The Farmhouse

by Elizabeth Bromke

  Her pulse quickened, and Rhett stood back to let her open the barn door slowly.

  Maggie stopped and looked back over her shoulder to the house. “Hang on,” she told Rhett. “Gretchen needs to see this.”

  She held her hands to her mouth and hollered as loudly as she could, her voice carrying to the farmhouse.

  Gretchen’s face appeared in the kitchen door window. Maggie gestured for her to join them, and Gretchen did, exiting the door and letting the screen slap shut before striding with purpose toward the barn.

  When she arrived, Maggie gestured toward the rusty lock, now lying inert on the ground.

  “You ready?” she asked her daughter.

  Gretchen nodded, smiling from Rhett to Maggie.

  Again, Maggie hooked her fingers in the handle and tugged. The heavy wood scraped along the ground. Rhett came up behind her and pulled the door from above her head.

  Though darker inside the barn, two high, round windows allowed modest light to fill the wide, high cavern.

  Maggie and Gretchen gasped.

  Neatly stacked milk crates intermixed with boxes on top of wooden pallets that had long succumbed to dry rot.

  A musty stench tickled Maggie’s nose, and she sneezed.

  Old haystacks towered to the right, across from the pallets that had nearly sunk into the dirt floor beneath their boxes.

  Some pieces of furniture sat at odd angles in the loft above.

  What once had been a stable became visible in the far back of the space as their eyes grew accustomed to the shadows.

  “Look,” Gretchen whispered as she neared the boxes.

  Maggie joined her. On every single cardboard box, the material of which had begun to disintegrate in the damp barn, was printed in thick, clear letters:

  Camille Devereux.

  Gretchen pressed her fingers to the name and looked back at her mother, who nodded.

  Boxes and crates.

  Memories.

  Hope.

  Maybe even answers.

  But one single feeling filled Maggie’s chest in that moment.

  Peace.

  And two words that in her life she’d so rarely used together, finally fell from Maggie’s lips. “My mom.”

  Chapter 34 — Maggie

  Three Months Later.

  It had taken weeks, but with the help of Rhett, Gretchen, and even Theo, they had cleared out the lower part of the barn and had even begun on the loft.

  A cellar beneath the house made for proper storage, and that was where Maggie carefully transferred and laid to rest many of her mother’s possessions, including clothing and garments that weren’t too terribly moth-eaten, a few books, and other personal effects.

  Devereux family documents, neatly filed into plastic bins, now rested on sturdy shelves down there, too, courtesy of Rhett and Theo, the latter of whom had taken up something of a casual weekend apprenticeship in the craft of all things home improvements.

  He’d confessed to everyone that his dad was more of an indoor guy, and he was excited to learn about real work.

  Rhett had loved that.

  So did Gretchen.

  And Maggie loved that Theo and Gretchen had become serious. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that she’d like to see her daughter settle down so early in life, but she was now able to see that the sins of the mother weren’t always passed on.

  With any luck, in fact, Maggie had turned the tide for the family. After taking pains to keep Rhett at arm’s length, things had slowly grown comfortable. Delicately comfortable.

  He moved from the parlor to the barn once they had added flooring and basic amenities, and it opened a space the family needed to fully settle in.

  But, it also opened an absence, and no sooner than he had a sofa and a television set in the makeshift workshop did they invite him right back for supper every evening, movie nights every Tuesday and Friday.

  And, of course, there was no plumbing in the barn, yet. So, Rhett still had a place in the shower rotation, further entrenching him into the oversized family routine.

  Still, while the family had become used to him, Rhett never seemed as perfectly at home as Maggie would have liked.

  And she would have liked that. Very much.

  Especially when Gretchen, one night, professed to love that they had Rhett around.

  “He makes me feel safe,” she whispered to her mother when the two were lounging in Maggie’s bed chatting airily into the late hours.

  “Me, too,” Maggie replied.

  Gretchen sat up. “Mom?”

  “Yeah, Gretch?”

  “Are you ever going to start dating him?”

  Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks reddening at her daughter’s suggestion. “Oh, Gretchen. I don’t know. He’s a good man, but he’s just here to help.”

  “We have a toilet, now,” Gretchen pointed out before adding, “and a water heater.”

  “So?”

  “So what else does he need to help with?”

  “The barn, remember?” Maggie answered plainly.

  The plan was to add plumbing and enclose the loft as a sort of second floor in the barn. It could be Gretchen’s apartment and sewing house. She’d live there as long as she needed. It would be her own little place, complete with a working sewing table and craft space, solid oak bookshelves stuffed to the brim with Gretchen’s many titles, and comfortable enough to host guests, such as Theo... if the time ever came.

  Gretchen smiled. “Yeah, but that’s a big project. Expensive, too. And we haven’t even finished sorting through the boxes.”

  It was true.

  Maggie let out a long sigh. She wanted so badly to read every last paper, scour every last note in the few boxes that remained in the loft of the barn. They weren’t family documents.

  They were Camille Devereux’s private collection. At least, that’s what Maggie had assumed when they stumbled upon them and tested their weight. Not full-but-light with garments. Not over-heavy and loaded down with the books.

