The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  But it was clear Joel did not.

  Perhaps no one did … save Ethan and his son.

  Now that image, that closely held vision, was going to be compromised—or diluted in some way—with the flesh-and-blood image of another woman.

  A young other woman, who was so unlike his wife that it made it hard to hold her image and the image of his wife in his thoughts at the same time. Would he be able to accommodate both? Would that precious image of Lynne be further diminished after tonight?

  Can I do this? Should I do this? Is all of this too late … or too soon? Have too many, or not enough, years passed?

  He was not sure which image he would discard and which he would need to keep. Even the thought of having to make that choice some time off in the future was disconcerting and disorienting, like being in a familiar forest at dusk with no map or compass—only the setting sun to light your path.

  All of that rushed past his thoughts as he rang the bell. He had seen Cameron’s silhouette in the turret windows as he’d turned in the drive. He was certain she had seen him in her street. It was too late to make any escape.

  And he didn’t want to, really. He simply wanted the confusion to be gone … for that leaden feeling to vanish.

  He pressed the doorbell button and sucked in another deep breath of air. He held it a few seconds, then exhaled noisily, like the pitcher on the mound facing a 3-2 count with a home-run hitter in the batter’s box.

  He adjusted the collar of his shirt.

  Silence.

  Do I press it again? Is she nervous? That can’t be. Not her.

  From two stories up he heard the unlatching of a door, then the creak of footfalls on a ninety-year-old staircase. He saw her shoes before he saw her.

  Jeans. That’s a good sign, he thought.

  And then he exhaled again.

  Cameron remembered little about the short drive to Oil City. Ethan said something about a nice place overlooking the river, and then her mind had gone blank. She was pretty sure she’d spoken some, because she recalled Ethan laughing a few times.

  Unless he was laughing at me not talking?

  No, she remembered speaking a few words at least. She remembered that she really liked the sound of his laugh … deep and silvery.

  “I hope you like this place,” Ethan said as he exited the car. Cameron forced herself to wait. He was that sort of man. Normally, she would have simply bounded out her side, ready to investigate. She waited, and he opened the door, his smile knowing—at least that’s how she interpreted the gentle wrinkling around his lips. The phrase wry grin came to mind, and even though it didn’t fit exactly, it was as close as she could come to describing him.

  Wry grin … and gorgeous—but she quickly pushed that thought away. It was much too early to be deciding on gorgeous. Maybe fine-looking. She chided herself. And soon you’ll be practicing writing your name with his last name on the front of your social studies notebook to see how it looks, I bet.

  “Moore’s. It’s been here forever. Almost forever.”

  Cameron nodded.

  Moore’s was housed in an imposing old stick-style Victorian, painted the lightest gray with dark brown trim—the color of rich velvet, Cameron thought. It stood at the southern edge of Oil City, with the river at its back. Its rather austere style, unusual for the Victorian era, imitated the architecture of the medieval past, with decorative half-timbering, brackets, rafters, and braces. Trim boards called stickwork marched around the entire facade, and three thick brick fireplace stacks towered above the dormers protruding from the roof.

  “They repainted it last year, back to the original shades, they said. It used to be sort of a purple. I never liked the color. Maybe it would have been fine for a private home—one of the Painted Ladies perhaps,” Ethan said, “but that color just didn’t work as a restaurant color.”

  Cameron nodded again. She had never once thought of any color as a “restaurant” color. Well, maybe McDonald’s red and yellow, but that was it.

  The interior couldn’t have had a more different mood than the exterior. Warm and inviting, done in pleasantly understated tones, sleek furnishings, soft lights, and subtly patterned Wilton carpeting did not add up to any restaurant Cameron had visited in the area. Quiet live music came from somewhere. She glanced around and saw a male pianist at a gleaming ebony baby grand tucked into a far corner.

  “You said this was casual,” Cameron protested as Ethan pulled the cushy upholstered chair out for her at the table. “This is not casual. This is … well, this is fancy—white tablecloths and all.”

  Ethan gave her that smile again—a genuine smile coupled with something else altogether. “I know. I lied. Sort of.”

  She tried her best to glare at him, hoping the glare would be received with good humor—the way she intended it.

  He opened his palms to her. “If I said it was fancy, we would have had to dress up. I don’t like dressing up. And you would have worried about what to wear. Then you may even have asked me what sort of ‘dressy’ it was. How could I have answered that?”

  An elegant waiter appeared at the table and handed them each a very fat leather-covered menu.

  “Wine? A before-dinner drink, perhaps?” he asked.

  Cameron would have felt at ease ordering something “adult,” but had decided well before tonight to follow Ethan’s lead. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt it might be important to him.

  The waiter, of course, turned to her first.

  She was flustered but tried not to show it. “I don’t know … Ethan, what are you having?”

  If he was unsettled about ordering before her, he didn’t show it. “Just a club soda. With lime. That’s elegant enough.”

  Cameron felt off balance, still unsure of his humor. “Me, too,” she added, and the waiter glided off.

