september
THE shipwrights who built Evenfall knew water. They built the house strong, the way they would a ship, with plenty of solid wood to withstand the waves. They caulked it well, to keep water out, using the pitch from local pine trees and filling the seams with cotton and oakum. They fitted the beams together as tight as they could, so close not even a piece of paper could slide between them. They understood water, respected and feared it. What they did not know was fire. They had no sense for it, for the snap and spark of it, the way it could climb a wall, faster than the fastest wave, consuming everything in its path.
The pitch and fiber acted as kindling, spurring on the flames. The dry aged wood, a shipwright’s prize, served as the perfect fuel. Within moments the house was gone, or mostly so, even as the sirens wailed in the distance, telegraphing the fire department’s approach.
But if the men who had built the house, who had planed each board with care, had seen it after its wreck, when its ruins stood, still smoldering, they would have recognized that the power of fire and of water are closer than they appear. Like water, the fire stripped away the house’s nonessentials, gutting it to its core. Gone were the trappings of the past two hundred years: the flowered wallpaper, the closets filled with clothing, the boxes of keepsakes. The house rose as it might have in the beginning, a simple dark shape against the early morning sky, bare to the elements. Picking through the shell days later, Andie could see the house’s secrets revealed, the layers that hid them scoured away. In the master bedroom, where the wallpaper hung in strips, a tiny charcoal sketch of a boat at sea, drawn above the bed in a heavy hand. Molding around the door of the kitchen was gone, and on the boards left behind two names, Abe and Frank, height marks showing how they hurtled toward adulthood neck and neck, Abe outstripping his younger brother by four inches the year they turned sixteen, the same year the marks charting their growth stopped. And in the corner of the attic, where Andie was not allowed to go, the fire inspector considering the flooring too unstable, came reports of tiny graffiti in the northern wall, the wall with the porthole window that overlooked the land, and beyond it, the glint of the sea.
He’d taken a picture of it, at Andie’s insistence, and later, after he’d gone and the wreckage had cooled, she’d snuck up to see it, her heart pounding with every creak, afraid the stairs would fall down around her. Yet she was oddly exhilarated, too, the way she’d been as a teen sneaking out at night, doing something forbidden. She’d found her painting, the edges burned away but the center, her aunt Gert, still there, the canvas tangled in an enormous carpet too thick to burn at the far end of the room, most likely blown there by the wind from the broken window before the fire started. She’d found other salvageable items as well—the rocking chair, the sea captain’s chest in the corner, a few old books and maps. And there in the corner, behind where a wooden box of old clothes once stood, was the writing the fire inspector had described. So tiny Andie had to kneel to read it, she could see the same words, written twice, by two different hands. The first was a delicate, feminine script, unfamiliar to Andie’s eyes, but the second, the round, tidy letters of her aunt Clara’s old-fashioned Palmer penmanship, was unmistakable. The words were simple: Please Lord, bring him back to me.
Andie knelt looking at them for a long time. By the time she stood up, the early morning haze had burned off and the porthole window filled the space with light. Since she was not supposed to be in the attic in the first place, she saw no reason to mention the writing to her aunt Gert. And over the following weeks, during meetings with insurance adjusters and the fire marshal and the cleaning and restoration companies, when her aunt’s restiveness drove Andie from the cottage into an apartment in town, she found no reason to change her mind.
NOW it’s early morning, and Andie has come one last time to say good-bye. It’s foolish and sentimental, she knows, but still she rose before dawn this morning and drove in the chill morning air, the Nova’s radio cranked as loud as it would go. The maples and oaks that line the road are licked with shades of crimson and orange. As she pulls into the driveway, she sees the house, blackened and gaping, pointing toward the sky.
She’s been here several times since the fire, but still the smell of charred, wet wood catches her by surprise, an olfactory punch to the gut. It’s happened every time she’s come, and she takes a moment, letting her senses tell her what her heart insists can’t be true. The wavy glass that once filled the windows along the side of Evenfall is shattered in a spray as fine as any wave. Pieces glint and shine from the grass. Black streaks mar the outside of the walls. The beams of the attic are visible through the roof; the fire inspector believes the lightning struck there, and the attic took the full brunt of the hit.
Andie gets out of the car and stands. In the weeks following the fire she’s had little time just to look, to take in the image that’s haunted her dreams for days. She notices the details now; the lace curtain, blackened but still recognizable, that hangs from the attic window; the scorch marks along the grass where embers from the house landed; the layer of ash that coats the leaves of the trees.
