Falling Into Forever

by Delancey Stewart

  “This is the flattest air mattress I’ve ever seen,” I grumbled. The thing was anemic, flattened and thin. I looked for a spout to blow into, but didn’t find one. There was some kind of doodad on the corner, a plastic protrusion, but its use was not obvious. I tried blowing into it, but it did nothing. “Great. This one’s broken.” I glanced back toward the door, not especially wanting to look helpless or needy in front of Michael Tucker.

  I sighed, and smoothed the sleeping bag on top of it. It was going to be a long night. Glancing back at the bed, I wondered how horrible it would really be to sleep on mouse-eaten foam rubber or cotton. Maybe I could just sneak back to Mom’s for the night. But I didn’t want to explain that to her or to Michael. And not sleeping in the house wasn’t really living in it, and probably wouldn’t fulfill the terms of the trust. Anders had promised he’d be by now and then per the terms to check on us.

  One night wouldn’t kill me. I’d figure something out for tomorrow. brushed my hands on the legs of my jeans and headed downstairs to meet Michael.

  He was sitting at the dining room table, a laptop open in front of him, and an empty chair pulled to his side.

  “Hey,” he said, looking uncertain as I stepped into the room. “Will you come take a look at the plan I put together?”

  I bit my tongue, feeling a tiny bit snippy and irritable, and instead moved the chair just slightly away from him and sat in it, peering at the screen. It was a spreadsheet, filled with projects, costs, calculations and estimates. It reminded me of my job—I’d been in finance my whole life. My fingers itched to take the mouse and keyboard, to analyze his work, to make it better, more precise. But I sat still, my hands in my lap. “What’s this?”

  “I was just trying to get us organized, figure out how best to apply the renovation funds to all the things that need doing in the house.”

  “I see.” That was smart. That was exactly what needed doing. I sighed. I felt useless once again, and it reminded me of everything else in my life—living in limbo here in Singletree, Luke, who had clearly moved on to something or someone better, and my job, which I really needed to check on. I was used to being the person who did the things that needed doing. Now somehow I’d been relegated to incapable of blowing up camping mattresses and watching other people build spreadsheets. Maybe I was somehow overreacting, but it felt warranted. I was tired of having to depend on everyone else.

  “This is the list of projects here, and they’re broken into sub-projects, with estimates where I got them from inspectors who came in to look or who I spoke to on the phone over the last couple days. And then here are some of the estimates I made myself”—he pointed to another column—“and this stuff here is pure guesswork.”

  “You did all this yourself?” My voice was flat, emotionless. Useless. I did not want to be so useless.

  Michael turned to look at me, those dark blue eyes open and friendly—until they met mine. “Are you angry about something?”

  “You know this is basically what I do for work, right?” Of course he didn’t. Why would he know that?

  “Renovate ancient houses?” A tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth, but even his charm couldn’t charm me out of the bad mood I’d worked myself into.

  “No, analyze and valuate companies. Organize budgets and estimates. Calculate risk based on numbers.” My voice was cold, partly because the indignant and overconfident career woman inside me wished she had done this work, or been asked to, but partly because having that part of me rear up, angry and possessive, was confusing.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You just went ahead without me.” I stared at his work. “There’s an error here.” I pointed to the screen.

  “Oh,” he said, leaning in closer. “Yeah. Thanks.” He fixed the number and then turned to face me, worry written in the wrinkle between his dark red brows. “Listen, Addison. We’re going to have to work together. And agree on things.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if you’re pissed at something I’ve done already, I guess you should tell me and we’ll figure it out.”

  I let out a long breath. I wasn’t mad at him, not really. I was unhappy with the situation, with everything external to this, and a little bit with this. “I think I’m frustrated about a lot of things. Things that maybe don’t have to do with this.” I waved my hand at the laptop. “But also, I want to be real partners. We’re in this together, right?” I let my eyes find his, and the warmth and patience I found there took a bit of the steam out of my anger.