  Ethan returned to their original conversation. “You see, to me, there’s work clothes—that’s jeans and T-shirts. Then there’s business attire—like asking for a loan at the bank. That’s a sport coat, hopefully without a tie. Then there are weddings and funerals. That’s my one dark suit, tie, white shirt, and uncomfortable shoes.”

  He looked right in her eyes. “So what sort of fancy is this place, Cameron from the big city? Business fancy or weddings and funerals fancy?”

  Cameron immediately forgave him for not telling her. As she glanced around the room, she noticed a substantial number of older patrons. Many of them looked just like her parents—tanned, leathery, and wealthier than they let on. There were more than a few pastel-colored cotton sweaters draped over shoulders.

  “This place is country-club casual,” she concluded. “My parents cruise a lot, and they often require ‘country-club casual.’ Sometimes it’s called ‘business casual,’ but this is a little more comfortable and stylish than that.”

  Ethan took a sip from his club soda, which had just arrived. “If this is country-club anything, then I would have been lost in trying to explain that. But I think you look perfect here. I mean … what you’re wearing is … you know—perfect for this place.”

  How sweet, she thought. A compliment, no matter how awkward, was still a compliment.

  She moved her hand toward his, without thinking. Then she stopped. She saw him watching. And then, deftly, he picked up the breadbasket and handed it to her.

  “Would you like some bread?” he asked. “I hear it’s baked here on the premises.”

  She had to take one, even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t overdo the carbs—no matter how tempting.

  She had two more slices of the delicious homemade bread before the waiter descended again with their salads.

  Chase ran down the steps. No one knocked quite like Elliot. If the doorjamb could be broken or dislodged by knocking, Elliot would be the one to do it. The house rumbl
ed, more or less, when he announced himself.

  “Hey.”

  Elliot thought for a moment, then replied, “Hey.”

  He lumbered in, careful not to catch his sleeves on the door or the banister.

  “Hungry?” Chase asked.

  “I just ate. But I could eat. If you’re going to have something. To keep you company.”

  “I got a frozen pizza.”

  “Sure.”

  Chase opened the door to the freezer. “I have sausage or pepperoni.”

  Elliot’s forehead tightened. “I like ’em both. They’re not that big. They’re the kind my mom gets three for ten dollars at the warehouse club. Two of ’em fit on one rack in the oven.”

  Chase switched the oven on. “Just as long as you promise to share, okay?”

  “Sure,” Elliot replied, switching on the television. Without the drone of some electronic device, the room grew too quiet for either of the boys.

  “So where’s Mrs. Whiting? Isn’t she supposed to be here?” he asked.

  “She called and said her husband wasn’t feeling good. She said he’s been having a bad couple of days. My dad said I would be fine alone.”

  “Where’s your dad?” Elliot asked, looking around, as if he expected Chase’s father to suddenly materialize.

  Chase hesitated. “He’s … well, he’s on that date.”

  Elliot tilted his head, not unlike a dog that hears a high-pitched whistle. “Oh, yeah, that date. With that girl?”

  Chase didn’t smile. “I guess. That reporter lady.”

  Elliot looked at his fingernails. “You think they’re, like, dating now?”

  “No. This is only their second time.”

  Elliot leaned over to grab the remote control, which was farther away from him than the actual TV. He thumbed through the channels until he hit ESPN. “That’s weird. Your dad out on a date.”

  “I know,” Chase replied, then opened the refrigerator and removed three bottles of Orange Crush. One would be more than enough for him. The other two were just as necessary—especially if Elliot and a pizza were involved. Or two pizzas.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place,” Cameron said as she scooped the last of her mango-tangerine crème brûlée into her mouth. “Everything was just delicious.”

  Ethan looked pleased. “I’m glad you liked it. I don’t come here all that much these days. Chase doesn’t quite get the charm of the place. He says that looking at the river is no fun unless you can skip stones on it. I don’t think they would encourage that here.”

  The setting sun lit the waters of Oil Creek to crimson, the ripples sparkling. At this point, the creek was as much a river as the Allegheny River it emptied into a few hundred yards to the south.

  Ethan spoke again. “Did you feel at all out of place here during dinner? Neither of us is wearing true ‘country-club casual.’”

  Cameron’s voice echoed her contentment—a wonderful meal and pleasant, comfortable conversation. “I have seldom felt more at home, if you want to know the truth. I have always … I don’t know … felt a half-step out of pace with everyone else. Even in school. I got good grades and had a lot of friends, but I never felt I understood any of them—or any of them really understood me. Like we were all on different wavelengths or something.”

  Ethan’s expression did not change, not really. But Cameron still wondered if she had shared too much.

  “It’s the food,” she continued. “All this food has made me lightheaded.”

  Ethan’s wry grin reassured her without him having to resort to clumsy words.

  Somehow Cameron found herself outside, with Ethan gently shepherding her toward his truck.

  “It’s still pretty early. Would you like to go for a drive or something?” he asked.

  Cameron willed herself to wait a moment until she answered and willed herself not to sound too enthusiastic, even though she felt as close to giddy as she had ever felt since moving to Franklin.