But it’s not until she gets out of the car and walks around to the front of the house that she sees the table. It’s covered with a blue cloth and the ends snap gaily in the breeze. There’s a small vase of asters in the center, place settings for two at either end. Champagne flutes. A pitcher of orange juice. And standing behind it all, Cort. He looks different, somehow, and it takes Andie a moment to realize that it’s because Nina’s not with him. Her throat tightens a little bit, and the space around her legs feels emptier than it should.
“Your table is ready,” he says, and pulls out the chair closest to her.
It’s an odd scene, the cheerful table in front of the ruins of Evenfall, and Andie hesitates, still thinking of the big shaggy dog. But then she shrugs, slides into the chair, lets Cort spread a napkin across her lap.
“How did you know I’d come?”
“I didn’t, for sure. But I hoped,” he says. “And maybe somebody might have mentioned your habit of saying good-bye.”
At first she doesn’t understand what he means, and then it comes to her. The mornings Richard came to take her back to school, Andie always rose early, just as the sun was coming up, to walk the acres around Evenfall. The air was cool then, like now, and she’d shiver as she wandered through the meadows, the grass damp with dew. She imagined the frost that would blanket the fields after she left, the ice that would form on the creek, and she’d wonder if the farm would miss her, if some part of it would sleep away the winter days under a covering of snow, dreaming of her return.
Gert must have seen her, all those years ago, and remembered.
“Andie?”
The painting of her aunt’s own early-morning wanderings is packed in the trunk of Frank’s old Nova. Andie has left it untouched, it’s edges blackened and curled, although some day she may add the faintest hint of silver to it, like the ring, warm to the touch, her aunt wears around her neck on a slender silver chain. It’s a reminder that traits can skip a generation, slide sideways, spring up where you least expect them. She knows now what she never saw on those childhood voyages of good-bye—that she was missed, that she was noticed, that she was loved by three people even in her absence. That the thaw at Evenfall came not from summer’s return, but from her own.
“Andie?” Cort says again. She looks up at him. He smiles, a bit uncertainly, and opens a paper bag by his feet. He takes out miniature corn muffins, dotted with the season’s last raspberries. There are tiny apple fritters scented with cinnamon basil, and brown hard-boiled eggs still warm in their shells. A container of goat’s yogurt, thick and creamy, with a tang that makes her mouth pucker when she tastes it.
“The yogurt is from the girls,” he says, reaching across to fill her flute with orange juice. “From Clarabelle, actually. But Clarissa sends her regards.”
“It’s really, really good,” Andie tells him.
“
The rest of the sendoff’s from Chris,” he says. “He’s really going to miss you. He can’t believe I’m letting you go.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t know, am I?” He’s looking right at her.
It’s true her bags are packed, loaded into the back seat of the Nova, which only has to get her as far as Pennsylvania. It’s the farthest the car has ever been driven, and she’s a little nervous, if she’s honest, that she’ll wind up calling the dean from a roadside garage somewhere, asking for a lift.
“Have you ever been to Pennsylvania?” she asks instead. “It’s only about four hours away. When I went for the interview, the farmland around the college went on for miles.”
Driving there, she’d thought how much Frank would have loved it, the rolling green hills and valleys that made her feel instantly at home. It wasn’t the urban setting she’d wanted, but maybe that was okay. She’s willing to try it and see.
“Is that an invitation?” Cort asks.
“Maybe. Yes,” she says. “If you want to.”
He raises one eyebrow before turning in his seat to look at the house behind them. “You’re not in a rush, are you? Because I have the feeling I’m going to have my hands full here for a while.”
“You really think you can salvage it?”
“I do. Gert’s giving me till spring, and if it works out, Chris and I can lease it. The front of the house by the living room and the bedrooms above it are shot, but the support beam in the attic is still sound. And the land’s good. I can make something out of that.”
When he looks at the house, Andie can tell he’s seeing the future, an Evenfall built to his design, not the hulking wreck behind them.
“I don’t know. Sounds like a lot of work,” she says.
“You know me. I like a challenge.”
“I have noticed that about you.”
She picks at a bit of the muffin on her plate, cracks an egg and nibbles at the white, but she’s too nervous to eat much. It’s time to go. She pushes the plate away, looks at the house again.