  They were the weight of history.

  The history of Camille’s short life.

  Maggie could tell.

  But she couldn’t read them and find out.

  Because if Maggie didn’t open the boxes, then she always had something to look forward to.

  She always had more to learn.

  More to know about where she came from.

  “Why don’t you at least open them?” Gretchen asked, reaching across the comforter toward the bowl of popcorn resting in Maggie’s lap.

  “I will. I just... I want time. You know?”

  “Time for what? Aren’t you curious? Maybe there are, like, pictures in there.”

  “Maybe,” Maggie replied. “But I want to really have time to bring them in here, sit down, and spread everything out.”

  “You have time, Mom,” Gretchen pushed. “Just do it, already.”

  Maggie considered this. Time, she had. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe something else was keeping her from the task.

  Like fear.

  “MORNIN’.”

  Rhett stood just beyond the threshold of her front door. It was eight o’clock on an otherwise average Monday in late May.

  A sunny, warm day.

  The type of day that made Maggie want to unearth her bathing suit, grab a towel, and sprawl out on the grass like a sun-thirsty teenager hoping for the perfect tan.

  But Maggie was not a teenager any more.

  No matter how much Rhett, standing there in his worn Levi’s and snug-fitting white t-shirt, made her feel like one.

  “You really don’t have to knock anymore, you know,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.

  He shrugged, grinning back. “Sorry, but I can’t not knock.”

  Maggie stepped aside. “Come on in. Breakfast is nearly ready,” she directed.

  Rhett’s smile faded. “Actually,” he replied, “I can’t join you today.”

  She frowned. “Oh?” Her plans for the morning flashe
d through her mind. He was going to start the bathroom that week. Gretchen had picked out a bathtub, even. But Maggie wasn’t in the position to remind him about any of that.

  “I, uh...” he licked his lips, and his eyes darted about the front porch, landing on Old Gray, snoring in the far corner. “I was going to go take a look at a place out in Corydon today.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she quickly shut it.

  Maggie knew this was coming. Rhett had said over and again that he was going to start house hunting soon.

  She didn’t know he already was.

  “Oh,” she replied, swallowing.

  He took a deep breath. “Maggie, listen,” he began, avoiding her stare. “I don’t want to impose on your family any longer.”

  “Impose? You’re not imposing on us, Rhett. Don’t be ridiculous. You... I mean, you’re part of our family now.” She waved her hand back behind her as Dakota and Ky conveniently descended the staircase.

  “Look,” he said, pinning her with a steely gaze. “I’ll be back this afternoon. We can talk more then.” Rhett added a broad smile and waved at the boys, who, unaware of a mounting and unpredicted tension, trudged into the kitchen for breakfast.

  Maggie nodded at Rhett before he turned to go.

  Once the boys had passed and Rhett was on the bottom step, she moved through the door and stopped him. “Rhett,” she said, her voice low and firm.

  He turned, his expression weary. “Maggie, I can’t do this anymore.” He held his palms up at his sides. “I love it here. I love being near you. All of you. But I need my own life, too. I’ll finish the barn. You don’t have to worry about that—”

  “I don’t give a crud about the barn,” she answered, hopping down the steps and joining him on the grass. “I just—” But it was useless. What could Maggie possibly say?

  Over weeks—months—of silent flirtations during movie nights, painfully teasing eye contact across the kitchen table, and little touches here and there as they hammered and drilled and painted and scrubbed... nothing emerged.

  Maggie never once showed up at the barn after dinner. She’d never once sent him a private text message about something other than what to buy at the hardware store. She’d never once taken an opportunity to tell him that, yes, there was more to it. More to all of it.

  She never once told Rhett that their situation was not a temporary arrangement or that she wanted it to be permanent.

  As far as Rhett knew, he was a live-in handyman.

  But that wasn’t who Rhett was. And Maggie knew it.

  Chapter 35 — Rhett

  “I don’t want to pressure you into anything, Maggie. But I can’t do this anymore.” Rhett kept his voice low and soft.

  He looked past her for a moment, then took a step closer, his body just inches from hers. He could smell her shampoo from that spot. He could breathe her in, and he wanted to. So badly.

  Which was why he had to go.

  “Can’t do what?” she asked.

  Finally. It was out there. An opportunity for the truth.

  “Maggie, I can’t be near you if I can’t be with you.” He blew out a breath and squeezed both eyes shut before cracking one open like a kid, nervous to admit it was his baseball that broke the kitchen window.

  Her face fell for a moment. And it was the answer he hated to have but knew he needed.

  It was a “no.”

  Plain and simple.

  “I brought down a couple of the boxes from the loft. Figured you could go through them. Or not. But if we can get them down, things will go faster. Sound good?”

  He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come, and Rhett realized that weeks of pretending that he could just be there and help had taken their toll.

  Sure, it began that way. A win-win. He had a place to stay while he found a home to buy. Maggie had his help.

  But the feelings grew strong and deep.

  What made it all worse was that he knew Maggie felt the same.

  But she refused to accept it. Or face it. Or deal with it.

