As I drove to the house, flashes of the night before interrupted my drive: the softness of where his neck met his shoulder and the way he kissed the inside of my wrist, and how I had to concentrate to stay in the moment. I couldn’t stop the flush from moving across my face as I thought of the moment he told me to slow down, relax. I didn’t realize my cheeks were still pink as I pulled up to the house at the same time as Eddie.
“Wow. Where did you spend last night?” he said as he fastened a loop of heavy wire between two screw eyes on the edge of the broken pocket door.
“Nowhere. My house.” I could feel my cheeks reddening further, so I turned and paid close attention to the wire on the door, my gaze not meeting his.
“Who was with you?” he asked with a laugh.
“I was alone in my house this morning.” It was the truth. By virtue of admission, since Gavin had left last night.
“All right. None of my business, boss. I got that. Nice to see you had a good night, though. It’s about damn time,” he said.
I rolled my eyes at him before I turned back to the pocket door. I watched as he pulled the wire and dragged the door out of the pocket. We each took a side and lifted the door out of its track after we pried off the top and bottom jambs.
Eddie peered inside the pocket. “Can’t see a thing.” He slowly extended a narrow piece of wood into the dark, narrow opening. “I really don’t want to lose another finger,” he said. After poking around for a moment, he nodded. “Just as I thought. The studs at the back of the pocket are warped. We’ll have to straighten them out and then rehang her back into place.” He glanced at me. “Are you listening?”
“What? Yes. Pocket door. Go for it,” I said absentmindedly. My entire body felt like it had been wrung out, like a wet sponge that had been sitting on a kitchen countertop for days until finally someone had discovered it.
“Boss?” Eddie said, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m going to start patching that plaster in the living room,” I said without looking at him.
I sat down on the scuffed floors of the living room, premixed joint compound next to me. I slowly began to apply the compound with a wide knife, spreading it to several inches on either side of the crack. Then, I taped down the center of the crack, and applied another layer of compound. The methodical, rhythmic motions made me settle further into the floor.
As I worked, I glanced next door, at Elsie’s empty house. The windows on the second floor seemed to frown, their chipped wood sills sagging in the sunlight as they waited for their owner to come home. I wondered if this was the longest time she had been away from home.
Some people don’t believe that houses have souls, but I know they’re wrong. Every person who lives in a house leaves an imprint on it, like a ghost that won’t ever leave. The tears, laughter, and smiles are all soaked into the surfaces of a house. The wood, the tile, the paint, all absorb the energy of those who live there. The house is a forever witness to the peaks and valleys of those who live there. It knows the deepest sadness and the greatest pleasures of a family, and will always keep their secrets.
As I moved over to patch another crack, Eddie appeared from around the corner.
“Hey, listen. I just got a text from Janie that Mia’s cough is getting worse. She thinks she might have croup. It’s probably not a big deal, but . . .” He trailed off, his shoulders sagging.
I waved my hand in the air. “Go. I remember what that’s like. I hope she feels better,” I added when he turned to leave.
I settled in front of a wide, horizontal crack that was next to the paneling close to the fireplace. I was about to spread more joint compound on the crack when the edge of the paneling caught my eye. I leaned in closer, putty knife in hand, and realized the last section of the paneling stuck out more than the others. I ran a finger along the wood, and then lightly pressed on it.
I moved back as the paneling swung open, releasing a cloud of dust and stale air. It was a section only two feet by two feet, with a small alcove inside. It was just big enough to hide a small box, or a bottle of liquor. Or, in this case, a yellowing envelope.
I winced as I stuck my hand into the small space, certain a tarantula or giant centipede was making a nice home inside, and pulled out the envelope. The front was blank, and inside was a folded piece of paper.