  “Right, and I was trying to offer something to the team, to bring some value, get us started.” He was being patient and kind, and I felt like I was in the middle of some kind of mild adult tantrum.

  I sighed. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “In my experience, when a woman says ‘fine,’ it’s like an iceberg.”

  I narrowed my eyes and jutted my head forward, furrowing my brows. “What?”

  “Fine is just the tip. Everything looming below that fine is so not fine it’ll sink you.”

  “Well, we’re as fine as we’re going to be for now,” I said, leaning back and crossing my arms. “If you really want to get into icebergs and whatever other Titanic references you need to bring up, we can do it tomorrow. I’m grumpy and not in the mood for allusions to enormous chunks of floating sea ice.”

  He tilted his head sideways, just a tad. “Bad day?”

  I let my eyes slide shut, reeling the day back to my argument with Mom, who had made herself into a human doorstop and literally refused to let me out of the Tin when I told her I would be sleeping somewhere else from then on. “Lottie doesn’t like this idea at all.”

  “Not shocked. My uncle was pretty pissed about it too, though he seemed to think it would be a good chance for me to kill you off, make it look like a freak construction accident, and collect the property for the Tucker clan.” He shook his head as my blood turned to ice in my veins. I hadn’t even thought of that. I narrowed my eyes, evaluating him the best I could. From what I could read on his face, he didn’t seem to be buying into that plan.

  “If you did that, my evil cousins would probably come out of feud retirement.” I had two distant cousins on Mom’s side—Eunice and Esther, who were both over seventy, unmarried, and united in their hatred of the Tucker clan. But since Eunice’s fall last time they were spray painting “Tuckers are Fuckers” in the road in front of Michael’s feed and farm store, they’d declared themselves too old to carry on with tradition.

  “How’s Eunice’s hip?” He actually sounded concerned. After seeing him with Mrs. Easter, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that he’d been kind to Aunt Eunice that day, despite her evil intentions.

  “She uses a walker now,” I said, shrugging. “It was nice of you to call the ambulance.”

  “Discovering old ladies who’ve fallen in the street is kind of becoming my thing,” he said, closing the laptop and smiling. “Eunice fell on top of the ‘F’ she’d just finished painting, so at first I didn’t realize exactly what the girls were up to.”

  “Did you think it said ‘Tuckers are Cluckers?’” I laughed.

  “Uncle Ernie was a trucker once. I figured the girls were old enough to remember that.”

  “Ooh, burn. Tuckers are Truckers.” I chuckled, some of my tension falling away.

  “Not everyone respects the art of long-haul transport.” He tried to look mildly offended, but the lines around the corners of his eyes gave away his amusement.

  “Not everyone does,” I agreed, finding myself smiling and more relaxed than I could remember being. As soon as I realized it, however, I felt the tension tighten up my shoulders again. “Don’t suppose you have a plan for food tonight? My brain only got me as far as how to escape the Muffin Tin with Lottie physically trying to keep me inside. I didn’t even bring muffins.”

  Michael smiled then, a white-toothed sparkling thing that made the chin cleft deepe
n and his eyes actually twinkle. My stomach did an annoying little flip, and I realized suddenly that living here with Michael could be dangerous. Distracting. He was very good looking, and that smile was practically a weapon. “I brought a tray of enchiladas I made yesterday.”

  “You cook?” I couldn’t keep the admiration from my voice. Dammit, Addie. He doesn’t need to know you’re impressed. You’re supposed to hate him, remember?

  “A little.” He stood, and leaned over slightly to scoop the laptop off the table, putting his ass right at eye level. It was nice, from what I could tell through the jeans—round and firm, probably. I thought about Luke—he was a musician, and that was sexy in a different way. But he did not have the body that Michael appeared to be sporting beneath his clothes, and a little part of me wondered what it would be like to be with someone as fit as Michael Tucker appeared to be.

