Lisa. I’m intrigued by this. Where did they live? How did they manage to stay anonymous? Is there more family?
Another photo is of Oscar and—the girl—together. In the right hand corner is a set of neon numbers: 1-23-79.
As if an electromagnetic force enters the room, I turn. She stands in the doorframe. There’s something guarded in her eyes—just like Grace Doll’s expression in her photographs. I get the feeling she doesn’t trust quickly.
The determined set of her mouth—the way her hair frames her face—is exactly like the images hanging on the walls in Solomon’s house. I blink. Focus.
I stuff my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. “Hey.”
“Hello.”
“Do you know what’s in the box?”
“Something your father kept for Grace.”
“So, you knew that. Oscar knew that. I was the last to know.” I shake my head with a snort. “Figures.”
She remains framed in the hall opening. “Perhaps we should talk about this tomorrow. Let me show you to your room.”
“Yeah, okay I guess.”
“You’d rather not stay here?”
“I’d rather talk about Grace.”
“Not now.” She turns and vanishes. I grab my backpack and follow her down the hall, lit by soft recessed lights overhead.
I can’t argue with her. And I’m grateful for the hospitable invitation. I could be out in the street in this podunk town. “What made her want to live all the way out here?”
“Privacy.” She says without turning around.
She takes a left and flicks on a light. The small room is painted a deep chocolate brown. A fat, double-wide chair angles out from one corner. There’s a large table with two sewing machines, more bookshelves filled with books, and an upright piano. A guitar sits in a stand in the corner. Two dress dummies fill another corner. One has a black dress on, the other a skirt and jacket—sleeves missing. Did Grace like to sew? Or is it Katherine’s hobby? The retro styles of both garments remind me of costumes.
“The bathroom’s here.” She crosses the room to a door. “Everything’s clean—towels, sheets—the chair pulls out into a bed.” At the mention of the word bed, she freezes, looking like a deer in headlights. Then she clears her throat and gestures to the closet.
“You can hang your belongings in there if you’d like,” her voice warbles. Is she nervous? Her wide eyes almost look—fearful. I glance around, wondering what would cause that reaction.
“Okay.” I leave the doorjamb and enter the room, placing my backpack on the top of a dust-free desk. “Nice office. Yours?”
She makes a wide sweep around the other side of the desk and heads to the exit. “Yes.” For long, itchy minutes she stands in the door, her gaze fastened on me.
I’ve never met a girl whose stare paralyzes.
“If you need anything….” Her lips remain parted but no more words come out. She backs through the door and shuts it. What am I supposed to make of this weird moment?
Chapter Thirteen
~Grace~
My nerves are so taut they’re ready to fray. I’ve had the occasional repairman in the house but having someone I don’t know sleep under the same roof makes my skin pucker in discomfort. My voice is swallowed in anxiety.
He’s Jonathan’s son.
I stand in the hall, staring at the closed door. I hear him moving around and try to relax, try to believe that everything will be all right, that my carefully constructed and guarded world will remain quiet and protected now that Brenden is here.
Tomorrow will be better. The storm will stop.
Then what?
I can’t move, listening. Foreign sounds. Normally, I’d be in the office sewing or in the living room playing the harp, maybe watching a documentary or listening to music. But Brenden’s presence has immobilized me body and soul. I can feel him—penetrating the walls of the house. Like the heater is turned up. Like water has burst through the pipes, flooding me with sensation. My heart thrums. Stop this. You know
Another photo is of Oscar and—the girl—together. In the right hand corner is a set of neon numbers: 1-23-79.
As if an electromagnetic force enters the room, I turn. She stands in the doorframe. There’s something guarded in her eyes—just like Grace Doll’s expression in her photographs. I get the feeling she doesn’t trust quickly.
The determined set of her mouth—the way her hair frames her face—is exactly like the images hanging on the walls in Solomon’s house. I blink. Focus.
I stuff my hands in the front pockets of my jeans. “Hey.”
“Hello.”
“Do you know what’s in the box?”
“Something your father kept for Grace.”
“So, you knew that. Oscar knew that. I was the last to know.” I shake my head with a snort. “Figures.”
She remains framed in the hall opening. “Perhaps we should talk about this tomorrow. Let me show you to your room.”
“Yeah, okay I guess.”
“You’d rather not stay here?”
“I’d rather talk about Grace.”
“Not now.” She turns and vanishes. I grab my backpack and follow her down the hall, lit by soft recessed lights overhead.
I can’t argue with her. And I’m grateful for the hospitable invitation. I could be out in the street in this podunk town. “What made her want to live all the way out here?”
“Privacy.” She says without turning around.
She takes a left and flicks on a light. The small room is painted a deep chocolate brown. A fat, double-wide chair angles out from one corner. There’s a large table with two sewing machines, more bookshelves filled with books, and an upright piano. A guitar sits in a stand in the corner. Two dress dummies fill another corner. One has a black dress on, the other a skirt and jacket—sleeves missing. Did Grace like to sew? Or is it Katherine’s hobby? The retro styles of both garments remind me of costumes.
“The bathroom’s here.” She crosses the room to a door. “Everything’s clean—towels, sheets—the chair pulls out into a bed.” At the mention of the word bed, she freezes, looking like a deer in headlights. Then she clears her throat and gestures to the closet.
“You can hang your belongings in there if you’d like,” her voice warbles. Is she nervous? Her wide eyes almost look—fearful. I glance around, wondering what would cause that reaction.
“Okay.” I leave the doorjamb and enter the room, placing my backpack on the top of a dust-free desk. “Nice office. Yours?”
She makes a wide sweep around the other side of the desk and heads to the exit. “Yes.” For long, itchy minutes she stands in the door, her gaze fastened on me.
I’ve never met a girl whose stare paralyzes.
“If you need anything….” Her lips remain parted but no more words come out. She backs through the door and shuts it. What am I supposed to make of this weird moment?
Chapter Thirteen
~Grace~
My nerves are so taut they’re ready to fray. I’ve had the occasional repairman in the house but having someone I don’t know sleep under the same roof makes my skin pucker in discomfort. My voice is swallowed in anxiety.
He’s Jonathan’s son.
I stand in the hall, staring at the closed door. I hear him moving around and try to relax, try to believe that everything will be all right, that my carefully constructed and guarded world will remain quiet and protected now that Brenden is here.
Tomorrow will be better. The storm will stop.
Then what?
I can’t move, listening. Foreign sounds. Normally, I’d be in the office sewing or in the living room playing the harp, maybe watching a documentary or listening to music. But Brenden’s presence has immobilized me body and soul. I can feel him—penetrating the walls of the house. Like the heater is turned up. Like water has burst through the pipes, flooding me with sensation. My heart thrums. Stop this. You know
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