At the top of the document was the name of a lawyer, a Mr. Thomas J. Regan, Esq., and it appeared to be a sort of contract, signed by Mr. and Mrs. Moore and Elsie’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Slattery. As I read the text, my eyes widened at the words adoption and baby. I nearly dropped the paper when I saw the sentence: The birth families agree to relinquish all familiar claims to the child, and to never contact the child in the future.
“They knew about the baby. They knew and . . . they gave her up.” My arm drooped down to my side as I took a long, deep breath. I shook my head and read the paper again, certain I had missed something. Yet it was the same: They had given up all rights to ever having a relationship with their granddaughter, even though their son was dead.
I couldn’t imagine their logic in signing the agreement. It was so hard for me to say good-bye to Abby when she left for Matt’s house, yet that was only for a few days at a time. I supposed they did what they thought was right at the time, but I knew from my own life that decisions made in the past sometimes don’t seem quite as clear-cut when examined in the present.
I realized that Elsie didn’t know about the agreement. She believed the Moores never knew about her pregnancy. Her parents must have told them, though, and gotten them to sign the agreement so the adoption could go through without any hesitation. It didn’t make sense that Elsie wouldn’t have been asked to sign the contract, as well, but maybe her parents figured that she would go along with whatever they decided. And, for the most part, she had.
I put my forearms on my knees. Elsie would be devastated if she knew about the paper, if she knew that they had all conspired to send the child away. I wondered if the child somehow knew, if she knew how quickly she was given up for adoption, and what she might assume about Elsie.
I shook my head. I wouldn’t tell her. It wouldn’t make any difference. But now I had a name: a Mr. Thomas J. Regan, Esq. He was someone who might know something that had happened with the adoption. He likely wasn’t still alive, but I thought that maybe I could track down a family member or a colleague. I would investigate the lead on my own, and if it turned out to lead me somewhere, I would try to find a way to explain it to Elsie.
I tucked the paper into my back pocket and turned my attention back to the cracks in the plaster.
CHAPTER 30
“And how did you strip all the painted door hardware?” my dad asked as he surveyed the doorknobs that were laid out on a tarp on the front porch.
“Soaked them in a Crock-Pot and then scrubbed them all with a nylon brush, of course. Wouldn’t have dreamed of using stripper or a wire brush,” I said with a smile. “I was taught by the best.”
“And the windows?” he said, his gaze moving toward the restored sashes.
“We saved and fixed them all. Rebalanced all the weights, replaced the glass, and patched the rotting wood. We even saved the leaded-glass doors in the dining room buffet. Just got a call this morning that they’re ready for pickup from the restoration company.”
He turned to me and nodded. “Great job, honey. I mean, really.”
“Thanks. There’s still a lot to be done, but we’re getting there. Despite all the setbacks, I still want it to be done by the end of the summer, before the winter sets in and people enter hibernation mode.”
“Well, it looks just fantastic.” My dad looked at my mom and smiled. “I told you.”
My mom threw her hands in the hair, her hot pink fingernails flashing and her bright red bob moving around her shoulders in one piece. “I told you I knew she would do a great job on the house.” She shuddered and looked at me. “Those pictures that you first sent us, though.”
I saw her sneak a glance in one o
f the windows.
“They’re all gone, Mom. All the dead animals are gone. Promise,” I said.
“Yeah, it was really gross.” Abby wrinkled her nose.
“And how would you know? Were you the one scooping them all up?” My dad lifted Abby off the ground in one swoop and hugged her to his hip. Even at almost seventy, he still retained the shape of an NFL quarterback, and the fitness level. Last year, he ran a half marathon and beat out a bunch of men half his age. He had always seemed like a superhero to me, a fact that continued into his golden years.
We walked inside the house, and my mom surveyed the baseboards and trim, her white linen tunic floating behind her. “Isn’t the wood a little dark, though? Are you going to paint it white?”
