The Renovation

by Terri Kraus

  “You really wanted to live there?” Cameron asked. “It looks kind of … spooky.”

  “It does now. But imagine the grounds cleared out around it and the house restored and repainted. See how it sits there, looking out over this wonderful scene … like a painting.” He lowered his voice. “And look over there, at the far edge of the meadow.”

  A deer stepped into the lowering sunlight, tentative step followed by tentative step, ears switching, almost swiveling to catch hints of danger. A few yards behind followed a smaller deer, most likely her fawn from the spring.

  “This would be at your doorstep,” Ethan whispered. “And the sound of the creek and the scent of grass and the lilies. It would be so perfect.”

  Cameron would have asked why he didn’t try to buy it again, then realized why he hadn’t. She wanted to tell him it was magical, but an image fluttered into her thoughts … an image of a woman, now dead, and her hold over this man. At least Cameron imagined she had some sort of hold on him. Was this the sort of damage Paige meant? The impossibility of Cameron breaking into a perfect memory—a ghost from the past?

  “It’s beautiful,” she said without much conviction.

  Whatever acting she had done, apparently it was enough for Ethan.

  “I’m so glad you can appreciate this. I don’t know many people that would. It’s such an old house, so quiet and isolated. You know … most people want something modern and right next to a mall or something.”

  Cameron smiled back at him. She did love vintage houses, and a peaceful setting, but she also liked knowing that she could run to a mall in a few minutes, rather than having to plan out a daylong excursion.

  She turned her head ever so slightly, just enough to watch Ethan stare at the scene. She saw the earnestness in his eyes, the appreciation for nature and craftsmanship, the desire to see the past live again—and his realization that the past is gone.

  What was … is not now … and never will be.

  She began to retreat from being angry at the intrusion of the ghost of his wife into their evening, and then grew upset with herself that she had resented the disruption. She leaned a few inches closer to him. It seemed like a natural move to Cameron, but she thought she saw a twitch of tension in his jaw muscle. She decided she would let the proximity stay as it was—close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to make either of them uncomfortable.

  They stood in silence for a long time, until the sun was completely hidden and the sky was almost completely red.

  “We should go back. It gets dark fast in the woods.”

  Cameron thought that an odd statement. How much quicker could darkness come here than in a city? But when she turned around, the truck had all but disappeared. She blinked, thinking it must have been moved, or covered with brush somehow.

  Ethan stepped forward and climbed the steep slope, then stopped and extended his hand down. She grasped it hurriedly, fearing being left behind in the growing darkness. He pulled gently but firmly and she scrambled up the slope, colliding with him at the very top, her feet sliding on the damp grass. He grabbed her around the waist, steadying her. His arm felt very secure and very powerful. She could feel the muscles in his upper arm tight against her shoulder.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. After a long moment, he took her hand and led her through the darkness to his truck. She would have been lost had he not been there leading the way. He opened the door and kept hold of her hand as she boosted herself to the seat.

  Neither of them spoke as he started the truck, turned around, and bounced back to the road. The truck rocked as it climbed onto the asphalt roadway, and she slid a few inches closer to him on the bench seat of the truck. She had read, in a dating-advice column when she was a teenager, that a girl should not sit against the door, nor against her date, but somewhere in the middle. She stole glances left and right and realized she was more like two-thirds of the way from the door and one-third closer to Ethan.

  It was advice from a long time ago, she told herself and did not move as Ethan accelerated down the road back to Franklin.

  Despite his earlier dinner, Elliot downed one full pepperoni pizza himself and another two slices from Chase’s selection.

  “Don’t they feed you at home?” Chase said with a laugh.

  “These hardly weigh anything,” Elliot said, defending himself. Chase was pretty sure that Elliot considered weight to be the deciding factor in consumption choices. A full bag of potato chips was pretty much equal to two microwavable burritos—you could heft both of them in your hand and the weights would be close.

  Chase leaned back in his chair—something his father continued to instruct him firmly never to do.

  “See all those scrapes and gouges in the floor?” his father would rant. “It’s all because you lean back in the chair like that when you watch TV.”

  It was a long-running battle. Chase figured the floor was already nicked and scarred, so why be so concerned about it?

  “The house is already like a bazillion years old,” he’d once said, thinking that his logic would defuse the situation.

  “And that gives you the right to destroy it?” his father had replied sharply.

  But his father was not here tonight, and Chase liked leaning back, balancing himself with a foot on the cabinet.

  The ball game droned on, the sound turned down, barely audible. Chase professed to dislike the television announcers, preferring the radio team on KDKA instead. He bounced forward in his chair, then snapped off the TV.

  “Hey!” Elliot said. “I was watching that.”

  “I know. That’s why I did it. Just to aggravate you.”

  For a moment, Elliot appeared to believe him … then recognition of Chase’s sarcasm dawned on his face.

  “Let’s go upstairs to the cave and listen to it on the radio.”

  “Sure,” Elliot said, as he grabbed another Orange Crush out of the refrigerator.

