinner,” he said simply.

  Remy looked at his lips, wondering why she couldn’t agree. She crushed the growing attraction into a hard little ball, tucking it away to dissect later. Even though it was for Friday, and she knew she would be free, she told him no. Olivia was spending the weekend with Scott and Prunella. She couldn’t do it. Shaking her head, her eyes downcast, she bade him good-bye. She was not ready to go out on a date yet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Remy started for the door to head back to work, annoyed with herself. She felt seventeen again, gawky, an uncoordinated mess. She wondered if Hugh had noticed it. He insisted on escorting her back to the studio. They strolled in silence. Every so often, their arms brushed each other. Once again, Hugh reached out to help her navigate the icy patches.

  At first she edged away, but he moved closer, making her feel protected. “Give in to it. Don’t be afraid,” she thought, making a mantra in her head. They barely spoke, but the lack of conversation didn’t feel awkward. If anything, it felt comfortable.

  “Didn’t I lock the door when I left?” she asked, picking up her pace on the sidewalk.

  “I’m not sure,” Hugh said increasing his stride to keep up with her. A group of people were milling around the sidewalk leading to her studio.

  Remy started to trot, taking in the crowd in front of the walkway of her studio. They had to go down a narrow path, since the door was in the alley between two buildings.

  “What happened?” Remy called out.

  “Someone broke the windows. There’s smoke coming out of the storefront.” A man pointed to her entrance.

  Remy started to run, but Hugh’s large hand pulled her back.

  “Slow down. Did anyone call the police?” he asked the crowd with authority.

  “Police and fire departments,” said someone in the crowd.

  “Ah, here they come,” Hugh said. Sirens filled the air, which had turned bitter col
d. Hugh touched her elbow. “Come into the church.”

  “I don’t want to go to church.” Remy was annoyed. “I have to see what’s going on.” She was concerned, her attraction to Hugh moved to the nether spaces of her brain.

  “Sam.” Hugh nodded to an officer walking briskly toward them. “Any idea what happened?”

  The cop nodded, and his partner dispersed the crowd as a spanking new fire truck pulled up, with eager firemen pulling out a hose to clamp onto the hydrant.

  “What are you, the mayor or something?” Remy demanded testily. She was worried about her studio.

  Hugh’s face turned crimson, and his feet shuffled. “As a matter of fact, um. . .yes. Come on. It’s cold. We’ll wait inside.”

  “I can’t.” She craned her neck around him to see her studio. “It’s all I have. I have to see if the studio is all right.”

  Hugh rested his warm hands over hers. “Sam, can we get closer?”

  The officer bade them to wait until he had checked it out, and then he motioned for them to move through the crowd to the entrance. Broken glass littered the sidewalk. Hugh took Remy’s hand and led her to her studio. Firemen milled around the small space.

  “It didn’t catch,” the fire chief stated, pointing to a small charred cloth that smoked on the floor. They gathered around it. Hugh crouched next to a policeman, who poked it with his club.

  “Looks like something a kid would do.” They all looked up at Remy

  She shrugged. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a rock soaked in turpentine. Some kid lit it and threw it at the window.” The officer considered Remy. “Is there anyone who has a gripe with you? A landscaper? Boyfriend?”

  Remy shook her head mutely. “When can I clean it up? I have clients coming at four.”

  “It seems you’ve doubled the crime in Cold Spring Harbor,” Hugh told her with mock seriousness. He turned to the policeman. “You are calling in detectives?”