Dad cocks his head. “Have you opened it?”
“Nah. Probably some political thing or something. I don’t know.”
“Well, I’d say if an attorney hands you a letter, it’s in your best interest to open it.”
“I will. I’m going to shower first.”
“All right. I’m headed back outside to do some work in the barn.”
“Need any help?”
“Sure, I could use your help.”
“I’ll meet you out there.”
Dad walks back outside, and I grab my stuff from the counter and head to my room. I put the ten-thousand-dollar check in the top drawer of my dresser and take a shower.
When I get out, for whatever reason, there’s more urgency to open the letter, especially after Dad’s comment.
I throw on some work clothes, grab the letter, and sit down on the edge of my bed.
I open the envelope.
Dear Casey,
I was raised in a community where forgiveness is the cornerstone to happiness.
Here are the keys to our place in Ketchikan, Alaska. Twila will give you the details once you’ve accepted the house.
It’s yours.
It might need some fixing up, but if you can do the work and sell it, then the money is yours.
Sometimes, you’ve got to find the healing in order to mend the bridges.
Best,
Ike
What in the fucking hell?
I read the letter again.
There’s got to be some mistake.
I dial Twila’s number.
“I assume you opened the letter?” Twila says without a hello.
“What the hell is going on?” I say.
“Come down to the office, and I’ll explain.”
“We cannot disclose the other party who has received the letter, so I can’t tell you that information. But you can choose to accept the house as a gift or decline.”
“Do I have time to think about it?” I run my hand through my still-wet hair. I can’t just show up in Ketchikan and impose on Tess—if she is the other party. She left for a reason.
“I can give you twenty-four hours,” Twila says. “The other party has the option to have sole proprietorship of the property should you choose to decline.”
“And you can’t tell me if it’s Tess or not? Come on, Twila. We’ve known each other since we were kids. I’m not going to say anything. I just … I just need to know.”
Twila thinks on it. “I will say this: Ike had a way of knowing things.”
“Thank you. Thank you for that insight.” Sarcasm leaks from my tone.
I take the letter and leave the office.
“Twenty-four hours!” she calls behind me.
9
Tess
I ignored his call last night.
Too scared my emotions would allow my heart to feel something I’m just not ready to feel.
Maybe he just needed to talk.
Maybe he needed to be heard.
And when the images of him and Ava surfaced, I’m not going to lie, it ripped me open. Exposed my heart in ways I hadn’t felt in a long time. Their bodies pressed together—dug nails deep into my heart.
But what killed me the most was the video with the little boy and Casey.
I watch the video once more, only for the tenth time. Viewers can’t hear what’s being said, but it’s the way Casey gets down on his knee and looks at the little boy and how the little boy looks up at him with hope and admiration and maybe some envy. He’s always been great with children.
How do you know when it’s all over?
How do you know when it’s time to throw in the towel forever?
When there’s too much between two people that it starts to form a wall and it rises between them like an angry leader who is calling the shots, calling the kettle black, calling everyone names, pointing fingers at the wrong and the right, and it’s all really messy.
But it’s always been Casey’s heart that won me over first.
It’s always been about his heart.
But there comes a time when two people need to just walk away because some things are too heavy to carry into the future.
I also can’t say my heart didn’t seize when I saw his long, lean body pressed against another woman’s. That, too, should be expected, right? He’s not taken. He’s free to date whomever he wants to date.
Don’t scan through the photos again, Tess. Don’t do that to yourself.
My phone rings.
It’s Anna.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself, beautiful. How’s Alaska?” Excitement gathers in her voice.
I try to reciprocate. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t ventured outside because I’ve been here not even twenty-four hours.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, the house is old. Someone brought me dinner last night. And it rains a lot here.”
“Oh, so you’re saying it’s home.”
I smile against the phone. Feel a little rush of warmth against my heart. “Yeah, I guess so.” I didn’t think of it like that.
“What are you going to do today?”
My eyes wander around the living room. “I need to get groceries. Call a contractor to come take a look at the place. See what work needs to be done, I guess.”
The rain sounds.
“Do you hear that?”
“No, what is it?”
“The rain. It rains a lot harder here than it does at home.”
It’s now that I hear a quiet drip that begins by the front door.
Anna begins to talk, and I stand and follow the incessant drip.
Now, with the natural light from the outside, I see the large stain on the hardwood floor and look up just in time for a water drop to hit me in the face. Then another. Then another.
I step out of the rapid fire as Anna continues to talk.
“Shit,” I whisper.
“What?” she says.
“The roof is leaking.” I step on the dark spot and notice that the hardwood is spongy, which means it’s been here for quite some time. There could be a rotting subfloor.
Shit.
“Did you call someone to fix it?”
“No, I just noticed it.”
“Add it to the contractor’s list,” Anna says.
The rain begins to hit down on the roof like a beat that has unforgivable, angry song lyrics.
The wind twists and turns against the walls of the house.
The drip turns to a slow, steady trickle of water.
“Shit,” I say again.