  Either that, or she was afraid. And Rhett knew nothing he did could ease those fears. Because he’d spent all those weeks and months showing her that she had nothing to fear.

  And yet she was still afraid.

  “Rhett, don’t go,” Maggie whispered, reaching her hand out and resting it on his forearms.

  He licked his lips and closed his eyes. After a deep breath, he tried again. “I’m not going anywhere. If this place works out, it’ll be a month or two before I close. We’ll finish your project and everything will be fine. Right?”

  She lifted her shoulders and shook her head, a million questions in her eyes. But none of them came out. Instead just, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Again, he pointed toward the boxes he’d pulled down. “If you all get the rest out today, we’ll have a chance to get rolling with the loft.”

  Rhett scanned the property, shoved his hands into his pockets, and slowly walked to his truck.

  Chapter 36 — Maggie

  It was a slap in the face.

  Rhett, effectively, was moving on.

  Despite all their happiness, he could not stay. Not without more.

  And Maggie wanted all the things he did. Truly. But something still tugged on her heart. On her conscience.

  It wasn’t the kids.

  They loved Rhett.

  It wasn’t Travis.

  The custody arrangement was in place and fine.

  It was something in Maggie. Deep inside her.

  After a brief breakfast, she saw the kids off to school and bid Gretchen a good day at work then returned to the farm alone.

  And then Maggie went to the barn. Where those boxes sat. The ones with Camille Devereux scrawled neatly across the sides.

  The ones with the weight of history.

  The ones Maggie was scared to death to open.

  The ones she had to open now. Even if they revealed nothing. Even if they revealed a horrible truth.

  Maggie had to dig into her history and clear the cobwebs.

  Or else she wouldn’t have a future.

  Swallowing and opening the refinished barn door, Maggie marveled at all they’d accomplished together.

  A waxed wood floor sprawled beyond a simple apron entrance. Rhett’s sleeper sofa squarely against the left wall, facing an organized entertainment center, where his television sat next to a coffee pot and pair of mugs. A few books lined the shelves beneath the television, and Rhett’s wardrobe stood on the far side, at the other edge of a patterned, navy blue rug.

  For a barn studio, he’d made a nice home.

  Maggie eyed three boxes sitting next to the front door. Instead of carting them back to the house, she dragged each of them over to the sofa, sat, and pressed her hands to the top.

  It had been folded and taped, but she found it easy to pop her car key into one edge of the seam and drag it through the length.

  Inside were books and doodads. A wooden jewelry box was tucked tightly along the far side, but all that was in it were a few costume pieces that meant no more to Maggie than they clearly did to her surviving parents and sister.

  Maggie moved on to the next box, lingering over exactly what Gretchen had predicted: photo albums. Cloudy, dust-clogged plastic sleeves, largely empty.

  The few photos that existed within the top three albums sat proudly in the first few pages, as though Maggie’s mother intended to fill each album eventually.

  But she never had the chance.

  The two bottom albums were entirely devoid of photographs but instead held a few old school report cards.

  Maggie poured over every image, every letter grade.

  Her mother was beautiful. Blonde, in fact, if the black-and-white polaroids weren’t entirely invalid. She looked nothing like Maggie.

  Nothing at all.

  Maggie continued to scour the images, searching for another face. A second face. A new face.

  But it wasn’t there.

  She moved
on to the third box, punching the seal and dragging the key through the worn, gummy tape with ease.

  The third box was light, and once she peered inside, she saw why.

  Only three things sat within: another photo album, a plastic bag with a piece of jewelry inside, and a notebook.

  Overwhelmed with what she might learn, Maggie felt blood rush to her ears, drowning out the squabbling chickens and bleating goats.

  Drowning out Old Gray’s barks and Lady the Kitten’s mews.

  Drowning out the hum of a truck, rumbling up the lane toward the farmhouse.

  Maggie reached her hands into the box and first withdrew the plastic baggie.

  Inside, a tinny set of dog tags hung lightly at the bottom of a tiny ball chain.

  Army dog tags.

  Belonging to a man by the name of Joseph Merkle.

  At first, the name meant nothing to Maggie. He could be anyone.

  And yet something told her that Joseph Merkle wasn’t just anyone.

  Next, she withdrew the photo album.

  Similar to the others, this one had but few photos. Some of Maggie’s mother when she was young. Looking sullen and moody.

  One of Mimi and Papa, sitting upright at a table, unsmiling.

  And one of Camille with a boy. And it wasn’t black and white, either.

  It was as colorful as the day was bright.

  Which was nice, because the boy wasn’t some blurry, flat figure with his arm draped casually over her mother’s shoulder.

  He was a real, strong-jawed, fire-headed, freckle-faced man, whose glowing smile told Maggie who those dog tags belonged to.

  Who Joseph Merkle was.

  Maggie set the photo neatly on her lap and rubbed her eyes. It made no sense.

  If her mother was with this Joseph person, why was it some big secret? And what happened to him? How did Camille come to keep the dog tags? Why were they tucked away in this box—a box that had been locked up in the barn and left to rot?

  What was the big deal? Maggie wondered to herself.

  The pounding in her ears had ebbed, and she heard a car engine die off outside.

  Her time was almost up.