  I stood up quickly, to get my eyes back to level with his. I felt a flush creeping up my neck and tried to mentally douse my inappropriate self with cold water. “Great.”

  We went together into the kitchen, and I watched, feeling useless again, as Michael pulled a tray of enchiladas from the refrigerator and figured out how to heat the wood oven. He’d obviously planned for this too.

  “Not sure how long they need to go in the oven,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of experience cooking with wood. But they really just need to get warm, so we should be good.”

  “Okay,” I felt a little stupid, standing there just inside the door from the hallway, watching Michael put dinner together so proficiently. I was mostly adept at storing and sorting takeout menus. I was out of my element here. And it wasn’t just in the kitchen, in the realm of meal preparation. I knew nothing about renovating houses, nothing that would help us manage to bring this sagging old house up to modern standards. I could pick out tile and granite, but the current state of this place was so far from that, I could only visualize the potential end result, but had no idea how to get it there.

  “There’s some silverware in there,” Michael pointed to a drawer. “Set the table?”

  I glanced at the little table against the far wall and had a sudden memory of sitting there as a kid, having graham crackers with Mrs. Easter. The same yellow plastic tablecloth hung over the table now, faded and worn. I wiped it down gently with a sponge, and then put out silverware, my chest warm as I considered the woman who’d left us this place. She had always been kind, from what I could remember. And a little spunky, as evidenced by the combat boots we’d seen the day of her fall. Tears threatened, but I pushed them away. I hadn’t known Mrs. Easter very well really. And Michael didn’t need to see me crying now.

  When I opened the fridge looking for drinks, I found a six pack of Mexican beer, and put one at each setting. Michael had thought of everything.

  “Were you a Boy Scout, by chance?”

  “What?” He looked over his shoulder at me, smiling. “No, why?”

  “You’ve got everything all set here. The salad, the enchiladas, beer. Very prepared.”

  “It’s called being a single dad,” he said, no bitterness in his voice. “Since I fucked up everything else about my life, I decided I was going to be good at that. Part of the gig is feeding the kid, making sure everything is ready at the right time and not forgetting things. I keep a lot of lists.”

  That stopped me in my tracks, it was so honest and endearing. And I didn’t know a lot of men who would be willing to try so hard—even in Michael’s circumstances. Of course, the truth was that I just didn’t know a whole lot of men in general. But I still thought Michael might be special in this way. “I think you might be more organized than Lottie, and that’s saying something.”

  “Thanks.” He put a plate in front of me and sat down with one in front of his place. “Do you always call your mom by her first name?”

  “Only when pointing out her more annoying traits.”

  He nodded, and I recalled that he didn’t have his parents anymore—I couldn’t remember when they’d passed, but I knew he’d been young, at least when his mom died. Guilt flooded me—he probably thought I took Lottie for granted.

  “I mean, we all love her to pieces,” I said quickly.

  “I know, Addison. It’s just funny, that’s all.” He smiled at me, warmth in his expression, and I relaxed a bit.

  “Where’s Daniel tonight?” I asked him, realizing he’d said he had the boy every other week. Was it his week off? He’d had him on Friday.

  “I asked Shelly to take him for a couple extra days. I wanted to make sure the house was safe before we had him here.”

  That was smart. Michael was a really good father, I realized. “He’s coming tomorrow?”

  Michael nodded, and part of me felt happy to imagine Dan here, exploring and just adding one more bit of life to the empty old house.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes, the house emitting creaks and groans here and there as the lawn outside the windowpanes in the back door went from green to taupe to black with the fading light of the sun. As we finished up, I started to relax a little bit. The house felt like a whole world apart from everything I’d known before, its own universe of worn fabric, ruined wallpaper and creaky old floors. Even with a Tucker here, the place felt comforting in some way, and despite my need to pull together some funds and jumpstart my life in New York again, I found myself taking a deep breath and relaxing a little bit.

