“How do you know the door to the basement is locked?” Frank asked, as Angie and Paul entered the foyer.
“Pastor Frank, every boy in this town has tried to open this door when his mother wasn’t looking because the older boys have always told stories of ghosts and such waiting at the bottom of those stairs.”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Boys will be boys I guess.”
“Take a look around, then, while I go find that key.” He nodded once and moved quietly to the back of the church.
Angie started walking down the aisle away from Paul and stopped half a dozen rows in. She pointed to the arched ceiling. “You can see some cracks here,” she turned, “and there. Someone said it was shifting and that we’d need to fix the foundation. All the ladies are terrified that we’ll lose the church.”
Paul hesitated at the back row then squared his shoulders and joined her. He kept his attention on the ceiling. “Yes, I can see them. They might be from shifting, or they might be from water damage. The roof would be cheaper to repair than the foundation.”
“The choir loft is that way,” she pointed.
He jogged up the stairs to take a slightly closer look at the cracks. Tucked in the back of the old choir loft were boxes of old religious books and hymnals, and a few old statues with peeling paint and chipped plaster. As a child attending mass he’d always envied the ladies of the choir, sitting up in the balcony while everyone else was stuck down in the pews. By the time he’d left town, the choir had moved down to the main floor and had forsaken the organ in favor of a small electronic piano.
His mother loved singing. He could see her standing in her pew with the book open. She always had the book open to the right page even though she never needed to look at the words. She knew every word of every song that the choir knew how to sing. And if they sang a new song she would hum it to herself all week until she knew it perfectly. When he had been young, before his father had noticed him and started hurting him, he had asked his mother why she didn’t sing with the choir.
“Because then I would have to sit way up in that balcony all alone and I much rather be sitting down here with you,” was her reply. She had even ruffled his hair.
Paul grabbed the railing to steady himself as the huge room spun around him. Get a grip, Paul. It’s just a building.
Angie was down on the main floor staring up at him. When she noticed him looking she waved and smiled. He forced himself to smile back and made his way back down the narrow steps.
“There’s cracking in the wall too. It looks like water damage but I won’t be able to tell if the roof is leaking because the shingles are old, or if it’s leaking because of shifting until I’ve looked at the basement.”
She sighed. “I was afraid of that.” She handed him the key.
“You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
“No. But there are always spiders in basements.” She tried to suppress a shudder.
He smiled; thankful she was here to keep the memories at bay. “I’ll go down alone then. I guess you have your baby flashlight with you?”
“There are electric lights down there you know.”
“I need to see in little corners and under the furnace, places where the ceiling lights don’t go.”
She fished through her purse and came up with the silver flashlight. “Have fun down there.”
He went down the old wooden steps into the unfinished cement box that was the basement. Aside from the furnace and the water heater that serviced the three washroom sinks and the necessary duct work and plumbing there was little else of interest down there. He examined the walls carefully, eyeballing measurements and keeping careful mental track of each detail. He came around the back of the furnace to a secluded nook and came face-to-face with a statue on a wooden stand. Why it had been stored down here and not up in the loft with the others he didn’t know, but he recognized it instantly. That statue had stood in the foyer for years, just a pretty little angel with her head bowed in prayer and some Latin inscribed around the base, but his mother had touched that statue as though saying a silent greeting every time she had passed it. The last time he had seen that statue it had stood beside his mother’s coffin at her funeral.
The church had been as close to packed as it could get in a town that was shrinking as fast as Barnes Lake. His father had sat in the front row, right at the aisle, tears in his eyes. Paul and his brothers had sat in the same row, grudgingly, and at the far end with half a pew between them and their father. They didn’t care who saw the deliberate distance, they wanted nothing to do with their father, not even on a day like that.
The coffin had been open and in the four years that Paul had been gone his mother had aged quickly. Paul had his suspicions as to the cause of her suddenly grey hair and deep set wrinkles but he kept them to himself. Watching all the people cry as they walked by he wanted to jump up on the bench and yell, ‘you could have stopped this. You could have saved her. Gordon Arnold drove his wife to an early grave and not one of you did a damn thing to stop him.’ Propriety and a deep respect for his mother had restrained him that day but the experience had strengthened his resolve to never return.
And that angel, the one she had smiled at every Sunday on her way in and out of the church, had stood over her, its plaster head forever bent in pointless, fruitless, silent prayer as though mocking his mother’s devotion.
He was halfway up the stairs before he realized he was running. He burst through the door into the sunlight filled church, gasping and shaking. He dropped into the last pew and tried to catch his breath.
Angie rushed over. “Paul, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Foundation looks good,” he said, swallowing hard. “The cracks are probably water damage. That will save you close to twenty grand.”
“Paul, I’m more worried about you than the foundation right now.”
“It’s fine, Angie, I’m fine.”
She glared at him. “Paul, you’re shaking. What is going on?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it, alright? I need to look at a few more things around the church.”
She stepped back and watched him trudge off to look around behind the altar and then she stood there and waited, her arms folded, as he did all his poking and prodding and searching. When he returned he looked steadier on his feet and the flushed, panicked look was gone from his face.