“Will you keep an eye on Gert for me? Don’t let her do anything too crazy, okay?” she asks.
“Define crazy,” he says. “You have to remember she’s a Murphy, and reason only goes so far.”
That’s more true than he knows. What happened the night of the fire depends upon who tells the tale, and who is listening. For Neal, the lightning caused a conflagration so large and sudden he swore to the fire marshal that the old house must have been soaked in gasoline. The blaze was so bright, he said, he never saw Nina behind his tires.
Cort has a different take. The fire, he told Andie, was a natural disaster, plain and simple. Put a big house up on a hill, factor in wood that’s two hundred years old, and the surprise is that it hasn’t happened before.
As for Andie, she’s not sure what happened that night. If she believes her aunt, the same flames that drove Neal away from the house carried a message so enduring neither fire nor time could destroy it. Whatever Gert saw or did not see in the fire that night, she’s found a measure of peace in the ashes. For Andie, who saw nothing, that is enough.
“Just promise me,” she says.
He nods. “I will. If you’ll tell me one thing.” He stands, pulls her to her feet. He’s so close she can see the individual lashes around his eyes, the way the tips catch the light when he cocks his head to look at her. She waits.
“If I kiss you right now, will you come back?” he says, and Andie gets the feeling those words aren’t all he wants to say, that he’s biding his time. He’s so close now that she has to shut her eyes. When his lips touch hers, she feels dizzy. The kiss goes on for a long time, and when Cort finally lets her go, she doesn’t move.
In the air above her, blue jays squawk in the tall pines. With her eyes closed, she can see the house untouched by fire: not the future, the way Cort sees it, but the past. The arbor to the right, plump Concord grapes ripened by the sun, the fieldstone steps, the porch where she spent so many hours. She listens carefully, and the noise of the jays fades. In its place she hears the rustling of the leaves, the faint murmuring sound of the creek rushing over rocks, the water dark and muddy. She listens more carefully still and thinks she hears, borne on the wind, the distant jingling of silvery dog tags, the whispered calling of her name. She stays, eyes closed, for a moment longer. When she’s certain she’ll remember, she opens them. She turns and walks down the drive. She can feel his eyes on her the whole way. She takes one last look, standing by the old car, and then she gets in and drives away.
Readers Guide
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
1. How is your experience of Evenfall shaped by the author’s choice to tell the story through three distinct voices? What details might have been left out if we didn’t have such a multi-perspective view? Did you find it effective?
2. What is Frank hoping to accomplish by staying on in the house as a spectral presence? What abilities does he possess? What is his “unfinished business”? Do you think he finds peace by the end of the novel?
3. Were you surprised by the history between Frank and Gert? How did their relationship come to define them both throughout the rest of their lives? What were the ramifications?
4. Do you think Andie makes a wise decision in starting a relationship (even if just a summer fling) with Cort? Why or why not? What do they offer each other? Is the affair worth the drama it creates, or do you think it is a love that can last?
5. The estate of Evenfall is a central character in the novel. What secrets, history, and energy reside within it? How does memory play a role in this story?
6. Why do you think Gert chose to stay in the smaller house on the property after Clara and Frank’s deaths?
7. In what ways does Andie’s career and life path mirror Gert’s? What choices set them apart?
8. What inspires Gert’s change of heart in warming up to Cort—even helping him to woo Andie back? What lesson from her own past might have motivated her to act this way?
9. Did you find Neal’s appearance unexpected? Do you think Andie made a wise choice by rekindling her relationship with him? How is she different when she’s with Cort?
10. What is Richard’s role in the story—to Andie, and to life at Evenfall? How is he a destructive force?
11. Everyone at Evenfall keeps secrets—Gert from Andie, Frank from Clara, Neal from Andie. How do these secrets come to shape these relationships? What are the consequences?
12. After her illness is revealed, Gert opens up to Andie, offering her advice about the importance of the relationships we cultivate. What might have inspired this confession? Why do you think Andie might have been so receptive to hearing it?
13. The importance of home is a central theme of Evenfall. How does the pull of home—and the responsibility of preserving it—shape each of the characters?
14. Did you expect Andie to stay at Evenfall after her breakup with Neal, Gert’s diagnosis, and the physical destruction of the house? Why do you think she left, and do you think she’ll return? Do you think she made the right decision?
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