I can’t imagine what they’ll do today.
All morning, Lucy does her best to keep me busy. She chatters nonstop as we roll a couple of coats of crimson paint onto the walls of the Abigail. Duran Duran and the Cure provide the sound track. The work feels good and Lucy’s an okay distraction, but my mind keeps drifting.
Over and over, I think, It’s been a year—a whole year.
Am I heartbroken, because I endured 365 days without my sister, or heartened, for the very same reason?
We finish painting just before noon and stand back to admire our work. Even without basics like the bed and dresser in place, the room looks rich and cozy. Finished, it’ll be gorgeous.
After a quick cheese-and-crackers lunch, Lucy promises to look after my kitten, tucks several twenties into my hand—“for all your hard work,” she says—and insists I take the afternoon off. When I object—what am I supposed to do with an afternoon alone in Bell Cove?—she shoves me out of the kitchen and down the hall to my room. “The possibilities are endless!” she says. “Find some fun!”
I shower, then wield my hair dryer and a round brush, followed by my long-neglected flatiron. When I’m done, for the first time in months, my hair lies straight and glossy down my back. In my room, I dress in jeans and an airy black tank, then go about applying makeup.
I’m stalling. I’m not sure how to find some fun, as my aunt suggested.
I’m putting tubes and brushes and little pots back into my makeup bag when a compact of bronzer slips from my fingers. It lands on the hardwood with a clatter, falls open, and tosses powder everywhere. With a groan, I bend to survey the mess. Dust particles stick to the damp rug and fan out across the floor. Damn it.
Using a wad of wet toilet paper, I crouch down and clean the hardwood, then fold the edges of the rug in toward its center. Beneath it, the floor is stained, but not with makeup. The slats of wood are discolored by a maroon, bubble-shaped splotch, almost as big as the bath mat. The blemish piques my interest in the most dread-filled way.
It’s blood. Old blood, but … blood.
I think first of Clayton Stewart, but, no. I read online that he died of a heart attack. Then my mind leaps to Annabel Tate, but she was last seen in the backyard. Far as I know, she never bled in this bathroom.
Somebody did.
In the bedroom, my phone begins to ring. I jump up and hurry to answer it, expecting my mom because today of all days, she should make an effort. But it’s not Mom—it’s Isaac.
“I didn’t think you’d answer,” he says.
I wouldn’t have had I looked at the caller ID.
I collapse on my bed. It’s been months since I last heard his voice, and I expect to feel something. A sliver of the affection I used to have for him, maybe. Rage, for sure. But there’s nothing—nothing but speculation about why he’s been trying to get in touch.
“I’m in Seattle,” he tells me.
“I’m not.”
“I know. I talked to your dad.”
I silently curse my father for neglecting to tell me. “What do you want, Isaac?”
“To know how you are.”
“Alive.” I know I sound like an asshole, but that’s the stripped-down truth.
“I’ve been thinking about you. Today especially. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you really?”
“I’m trying to be.”
A long silence passes before he whispers, “Callie. I miss you.”
“Please, don’t. I can’t. Not today.”
“I know. God, I know. I’m selfish—a dick. It’s just, the way things ended. I’m not over it.”
Lucy’s singing filters in from down the hall; porcelain clanks and clatters as she loads the dishwasher. If she hears me, if she figures out who I’m talking to, she’ll be pissed. As far as she’s concerned, Isaac is a monster, capable only of chaos.
“I have to go,” I tell him.
“Don’t hang up,” he pleads. “I want to know how you’ve been. How you’re spending your summer. How you’re spending today.”
“You lost the right to know anything about me.”
“Callie, if you’d just hear me out—”
“We’re done.”
I end the call.
* * *
I don’t mention Isaac’s call to Lucy, but I do ask about the stain in my bathroom.
“I have no idea what caused it.” She touches paint-speckled fingers to her chin. “It was sanded down as much as possible, but the crew would’ve had to put a hole through the hardwood to erase it completely. That’s why I bought the rug.”