“Structurally the building is still sound,” he reported. “Did you want the laundry list of repairs, or did you want me to write them up for Pastor Frank to review?”
“You can write them up and give them to me later. I’ll make sure the council and Pastor Frank all get copies.”
He forced a smile. “Great! I should get back to the house, and I’m looking forward to that chicken sandwich.”
Angie touched his arm, stopping him short. “Paul, we really need to talk.”
He tried to stay relaxed but he knew what was coming next and it didn’t surprise him at all. “What about?”
“Why don’t we talk about what just happened here?” she said, gesturing to the pew he had just been sitting in.
He looked at the empty pew then back to her. “Angie, I’m alright. There was a statue in the basement, my mother’s favorite statue, it startled me to see it again, and that’s all.”
She frowned. “It looked like a lot more than that,” she said.
“Don’t over analyze this, Angie. I’m not a basket case. I got over my mother’s death years ago.”
Angie sighed. “Paul, you’re a strong man, I know that. I know that you did a lot for both of your brothers and I admire that. Letting someone in, letting them get close to you, that isn’t a weakness.”
“I’m trying to get close to you,” he said, defensive. “I thought I had told you plenty about me.”
“Yeah, you’ve told me plenty alright, but if it didn’t happen in the last nine years you won’t talk about it.”
“Angie the past is gone, dead, done with. I
don’t want to talk about it.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“What is it with women and this idea that the only sign of trust is a complete play-by-play confessional of a man’s entire life!?” he shouted. “I trust you with my life every time I get in your car. I trusted you to drive my car, I trusted you with personal information about my life. Maybe I choose not to talk about what happened before I left Barnes Lake, but that is my choice to make and it has nothing to do with trust.”
“It has everything to do with trust,” she said softly. “You’ll only trust me with little pieces of you, not the whole you. I don’t need to know every mundane detail of every minute of every day of your young life, but I would like to know something of your childhood.”
“I grew up here in Barnes Lake, I went to school with you for thirteen years, and my childhood was probably very similar to yours: homework, class trips, summer vacations, and a lot of time being bored.”
“If our lives were so similar why do I want to stay here in Barnes Lake while you’re busy trying your hardest to run away?”
“Maybe because I was smart enough to take the fastest road out of here,” he snapped and silence descended.
He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that he had to apologize, the pain in her eyes was so clear it broke his heart. “Angie …”
“No, Paul, you’re right. If you don’t want to be here that’s your choice. I had hoped, well, I guess that doesn’t matter now. Let me give you a lift back to the house at least.”
He hid heartbreak the only way he knew how, behind a stony face. “I’ll walk.” And then he was gone.
Angie’s heart was thundering. She hadn’t meant to press so hard, she hadn’t meant to snap at him like that, but she was so tired of being on the outside of his life. She wanted to know him, to understand him, and to help him heal, because she was starting to sense that whatever Paul was hiding had hurt him very much. And I only managed to hurt him more, she thought. She spent a few minutes in the comfortable familiarity of the church collecting her thoughts and emotions before driving back to City Hall.
Chapter 12
Paul and Angie were friendly to each other when their paths crossed but Joe and Mrs. Barbour could tell something was wrong. Paul had come back from lunch looking like his usual grim-faced self instead of the relaxed and almost happy man Matt and Joe were growing accustomed to. Recognizing a storm they had both covered their heads and prepared for the worst. There had been little shouting which had surprised them both and they watched as Paul worked from dawn until well after dark, pushing himself harder than usual.
For her part Angie had retreated to her office and cried until her tears had been interrupted by the persistent ringing of the phone. It was her mother.
“Hello dear, I was expecting you home twenty minutes about. Are you working late tonight?”
A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she had wasted four hours wallowing in self-pity. “Yes, sorry Mom. I was so caught up in what I was doing that I lost track of the time.”
“I’ll have someone bring you some dinner then, and I’ll see you later.”
“Thanks Mom.” She’d been so relieved that her mother hadn’t pressed for details and even more relieved when it was her father who showed up an hour later.
Back at the bed and breakfast Mrs. Barbour had hung up the phone and frowned at Joe. “You’re right, they had a fight.” She sighed. “And it was all going so well.”
Every day Joe tried to talk to Paul but Paul would dodge the questions, change the subject, or simply not respond at all. And Mrs. Barbour was having similar luck with Angie. One evening as the house neared completion and Angie’s dreaded meeting loomed ever nearer Mrs. Barbour and Joe were sitting in the lobby feeling defeated and exhausted.
“I just wish I knew what they were fighting about,” Mrs. Barbour sighed. “I wouldn’t mind losing my girl to the city if she went with your brother.”
“I think I know,” Joe said.
Mrs. Barbour sat up a little straighter. “Did Paul say something to you?”
“Not this time, no. But every time Paul broke up with a girl he had the same rant. He’d call women meddlesome, said they always asked too many questions.”
“He has a point,” Mrs. Barbour said.