My dad and I both gasped at the same time, and I nearly fell over on the spot. My mother’s decorating style could be described as more Palm Beach circa 1987, with lots of mirrored walls, gold accents, and tropical print furniture. They even had a giant, built-in shelving unit covered in white and brass as their headboard. Their entire condo looked like the Golden Girls had hooked up with the cops on Miami Vice and went into real estate together.
“Evelyn, we’re going to pretend that you didn’t say that,” my dad said as he shifted Abby on his side.
“What? There’s nothing wrong with painted wood, Gary,” she said as she rolled her eyes.
“Sure, Mom. But, I mean, look at this.” I ran a hand along the doorway trim in between the dining and living rooms. “It’s imperfect, but it’s beautiful.” I traced the grain in the wood, swirling my finger along the color variations. “I don’t know why anyone would want to cover this up.”
“Like I said, I knew she would do it right,” my dad said with a smile as my mom shook her head.
She glanced at her watch. “An hour. We landed an hour ago, and that’s how long it’s taken you two to fall into your routine.” She threw her hands up in exasperation, but I saw the sparkle in her eyes. She walked over to Abby and plucked her from my dad. “C’mon, sweetie. Come tell Grandma all about your school before we leave for dinner.”
“Really, I couldn’t be more proud,” my dad said before we followed them into the kitchen. He paused and looked into the powder room, at the original porcelain sink.
“Yes. I’m patching the flaking porcelain, too, Dad.” I rolled my eyes. “Eddie was supposed to do it today, but he’s home with his sick daughter.” He had texted me before dawn, asking for a day off since Mia was still having a rough time, and Janie had come down with the same thing. I hated to lose him for a whole day, but I told him to stay home.
“You know, I patched that damn sink about a hundred times in our old house,” my dad said with a frown. He stared at the black cracks and missing pieces of porcelain near the drain.
“Be my guest,” I said.
He grinned and set to work in the bathroom with some fine-grit sandpaper, porcelain filler, a few toothpicks, and a bottle of surface glaze. My mom took Abby back to my house, and I worked on patching more plaster cracks in the dining room. I found the Milwaukee Brewers game on the radio, and my dad and I worked together, the baseball announcers’ voices carrying us through the afternoon.
When it was nearly dark out, my mom dragged us away from the house to grab some dinner. There wasn’t a discussion as to where, since it was understood that we would go to my parents’ favorite restaurant, Anthony’s, as we always did when they visited. A leftover from decades ago, the restaurant was literally in the middle of a giant cornfield off the main highway, and proudly boasted red leather booths and old world Wisconsin charm.
As we walked in, the maître d’ ran forward, arms outstretched to greet my parents. While they hugged and exchanged pleasantries, Abby sighed.
“Mom, what am I going to eat here?” she said in a drawn-out, whiny tone.
“Noodles, like you always do,” I said firmly.
She rolled her eyes and sighed again, and I saw a flash of her teen years. “We’ll have a nice dinner,” I said brightly, but she didn’t respond.
We took a step forward to follow the maître d’ into the dining room, toward one of the corner, red leather booths when I heard a familiar voice slur across the restaurant.
“Well, well, well. What a nice family reunion.” We turned and saw Jack Sullivan sitting at the bar, on the opposite side of the host stand. He lifted a martini glass, sloshing the liquid onto the bar.
“Oh, boy. Why does that jerk have to be here?” my dad said under his breath before he smiled at Jack and walked into the bar. My mom, Abby, and I followed him, but remained in the reception area, letting my father do the dirty work.
“Jack. Looking good. How long has it been?” my dad said.
“Since we last saw each other or graduated high school?” His words ran together in one long sentence, the syllables barely distinct from one another.
My dad ignored the question and clapped him on the back, in the jovial, former high school quarterback and prom king way that he always had with people. “How are things?”
Jack took a long sip of his drink before he set it down. “Does that explain it?” he said with a laugh that sounded like a hiccup. “Eh.” He shrugged. “Still divorced. My kid still hates me. You know how it is.” His glassy eyes focused on the rest of us, behind my father. “Well, maybe you don’t.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.” My dad turned around, motioned his eyes toward Abby, and nodded his head toward the dining room. “Listen, we should really get something to eat before the little one falls asleep on the table. It was great to see you.”