I tell her I’m headed out. I need to talk, but not with her, and not with my dad, and definitely not with Isaac. I need a fresh perspective from someone who won’t bullshit me.
Tucker Morgan has yet to bullshit me.
I swing my leg over the seat of my claimed bike and pedal furiously toward town. I’m on autopilot when I stop at a dilapidated phone booth outside Bell Cove’s only gas station, kicking myself for never once thinking to exchange phone numbers with him. There’s not an actual phone in the booth anymore, but there’s a years-old phone book tethered to a little shelf. I flip to M and quickly scan for Morgan. There’s only one, Benjamin Morgan, who’s got to be Tucker’s father. I memorize the address, then ride to Beech Street.
The neighborhood is quiet. There’s pride in the well-maintained sidewalks and neatly trimmed lawns. There’s peace in the screen doors and potted plants. The Morgans’ house is small, clean, and tidy like the houses adjacent to it. It’s painted a fresh, crisp white. The front door and shutters are black, and ivy grows up and around two columns that frame the porch. There’s an enormous lilac tree in the front yard, sprigs of purple flowers weeping from its branches. I catch their powdery fragrance as I lean my bike against the low fence surrounding the yard. Pushing my shoulders back in a plaintive display of feigned confidence, I approach the porch, then knock on the door.
Please be home, please be home, I think as the seconds tick by.
When the front door swings open, I know I’m looking at Tucker’s dad. His eyes are soft green, his hair sandy blond. The most notable difference between father and son is that Mr. Morgan does not smile.
“Hi,” I say, flustered. “Um, is Tucker home?”
Without a greeting, he shouts, “Tuck!”
Then he walks away, leaving me to stand alone on the porch.
When Tucker rounds the corner and sees me outside, his expression falls somewhere between incredulity and bewilderment. He rests a hand on the doorframe, casual in khaki shorts and a navy T-shirt with PEPPERDINE scrawled in orange across its front. His gaze floats over my styled hair and my made-up face and my not-sweats-for-once apparel. “Hey, Cal. What’s up?”
“I was hoping I could talk to you.” I’m not sure why showing up here, uninvited, seemed like a reasonable idea ten minutes ago, but it feels absolutely unreasonable now. “Do you think we could…?”
“Go somewhere?”
I nod.
“Yeah. Come in while I find some shoes.”
I follow him into the house, a bachelor pad if ever there was one: eat-in kitchen, small living room, a couple of closed doors off a short hallway. The furniture is various shades of beige. There’s no art on the walls, no fresh flowers on the small dining table, no curtains hanging over the slatted wooden blinds.
Mr. Morgan sits in a recliner, feet propped up, beer bottle in hand. There’s a baseball game on the very large television. “Dad,” Tucker says, resting a hand low on my back. “This is Callie.”
He barely glances up from the game. “Hello.”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “My father.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, laying it on thick. “Tucker talks about you a lot.”
Mr. Morgan looks up, mildly surprised. “Nice to meet you, too—Callie, is it?”
I nod, breaking into a wide smile. Once upon a time, I was good with parents.
“Have a seat,” Tucker says, nudging me into the room. “I’ll be right back.”
I perch on the edge of the well-worn sofa and assess Mr. Morgan. He seems drained, as if he’s just worked a full day or never gets enough sleep. He’s got that look about him, the one that says, You’ve got to earn my trust.
Hoping Tucker will hurry with his shoes, I check out the living room. It’s barren, with the exception of a silver-framed black-and-white photograph propped on an end table, the only personal item I’ve noticed. The picture, taken on a beach, is of a tow-haired baby, brand new and bobble-headed, propped on the shoulder of a woman with windblown hair. Her back is to the photographer, and the baby’s tiny and wrinkled, and the whole image is sort of blurred and ethereal. It’s stunning.
“Tucker and his mother,” Mr. Morgan says.
“Oh—I…”
He takes a swig of beer and refocuses on the baseball game. Absently, he says, “It’s okay. Go on and look.”