  Once inside the hidden room, Chase settled into a rescued and rickety folding chaise lounge. Elliot threw himself into a pair of mismatched beanbag chairs. The air hissed as it escaped from their vinyl coverings. Chase switched on the radio. It was twenty years old, with a lighted dial like a speedometer, and a real turning knob—no fancy digital tuning. The game came on, gently protesting with a ghost of static—a perfect sound for a still summer evening, hidden in a secret room.

  Ethan knew Cameron was sitting closer to him on the ride home than she had been when he picked her up. He knew that must mean something, but it had been so very long since he had attempted to interpret exactly what those subtle signals might imply.

  Maybe she’s just comfortable. I never sit on that side. Maybe the seat sort of sags that way, he thought.

  He took pride in his safe driving but managed to steal a long glance or two in Cameron’s direction as he drove. Night enveloped the truck, and the glow from the dashboard instruments offered a soft illumination. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, one on top of the other, and her legs crossed at the ankle. She almost caught him looking at her.

  “You want a final coffee?”

  His words seemed to startle her.

  “Coffee? I—”

  “There’s a new Starbucks just over the bridge in Oil City. I know we had coffee at the restaurant, but if you want …”

  He caught her eyes as they waited for a traffic light to change. He thought she might be hiding a hint of disappointment … about what, he had no idea.

  Then she brightened. “Starbucks? Really? A small decaf latte would be great,” she chirped.

  For a moment, I thought he might be inviting me back to his place, Cameron thought. But his son would be there. And this is sort of only a second date. Or a third date, sort of. But another coffee would be nice.

  She wanted to sidle u
p closer to him and put her head on his shoulder.

  But she stayed where she was.

  Elliot slowly slipped down to a nearly prone position in the formless chairs. He turned and smushed one beanbag behind him and put his legs on the small wooden chest under the eave.

  “Hey,” Chase called out. “Not on that. Get your feet off of that.”

  Elliot reacted quickly. “Okay. It’s only my feet. I didn’t, like, walk in from a swamp, you know.”

  Chase knelt by the chest and pulled it toward him. “It’s just my private stuff in here. I don’t want it getting dirty, that’s all.”

  Elliot looked as if he was about to bark out a reply, but he didn’t. His face softened, his lips moving away from their smile to something less than that. “I’m sorry. I know it’s your private stuff.”

  Chase leaned back in the chaise. “It’s okay.”

  Elliot sat up. Both boys knew that Elliot didn’t consider himself as smart as Chase, or as adept at things. It didn’t matter what things they were—Elliot was a quarter step behind. But his heart was different. Chase knew it. And so did Elliot. It was as if Elliot could see what hurt looked like and sounded like.

  “I know it’s got your mom’s stuff in it,” he said slowly, not looking at his friend but at the radio instead.

  “What does?”

  “That chest. It’s got stuff in it from … you know … from before.”

  Chase had never showed it to anyone.

  “How do you know that? I never showed it to you. And it’s always closed.”

  Elliot looked at his feet. “I know. But nobody hides stuff like that, unless … unless it’s real important … or if you have to keep it hidden. Some stuff you have to hide or it gets wrecked. I hide stuff sometimes. Sometimes you have to hide the past from the present. I don’t know why. You just do.”

  Chase didn’t reply.

  Elliot looked up. He let a long, long moment pass before he spoke. “Man, Chase, it’s not your fault. I keep telling you that. It’s not your fault. You were just a little kid. Nobody thinks it’s your fault.”

  Chase stared at Elliot, hearing how his friend had shared his heart, yet holding his lips almost tight, and with a tense jaw, hoping to hide his own feelings. “Yeah … well, maybe you’re right.”

  But I know you’re not.

  “I love their lattes,” Cameron cooed as she poured a packet of sweetener into the cup.

  “I do too … now, anyways,” Ethan said as he sipped his. “If they could offer coffee like this at church, they would have no trouble filling up the pews.”

  Cameron nodded with a smile. “It’s all in the marketing, right?”

  “Let’s walk over by the river,” Ethan said.

  Cameron followed him down the block to the park near the bridge. They sat on one of the benches. A few other families and couples ambled about. The warm night filled with stars and moonlight.

  “You go to church, don’t you, Ethan?”

  Ethan turned to her, almost staring, carefully considering his answer. “No, I don’t. Not much anyway. A few times a year. If Chase is in something. And holidays. That sort of thing. I make sure Chase goes. That’s important. And he likes it.”

  Cameron didn’t respond right away. He expected more questions, so he waited. Finally, he asked, “Do you? Do you go to church all the time?”

  “Not all the time. I go—sometimes. My parents went fairly often. They brought me to church and Sunday school, and I went to youth group in high school. I have a very religious aunt who keeps asking me about it.”

  “Why do you ask?” Ethan said as evenly as he could.

  She shrugged, then added, “Just curious. Getting to know you. That sort of thing.”

  Ethan wanted to say he hated being in church ever since … the funeral. Ever since they said those meaningless words over my wife.