“Your daughter doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Jack said in response.
I took a step forward. “Please, continue.”
My dad held up a hand to Jack, and my mom grabbed Abby’s hand and cheerfully asked her if she had to go to the bathroom, not waiting for her answer before she led her away.
“That house. You’re going to lose all your money in that house,” he said. “Come to work for me, and you won’t have to worry about any of that.”
I shook my head. “You’re crazy if you think I would want to work for you.”
“Not so crazy that I would ruin my life for some hunk of junk that’s been rotting away for over a hundred years,” he said with a smile. He lifted his martini glass again in a toast.
“Jack, it looks like you’ve been a little overserved. It was good to see you, and take care,” my dad said firmly before he turned to walk out of the bar. When I didn’t immediately follow, he put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off, and grabbed the glass out of Jack’s hand, and downed the liquid inside. It burned my throat and my eyes immediately started to water, but I fought the urge to cough.
“Lay off the booze and maybe your life wouldn’t be such a disaster,” I said before I turned and walked out of the bar.
“A pleasure, as always,” he called from his bar stool before I heard him order another drink.
“He’s really gone downhill,” my father said under his breath as we walked into the dining room.
As we sat down in the booth, we ignored questioning looks from my mom and Abby.
“Let’s get you some bread,” I said to Abby as I reached for the basket of bread sticks and cheese spread.
“Some things never change in this town,” my dad said as he opened a menu. He scanned the menu that hadn’t been altered in thirty years and added, “Some good. Some bad.”
After dinner, Abby fell asleep on the way home, and my dad passed out on the couch while watching SportsCenter. My mom and I settled at my tiny kitchen table with glasses of wine. It seemed impossible, but the longer she lived in Florida, the younger she seemed to get. As I studied her smooth forehead and unlined cheeks, I wondered if she really had found the fountain of youth.
“So. How’s it really going?” she said as she folded her hands in front of her. On her left hand was the modest engagement ring my father had given her over forty years earlier, and on her right was a simple gold ba
nd with a missing stone. It was a tiny ruby, from her grandmother, lost before she was even born. I had once asked her if she was going to replace the stone, but she told me that it didn’t seem right to put another stone there that wasn’t original. For all of her Miami Vice decorating and suggestions to paint antique wood, she still knew that original was better when it came to certain things.
“Great. The house is probably going to kill me, but I’m great,” I said as I shifted under her gaze. I took a long sip of my wine and avoided meeting her eyes.
She made a murmuring sound and didn’t look away. Finally, I caved. “Stressed at times. But really, I’ve started dating someone new, and things are looking up.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’re dating someone? That’s wonderful.”
I nodded as I trailed a finger along the stem of my glass. “So far, so good. Traci set us up.”
She nodded approvingly. “Well, good. I want to see you happy. You deserve that.”
“Thanks. I hope so,” I said.
She considered her wedding band for a moment. “Relationships are never easy, that much you know.”
I laughed. “I think I’ve earned my literal stripes in that category.” I leaned back and tucked my legs underneath my body.
“At times, I think we all have,” she said.
“Yes, but you guys are still married. Not the same thing,” I said.
She smiled. “We’re still married, because we stayed married. Trust me, there were more than a few bumps in the road.”
I sat back in surprise. “What do you mean? You guys have always been happy.”
She shook her head. “Happy? No. Married? Yes.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “It has been peaks and valleys, good times and bad. The for better and for worse.” Before I could say anything, she put a hand on mine. “I’m not saying what you think. I’m not telling you that you and Matt should have stayed together. All I’m saying is that things sometimes get tough. Really, really tough. No one gets the fairy tale, even those who love each other to death, like your father and me.”
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