  “So,” Michael said as we sat in relative silence, eating. “Finance, huh? Has that always been your calling?”

  I thought about that. Did I have a calling? “Honestly? No. I wanted a job that would pay well. I knew I wanted to live in a big city, to make my own way, and finance seemed appropriate since math and numbers had always come easily to me.”

  He nodded, his fork poised in the air as his eyes held mine. “And if you hadn’t had to think about money, if you could have chosen anything, what would you have done, Addison?”

  “Call me Addie, please.”

  “Okay. What would you do if you could do anything, Addie?” His head tilted slightly to the side, and I realized he was really listening, waiting for my answer. When was the last time I’d felt that kind of rapt attention from Luke? Maybe never. Our lives were about his life, mostly.

  I let my mind roll back to dreams I’d had as a kid, before I knew how important money was going to be in my life. “I used to want to be a decorator. Or an interior designer.” It sounded so vapid to me now. “Silly.”

  Michael was still watching me intently. “Why is that silly? That’s a real job. And not many people have the kind of foresight to know what works together in a space. I definitely don’t.”

  I lifted a shoulder, suddenly a little uncomfortable at his validation of my one-time dream. I had dismissed it, set it away from me as unworthy of my lofty city goals. I knew there were interior designers in big cities, but I had never been sure how to approach that, how I would build clientele, get my footing. I didn’t think that kind of job came with the same starting salary as mergers and acquisitions work. “It just always seemed insubstantial to me, I guess. Like it would be something fun. Not work.”

  “That sounds like the perfect kind of work to me.” He smiled at me, his eyes lingering on my face, dropping from my eyes to my lips for a split second before suddenly clearing his throat and scooting his chair back from the table to clear his dish.

  As I carried my plate to the sink, considering his statement, a shrill scream came from somewhere above us and my heart skittered to a halt and then took off at a gallop inside my chest.

  What. The hell. Was that?

  11

  Old Houses and Unearthly Screams

  Michael

  It wasn’t like me to believe in things I couldn’t see or touch, but I was beginning to think maybe Daniel and his friends were right. This place was haunted.

  The scream that came from upstairs had not been human, that much was sure. And it seemed to reverberate inside the walls long after the actual
noise had faded back into the gauzy silence of the place. Addie was frozen over the sink, her eyes huge as she stared at me, and I wished I could stand up and offer some comfort.

  Don’t worry, I’d say. These old houses are often plagued by sub-human screeches that make your skin crawl right off your bones. Part of their charm. Nothing to worry about.

  But I didn’t know what the noise had been, and it had been creepy as fuck. My skin was prickled in gooseflesh and for a second my mind had screamed too, telling me to run.

  Once silence had settled again, I tried to appear calm. Brave. I was about to address the sound we’d heard when another noise crashed through the house—a single distinct impact, like something hitting the floor above us, hard. I swallowed, forcing my feet to stay planted, my lungs to continue to breathe normally.

  “Those weren’t just old house noises,” Addie said, her face white and her knuckles matching it as she gripped the edge of the counter.

  “No,” I agreed. Had someone broken in? Maybe the noises I’d heard earlier before Addie arrive had been someone coming inside. Had they been hiding all this time? Waiting for what, exactly?

  “So we should . . . “ She looked around the kitchen, as if she might stumble onto a handbook we’d missed: How To Handle Oneself in a Haunted House. There was nothing.

  “I guess I could, ah . . .” I trailed off, wishing chivalry was actually dead. “I could go check it out.” I cringed inwardly while trying to look self-assured on the surface. Being in possession of a set of balls didn’t seem like a good reason to have to be the one to investigate any and all terrifying noises. I picked up a cast iron pan that I’d found earlier in a cabinet.

  “Um, no.” Addie said, shaking her head. “You can’t go alone. You’ll go up there, and then if something happens to you, I’ll have to go up. Or whatever kills you will know I’m alone and come down looking for me.”