  “Uhh … sure,” she said, hoping her words didn’t reveal more than she wanted to convey.

  “Only if it’s okay … maybe you have to get up early tomorrow or something.”

  She jumped in too fast—she knew it was too fast—but she jumped anyway. “No. It’s okay. Really. I just have to run over to the newsroom in the afternoon. I could stay out all night. I mean … I could. But it’s okay to go for a drive. Digest the food and all that.”

  She mentally kicked herself. Who talks about being able to stay out all night and—worse—digesting food on a date … except old people who have a problem with it? Now he probably thinks I have stomach problems or gas or something. Good grief.

  Ethan drove more carefully than Cameron did. He aimed the truck north. The sign read TITUSVILLE—15 MILES.

  He rolled down his window, and she did the same. The air was warm, almost humid. They passed a few farms, houses nestled up close to the two-lane blacktop, and gradually, the trees crept closer to the roadway. The late sunlight flicked through the canopy of leaves.

  “Ever been to Titusville?” Ethan asked, breaking a long, comfortable silence.

  She shook her head. “No. Isn’t that terrible? I’ve never been there.”

  Ethan nodded. “Do you know why the town is famous?”

  Cameron was caught. “Well … no. Except that everybody says I should go there. Oh, wait! It’s the oil well, right? Something about an oil well.”

  “The first oil well. 1859. Edwin L. Drake. The birthplace of the American petroleum industry.”

  “Yes,” Cameron chimed in, “that’s it. That place.” She tried to read his smile. “Are we going there?”

  “No. Every school kid within a hundred miles seems to go there at least once a year on a field trip. I’ve seen it often enough, thank you. If you’re interested, though …”

  Turning in her seat to face him—to at least see his profile—Cameron tried to read his face. She could see the tiny wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. They looked deeper now, as if he were enjoying this.

  “No,” she said. “Unless you really want to experience the history of petroleum again.” She paused, then asked, “Do you?”

  Now he smiled. “No. But let’s take a drive. We’ll take the scenic route. I want to show you one of my favorite places. It’s pretty close, and it’s not that late. But it’s not exactly a tourist stop.”

  She settled back against the seat, happy to be riding with him, happy to feel the vibration of his truck, happy to be driven. He drove north for a while, cut west on a side road, then headed back south. The truck slowed. Cameron looked and saw nothing but greenery on both sides of the road.

  “It’s a little hidden,” he said as he steered his truck into a thin mesh of greenery.

  “A little hidden? Is this where I should start getting scared?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s just … well, you’ll see.”

  In another moment they came to the crest of a small hill and the road opened up onto a pocket version of a picture-postcard sunset.

  “That’s Oil Creek down there. We’re only a mile or so from the river,” Ethan explained as he slowed the truck, pulling off onto a grassy patch. “It used to run with oil—at least that’s what the guides at the Drake Well say. It’s better now.”

  He shut off the engine and opened his door. She waited again until he came around and opened hers.

  “It’s just over there,” he said. She followed him as he walked a few yards to the right. They stood on a little hillock, whose one side was draped with a weeping willow. Before them was the meandering Oil Creek, snaking back and forth in the perfect but petite valley. Grass, calf-high, grew lush and full, pocked with stands of extravagant day lilies in orange and red and yellow, all catching the last gl
ints of the setting sun, looking as if they were illuminated from within by some magical light source.

  “I hoped the sun would still be up,” Ethan said softly. He held out his hand.

  She wondered, in that split second, what to do next.

  She took his hand, and he helped her down a steep ledge.

  “I didn’t want you to fall.”

  She was sure he held her hand for at least a few seconds longer than necessary, but she liked that comforting feeling.

  “Over there. That’s what makes this place so … different. Beautiful and unsettling at the same time.”

  On the other side of the creek, perhaps seventy-five yards away, nearly hidden by lush foliage, stood an old house. Maybe it was a mansion.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “I’d never have seen it, or expected to see it. It’s like it was hidden and then it wasn’t.”

  “I know,” Ethan said. “You can look right at it and not completely distinguish it. Like one of those trick drawings … an optical illusion sort of thing.”

  The structure loomed in the growing darkness of the woods. Three stories hulked in the shadows, and an enormous turret rose at the far end. It must have been painted white at some recent time, but the boards had weathered to a milky yellow. A deep porch leaned against the front of the structure. The tall windows appeared opaque, like shiny obsidian.

  “Does … does anyone live there?” Cameron asked, surprised that her voice had suddenly grown small.

  “No. They haven’t for nearly a decade. The last person—the granddaughter of the original owner—moved to a nursing home. She may still be alive, but I haven’t checked recently.”

  “Have you ever been inside? It looks huge.”

  Ethan nodded slightly. “Once. The interior is amazing. I tried to buy it … several years ago … when my wife … but the woman’s grandson thought my offer was ridiculously low. He took it off the market after that, and it’s been empty since then. And slowly crumbling, I’m afraid.”