  “Is it important to you now? I mean … going to church and all that?”

  Cameron tightened her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Just then a young boy shouted from the riverbank, his figure outlined in a circle of illumination from a streetlight. He was fishing with his father, his reel bent toward the water. Squealing, he reeled his catch in, laughing proudly. His father hovered just behind, ready to take the rod if his son faltered. The fish caught the streetlight like a jewel. The boy’s father gently removed it, held it close for his son to examine, then carefully lowered it back into the water.

  “Bye-bye, fishy,” the young boy shouted, waving to the water.

  Cameron and Ethan were quiet. As quiet as the darkness that settled about them.

  Ethan moved slowly, transferred his latte to his right hand, and reached, with great deliberateness, taking her free hand in his. He held it like it was a fragile baby bird. He did not entwine his fingers, but cupped her fingers inside of his, nestling them together.

  “This has been very nice, Cameron. I have really enjoyed myself tonight. You’re nice to be with.”

  Is he going to try and kiss me? Would he do that so early on? No. He wouldn’t. But would I let him if he did? I might. What do I do to be neutral? Move closer? Move away? Squeeze his hand?

  He solved her dilemma by turning back to the river. She waited a few seconds, then offered a long, silent exhale, almost a sigh, a mixture of regret and relief—but mostly regret.

  Cameron forced herself to wait again when they reached the parking lot of her apartment. Ethan hurried to her side of the truck and opened the door with a smile. She moved slowly as she slid down from the seat.

  “Let me walk you to your door,” Ethan said.

  Cameron was going to say something about him being so chivalrous and gentlemanly—unlike most every other man she had ever dated—but realized in a hurry that her talking about her dates might be just like him talking about his wife. Then in another heartbeat she scolded herself for even thinking like that.

  He’s just a gentlemanly guy, she thought, and I am not going to embarrass him for being a gentleman.

  She unlocked the door, pulled it open, stepped inside, and immediately turned to face him. She was one step higher than him, so their eyes were now on an almost even plane.

  “I had a really good time,” she said, having decided that there would be no invitations upstairs. She knew he would not accept and did not want that lingering discomfort of the possibility of misinterpreting intentions.

  “So did I,” Ethan quickly replied. “You’re really easy to talk with. I like that. I like a woman who likes good food … and good conversation.”

  “You, too,” she answered, her hand still on the doorknob. She brushed at the hair on her forehead. “Well …” she said, trying not to smile.

  “Well …” he replied.

  A silent moment jutted between the words, and Cameron knew what he would do next. She just knew it, even as he hesitated, even as she knew he was dismissing logic and the past and any experience he might have had a few decades ago.

  She knew it.

  He leaned forward, just a little. He put his hand on her hip, just so gently. He leaned forward a bit more, tilted his head, perhaps more than he needed, and kissed her.

  She tilted her head in apposition to his.

  It was not just a peck, nor was it long. The duration was right in between those two.

  A perfect finish to a perfect evening, she thought.

  “Well …” he said again as he leaned away. “Thanks.”

  He turned and stepped away, almost smiling, but recovering smoothly enough to most likely imagine that she hadn’t noticed.

  He turned back to her. Her hand was still on the doorknob.

  “I’ll call you.”

  She waited there, without moving, until he got into his truck, started the engine, and drove away. As
she turned, she almost tripped. Then, almost stumbling up the steps, she caught herself on the handrail at the last minute … and giggled more than she ever had since moving to Franklin.

  “Are you guys still up?”

  Elliot and Chase had heard the truck pull into the driveway and had scrambled out of the hidden room and tossed themselves into Chase’s bedroom.

  “West Coast game,” Chase replied.

  “Okay. Elliot—does your mom know you’re here?”

  Elliot nodded. “I’m sure she does. I mean … sure. I told her. I think I did.”

  Ethan looked at his wristwatch. “You want me to give her a call for you? Let her know you’re here and all that? It’s not too late, is it?”

  “No,” he replied. “She never goes to bed until midnight. Thanks, Mr. Willis.”

  Chase stared hard at his father. He could see something different in him—something new, something unsettling.

  But he wouldn’t be the first to say anything.

  Ethan looked back at his son, as if surprised by his intense stare. “What?”

  Chase opened his mouth to say something, then didn’t.

  “Well, I’ll call your mother, Elliot.”

  “Sure. That would be swell.”

  Chase kept staring.

  “What?” Ethan asked again.

  Chase didn’t answer.

  Yet he somehow knew that his father knew what the question was.

  The church bell at St. Mark’s rang twice. Ethan sat up in bed and folded his hands across his knees. He didn’t bother with the light. The moon provided enough illumination. He wondered if the neighbors of the church would ever be successful in silencing the clock, which sounded at every hour. Despite a campaign a few years back, the congregation had stood firm and the city fathers had issued a stern no.

  It was so unlike Ethan to be awake after midnight. Well, if he was being honest, it was unlike him to be awake after ten in the evening. And here it was, hours past midnight, and he remained wide awake and far, far from sleep.