“What?”
“There’s a waterfall in the living room.” I look from the roof to the floor. “I need to get a bucket. Listen, I’ll call you back when I get the waterfall fixed.”
“Okay. But call me back.”
“I will.”
“Hey, Tess?”
“Yeah?” I stare up at the ceiling.
“You’ve got this.”
I sigh. “That’s what you keep saying.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Call you back later.” I hit End, push my phone into my back pocket, and remember the basement.
Off the kitchen, there’s a door that leads to the basement. There ought to be a bucket down there. I open the door, and cold air meets my face. I pull the long string, and the dark hallway illuminates only momentarily, as the lightbulb sputters, blinks, and then dies into complete darkness.
“Add lightbulbs to the list,” I sigh. I pull my phone out of my back pocket again and flick on the Flashlight app.
Taking steps down toward the darkness, I’m reminded of when Casey and I were just kids. Somehow, a rabid raccoon had made its way into one of their old barns on the ranch. Daryl sent Casey and me to take care of it. We were ten years old or so at the time. Casey had just passed his hunters safety course and knew how to pack a gun.
But that’s life on the ranch. Kids learn how to survive.
That’
s when the Atwoods, Morgans, and Cains did holidays together. Before anyone died. Before the travesty sat between the families like a big black cobra, waiting to spread its poison like it did. Like it has over the past eight years.
Casey told me to stay behind him, and I reluctantly agreed. If this thing was going to come at us, I wanted to be there to protect him as much as he would me. And the only reason I agreed to stay behind him was that he had the rifle. So, when we stepped inside the damp, old barn, the raccoon came screaming at us like some sort of crazy, mean loon, literally flying at us, Casey quickly pushed me backward with his one free hand, flicked the safety off, aimed, and fired. The flying raccoon fell from the air like a sack of potatoes.
Casey turned to me. “Are you all right, Morgan?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
He turned back to the raccoon and started to laugh, and so did I.
“Have you ever seen a raccoon fly?” Casey asked.
“I have now.”
But in that moment, I looked at Casey differently for the first time, not like a like friend, not like a brother. He ignited something deep within my chest that burned. A burning I’d never felt before, that made my chest ache and my knees weak, and that ten-year-old girl knew then that she was standing next to the boy that God had made just for her.
I can’t explain what he specifically did that day to win over my heart, but like my mother says, “You just know the day you fall in love.”
It isn’t tracked by landmarks or buildups or monumental growth; it’s a feeling that seemingly arises out of nowhere. At least, that’s been my experience.
I allow the memory to linger in my thoughts for far too long because when I come back to the present moment, I’m still standing in the middle of the staircase, and the same ache I felt at ten years old is back.
The flashlight on my phone only lights a path two feet in front of me, so I carefully proceed down the staircase, and as I go deeper into the basement, it gets colder and darker.
“Just a bucket,” I tell myself.
When I make it to the bottom of the staircase, I realize that it’s not a basement at all. It’s a whole other floor of living space. Pine walls, just like upstairs. There are stacks of newspapers on a pool table and another hallway behind the staircase that leads somewhere. I search the walls for a light switch.
“Bingo.” When I flip it, the room illuminates, exposing the bottom layer of the Isner house.
A kitchen. Curtains line one wall of the downstairs. I push them open. The windows overlook the Tongass Narrows, and the view takes my breath away.
The ocean water sits quietly, waiting for the visitors.
A cruise ship waits in the harbor.
Bush planes are lined up on the right side of the harbor.
Charter boats.
And people.
The colors of the trees and the houses that line the bank are just like a postcard.
Looking at the wild, vast Alaska that just beyond the Tongass Narrows with its thick, lush green trees that fill every inch up the side of the mountain, I’m taken aback.
The rain is a slow sprinkle now, and this takes me to why I’m down here in the first place. A bucket.
If peace had a color, a shape, a picture, it would be this one. I tuck this view into my heart, so I can pull it out when I need it.
I walk to the sink in the kitchen, and it’s smaller than the one upstairs. I pull open the doors underneath the sink and find a bucket. I walk down the hallway and see three other bedrooms that are almost exactly the same as the upstairs—bare bones. A headboard, a dresser, a nightstand.
In the hallway, I notice a black-and-white photograph hanging on the wall, which catches my eye. It’s the only picture displayed in the whole house. It’s a picture of a family, and it’s evident that they’re happy—most of them anyway. But when I move closer, I see Ike in the photo, who stands all the way to the left, maybe in his early fifties. Another man and woman I’m unfamiliar with stand next to Ike.
Martin and Esther are in the photograph, too, though much younger. Next to Esther is a young woman who looks just like Esther. Though the quality of the photograph is minimal, I can see the young woman’s sadness through the storm set in her eyes, the wind she tries desperately to hide from. In a world surrounded by smiles and how do you dos, she almost stands alone, in a different world, hiding from herself. In her arms sits a little girl, no older than maybe three, clinging to her mother. Same dark hair but a smile that brings light to the world.