I do, for longer than is probably warranted. Tucker was, predictably, an adorable baby. “Where was this taken, Mr. Morgan?”
“Down on the beach, a few blocks from here.” He clears his throat. “Right around this time of year, actually.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he says plaintively. “I know.”
Tucker’s leather flip-flops come slapping down the hallway. “Sorry, Cal. You ready?”
I hop up. “It was nice to talk to you, Mr. Morgan.”
“Benjamin,” Tucker and his father correct at the same time. I smile as Benjamin adds, “Nice to talk to you, too, Callie.”
30
I follow Tucker out to the garage, where his car sits next to a beat-up pickup truck with a bed full of construction equipment. He lifts the garage door and loads my bike into the Woody. We’re quiet as we climb in and buckle up. It’s not until he backs down the driveway that he says, “So? How weird is my dad?”
“Not weird at all.”
He gives a dry laugh. “Come on. A little chilly, don’t you think?”
Maybe, but the disappearance of the woman he loved and the subsequent raising of his son, alone, has got to contribute. “He was fine,” I say truthfully.
Tucker snorts. “That’s generous.”
I’m tempted to delve into this, to take a stab at defending Benjamin, but it’s none of my business. Besides, I appreciate the way Tucker refrains from pushing me for information, so I’ll grant him the same courtesy. “Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls off Sitka, onto a side street.
“Coffee shop. Cool?”
I nod, and a few minutes later he parks in front of a little nook called The Coffee Cove. A blast of espresso-scented air hits me as we walk in. The walls are paneled in sheets of dull, textured metal. Empty burlap coffee bags hang from them like fine art.
“Another local secret?” I ask, following Tucker to the counter.
“Obviously. What do you want to drink?”
Mochas used to be my usual, but I don’t have a taste for them anymore. It’s been forever since I’ve visited a coffee shop—I don’t even know what to ask for. “Something iced,” I say. “I trust you.”
He smiles. “Want to find a table?”
I pull cash from my pocket, one of the twenties Lucy gave me, and slide it onto the counter in front of him. “Will you get us something to eat, too?”
He pushes the money back.
“Tucker.” His name comes out on a sigh.
He folds the bill into my hand. Stooping, he meets my eyes. “Go find us somewhere to sit. I’ll bring food.”
I nod, nervous, now that we’re about to sit down to coffee and conversation.
I claim a table in the back corner, and Tucker joins me a few minutes later, two iced coffees and a scone in hand. “Caramel,” he says, passing me my drink, and then, gesturing to the pastry, “Vanilla bean.”
“Thank you, and you’re sharing with me.”
“Twist my arm,” he says, sinking into his chair. “How’s your kitten?”
“Really good. I named him Buddy.” I shrug and break off a piece of scone. “I might be lacking in the imagination department. Namewise, anyway.”
“Buddy. I like it.” Then he becomes serious, leaning in to ask, “So, what’s up?”
My throat is desert dry. I need to talk—my sanity demands it. I trust Tucker, maybe more than anyone, but there are so many secrets between us: my messy history with Isaac, my sister’s death, my sister’s ghost. Plus, there’s the matter of the bloodstain in my bathroom, which I’m hoping he might have some insight on, being local and all.
He’s staring expectantly, chewing through a bite of scone.
I square my shoulders. “I want to run something by you, something that might sound sort of nuts. Remember that day we talked by the cliff?”
His eyebrows go up as he rests his forearms on the tabletop. “Yeah.”
“You mentioned that some people think Stewart House is haunted.”
“Yeah.”
I look down at our scone, then back to him. “I think those people are right.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Why’s that?”
“I’ve had some experiences. At first, I thought I was seeing things, like that day I thought there was someone in the attic window? But unexplainable stuff kept happening. And then—” I’m about to mention Chloe, proof, but I falter. Chloe is personal. Chloe is mine. I rummage through my head for a way to clarify, grappling for an anecdote to substantiate my claim, one that won’t drag my sister into the conversation.