“Yes, he does. But Angie is the woman who’s supposed to be able to ask those questions without it bothering him.”
Mrs. Barbour frowned. “How can you be sure? You’ve been here less than a moth and they’re had two fights!”
Joe grinned. “Paul’s not ranting. I think it bothers him that he wants to answer Angie’s questions.”
“So they fought about trust,” Mrs. Barbour mused.
“Yup!” Joe grinned and nodded.
“What’s so damn important that he can’t tell my Angie?”
Joe’s eyes were wide. “Mrs. Barbour, your language!”
“That brother of yours hurt my Angie and I will find out why.”
“I’ll tell you, but you cannot tell Angie. They have to sort this out for themselves. And if Paul finds out I told you, it’s finished, he’ll never come back.”
“Contrary to popular believe, I can keep a secret.”
Joe nodded and told Mrs. Barbour a concise version of his childhood.
Paul didn’t come down for breakfast in the morning, and he didn’t meet his brothers in the lobby after breakfast. Joe’s knocking received no answer and when he went in the room was empty.
“Did he leave early, or just not come back here at all last night?” Matt wondered aloud.
“Let’s go find out,” Joe muttered, face grim.
They drove to the house which was looking new again. The yard had been cleared of branches and construction debris and the new fence and porch seemed to glow white in the long shadows of morning. It was almost finished. Joe and Matt entered the house feeling like someone had replaced their boots with lead or cement. Inside should have been a mess of drywall dust and pain cans but the main floor was spotless and completely empty.
They both kicked off their grubby work boots as though their mother’s ghost could step out at any moment and scold them for leaving muddy footprints on her clean floors. It didn’t make them feel lighter but it made their steps soft enough that they caught Paul in his old room on a pile of sheets they had used to protect the floors from plaster and paint.
He woke with a start when Joe cleared his throat and looked at his brothers with blearing, blood shot eyes. “How much sleep did you get last night?” Matt asked.
“I don’t know; what time is it?” Without waiting for an answer he pointed at the bag in Joe’s arms. “Is that from Mrs. Barbour?”
Joe nodded as Paul shot to his feet and lunged for the bag. “Oh thank god, coffee.” He drank it straight from the thermos without using the little plastic cup.
“It’s almost seven o’clock,” Matt said.
Between the gulps of coffee Paul managed to say, “Then three, maybe four hours.”
“You’re working too hard,” Matt insisted, not for the first time since Paul’s fight with Angie.
Like every other time Paul ignored him. “We can move the furniture in today,” he said. “Can you two get this last pile of junk out while I eat?”
Joe laid a hand on Matt’s arm. Always Paul had vented his anger through yelling and snarling, but they were beginning to realize that this time work was his release valve. “Yeah, Paul. Take your time, we’ll finish this up and get a start on the furniture.”
Too soon Paul was out in the garage helping them haul the couch back into the house and by dinner time they were done. They stood back, surveying their work with mixed emotions. There was a sense of achievement, certainly, at having returned their mother’s cherished house to a state of beauty, but a strong sense of ending too. Paul nodded sharply and turned to the door.
“I’m going to run to city hall, you two should head back to the bed and breakfast and start packing. We can d
rive all night, have a lazy day tomorrow, and be back to our lives by the end of the weekend.” He paused with the screen door open and took one last look around.
“We could sleep here tonight and drive all day tomorrow with the same result,” Joe protested.
“Tell Mrs. Barbour I’ll settle up when I get back and ask if she’ll pack us some dinner.”
Matt and Joe stared at the spot where he had been. “It’s like he doesn’t hear us,” Matt said.
“Look, I know what you two went through to keep Dad off my back for eighteen years,” Joe said. He silenced Matt’s protests with a gesture and continued. “Paul isn’t ready to be here yet; he doesn’t understand that we are ready. Maybe it’s time we followed him for his sake, instead of letting him lead us for our sake.”
“So why did you choose business over psychology, anyway?” Matt grumbled.
“Psychology was too easy. Business is a real challenge.”
Paul knocked on Angie’s door, surprised to find it closed. The room was so small that she almost always worked with the door open. He stood waiting patiently in the hallway, figuring she was on the phone or something and would get to him eventually. Then he saw her coming down the hallway towards him and tried not to smile.
She looked beautiful today in a grey pant suit and stunning green blouse that matched her eyes. “What can I do for you, Paul?” she asked as she got closer, all polite business woman.
“I need a real estate agent.”
“You’ve come to the right place then. I guess the house is done?”
He nodded, opting to stay in the doorway rather than crowd her in her office.
“You know, your brother came in to see me at lunch today. He didn’t mention that you were this close to finishing.”
“Oh, what was Joe doing hanging around city hall again?”
Angie shook her head as if still amused by a joke only she knew about. “He asked me if a travel agent was very different from a real estate agent. I don’t understand him at all.”
“That is one of his weirder questions. He’s been asking me about cabins and the cost of rustic exposed log construction. He gets these ideas in his head sometimes, but they usually get hung up on some impossible detail and abandoned. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
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