I’ve never felt so mesmerized by a photograph. A memory captured so long ago, taken of people I hardly know, and yet I feel like it has buried itself into my skin, pushed itself upon me, imprinted itself within me.
It is the wind that calls to me, bringing me back to the present moment. The rain is so loud; it pounds against the roof upstairs. I remember the bucket. Quickly, I turn off the light, flip on the flashlight of my phone, and try to leave the feelings, the thoughts of the photograph downstairs, but they follow me up the stairs, whirl around me just like the wind. It’s when I close the door to the downstairs that the feeling fades.
The water from the roof runs like a piece of fishing wire; it’s not always visible, but it’s consistent. I place the bucket under the small waterfall and look back up at the roof.
I need a handyman, I think to myself.
Hiring a handyman would probably be a lot quicker job than a general contractor. But maybe there’s someone in town who could give a recommendation of a reputable person and not some serial killer I’d invite into the house, who would only kill me and leave my remains under the house, where I’d become a cold case before my body was only found twenty years later when the old house was being demolished to erect condominiums. And just my luck, the killer would have died five years prior in a car accident with bodies in the trunk.
You’re overreacting, Tess.
I grab my shopping list, my purse, and find a big raincoat hanging behind the front door.
Pull your shit together, Tess.
In the wind and rain, I make my way down the hill, pulling the coat tighter around my body, burying my chin deep against my chest.
When I make it to the bottom of the hill, a smidgen to the right is Creek Street, and between Sockeye Sal’s—a bar, I assume—and Adventure’s Edge is a small place called Olive’s.
Under the awning of Olive’s, I pull off my hood and walk inside.
To my surprise it, too, is a bar, but on the other side is a small convenience store that doubles as a gift shop. Guess the owner knew what they were doing when they opened this place. Three birds. One stone.
Stop for milk and get a beer. I laugh to myself.
“Welcome to Olive’s,” a woman says. Her beautiful light-brown skin, long eyelashes, and long black hair are stunning in a natural, unapologetic way.
She greets me with a smile that feels warm. For a moment, I feel less alone.
“Are you passing through?” Her voice is smooth, and it floats in the air like music notes.
“Something like that.” Perhaps it’s the lonely piece of me that wants to wallow in self-pity, and yet a piece of me could use a friend.
“Let me know if I can help you,” she sings.
I grab some instant coffee and a mug that says Welcome to Ketchikan, cereal, soy milk—which I’m really surprised she has—a postcard, two sweatshirts, a few frozen dinners, and several bottles of water. I set all of it down on the counter.
She smiles at the instant coffee. “Just so you know, I make good coffee here if you ever feel so inclined to stop in.”
“I might need to take you up on that.” I grab my debit card.
“Oh, we don’t take cards here.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
“No, there’s an ATM three blocks up. But I can set you up with a tab, if you’d like?”
Tabs. This makes me think of home. I smile. “But … but you don’t know me.”
She eyes me cautiously. “Have
you robbed a bank?”
“No.”
“Have you been arrested?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to prison?”
“Uh, no.”
“Do you have a drinking problem?”
“No.”
“A drug problem?”
“No.”
She winks. “Then, you’re okay in my book. Seems to me you’ll make good on your tab.”
“I will walk down to the ATM and get you the cash immediately. Thank you, um …”
“Olive.”
“Oh. Olive.” I thought the store name was in reference to a martini, but I don’t say that to Olive. “Thank you, Olive.”
She bags my purchases, and I take them from the counter and turn to leave, but I stop and turn back.
“You wouldn’t know of someone I could call to repair a roof, would you?”
“Call Stanley. He fixes a little of everything around the house.” Olive writes down his name and number.
“Thank you.” I nod. Take the number from her.
“You’re welcome …”
“Tess.”
“Tess.”
I stop before I hit the door. Turn back to Olive. “What about a general contractor?”
“Emmitt.” She takes the slip of paper back from me and writes down his number. “He’s also my granddad. But trust me, he does great work. Don’t let his age fool you.”
This time, I shove the piece of paper into my pocket. “Thanks again.”
“It’s no problem, Tess. I hope to see you around. Oh, and a forewarning: Stan is single, and he’ll let you know as much. He’s harmless though. Just lonely.”
“Well, you want the good news or the bad news first, Ms. Morgan?” Stanley doesn’t look like a man who matches his name. He looks much younger, much skinnier. Maybe thirty. He wears dark blue jeans that hang from his hips, smokes a pipe, and wears suspenders.
“Bad news first, Stanley.”
“Please, call me Stan.” He awkwardly runs his hand through his light-brown hair. Takes his non-lit pipe from his lips. “You definitely have water damage, and we won’t know the extent until we tear up the floors.” He puts his pipe back between his mouth.
All I see are dollar signs. I have a life savings, but that’s for my future. On the other hand, if I can turn around and sell this place for far more and make my money back and then some, it might be worth it. That’s my best attempt to stay positive.
Saving Tess Page 8