Tucker reaches across the table to rest his palm on my arm, exactly as I did to him that day by the cliff, when I wanted him to divulge. “And then what?”
“And then today … I found blood.”
He blanches.
“Old blood,” I say. “A stain on the floor of my bathroom, one my aunt’s been covering with a rug.”
He’s shaking his head, taking a breath like he’s got plans to interrupt, but I barrel on, worried if I stop, I won’t be able to start again.
“Something terrible must’ve happened,” I say. “I can’t even imagine. And there’s other stuff, too. Daisy acts weird sometimes. I’ve heard sounds at night, and it gets really cold—like, wildly cold—and one day, the cracks in the attic window grew—” I stop, letting my head fall into my hands. I sound frenzied. Deranged. “You must think I’ve lost my mind,” I mumble. I look up, meet his gaze, fall into it. “But it’s true. There’s a ghost haunting my aunt’s property.”
“Cal,” Tucker says gently, skeptically, piteously. “You know ghosts aren’t real, right?”
Chloe.
“I swear, my ghost is.”
“Callie…”
He’s not buying it, and I can’t even blame him. It’s hard to believe such a sensational story has fallen out of my mouth. Embarrassment makes me defensive.
“Who’s to say it isn’t possible?” I demand.
He takes a gulp of his coffee and then, ignoring my question, says, “So you’ve been … what? Communicating with this ghost?”
“Yes,” I whisper, because I’m in too deep to backtrack now.
He pulls his hand from my arm, probably afraid my crazy is contagious. “I’m not sure what to say.”
His doubt is so blatant; it hurts like a blow to the middle. I’ve made myself too vulnerable, opened my doors too wide. Thank God I didn’t tell him about my sister.
“You’re judging me,” I say quietly.
“Damn, Cal. I’m not. I just think there’s another explanation.” He reaches for me again, but I pull away before he makes contact. Wincing, he folds his hands on the tabletop. “It’s an old house,” he says, burying my confession beneath his good sense. “There’re gonna be drafts and weird sounds.”
I can’t breathe in this stupid coffee shop. It’s too warm, and I’m mortified, and I feel a headache coming on.
I shove my chair back and stand. “I need to get out of here.”
Tucker scrambles to get up as I stagger away from the table.
“Callie!”
Deep down, I know I’m being insufferable—storming away when I’m the one who initiated this outing—but I’m too upset to care.
I march through the door, outside, to where the air is fresh, free of judgment.
Tucker follows me down the quiet side street and onto crowded, sunny Sitka.
“I can’t believe you’re walking away,” he says, sidling up next to me.
I don’t slow as we weave through the throng of tourists.
“Cal, this isn’t going to work.”
My footsteps fall in cadence with the thudding in my head.
“I’m not gonna let you storm off. I’m not Lucy.”
I walk on, but his words are splitting faults in my obstinacy. He’s so composed, so reasonable, and I’m stomping down the sidewalk like a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. For the first time since I learned of it, I’m truly conscious of our age difference.
“Callie, please,” he says, taking hold of my wrist.
His touch would’ve been enough to make me pause, but that please, that desperate, suppliant please—it stops me. Cements my feet right to the sidewalk.
“What, Tucker? What else could you possibly have to say?”
He sighs, strong fingers encircling my wrist. “I don’t know.… I just can’t stand to watch you walk away.”
“What did you expect? I thought I could confide in you. I thought I could trust you. There’s so much, and I thought you’d listen. I was wrong.”
“You weren’t. I just—I don’t know what I was thinking. I can listen.”
People are watching us. Families headed to the beach, paused on the sidewalk to gape. Couples sharing saltwater taffy, gawking. Elderly residents who’ve suspended their strolls to observe Tucker and me. Their stares make me wish I could sink into the pavement.
“I can listen, Cal,” he says again. His hand slides from my wrist to wrap around my palm. “Let’s go to the beach. Walk for a while.”
The beach is the last place I want to be, today of all days, but I can’t drop his hand, and I can’t turn away.
How the Light Gets In Page 14