It’s also occurred to me that he might be here, although I doubt it. He has no connection to the Aaronson family and even if he had a reason to show up he probably wouldn’t. Liam Cassini is not real invested in doing the right thing.
The kitchen might be the most logical place to look next. This house was designed long before open floorplans were a thing so the kitchen is removed from the action at the back of the house. To get there I need to navigate a long hallway and squeeze past the couple who entered the house before me. They’re pressed against the wall and she’s got her arms hooked around his neck as she weeps against his shoulder.
“Nothing has ever been sadder,” she sniffles and I don’t know if her companion agrees or not but he appears to be pretty comfortable staying where he is with his hands parked on her ass.
The hallway is low-ceilinged and narrow, like it was built only to accommodate single file traffic. There’s no way to get by without them noticing.
“Hey.” She backs up a little and looks me over. Her name is Andrea. She used to be the cheerleading captain and once she jerked me off in the woods surrounding Rosebriar when I was bombed halfway out of my skull on Cassini Brewery’s best sour ale. “I know you! You’re-“
“Nope.” I cut her off and slide past before anyone can argue.
Two steps later there’s a volcano of yelling from the direction of the kitchen.
“You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I’ve had to put up with today! When I told her it was the tackiest table display I’d ever seen and an insult to her sister’s memory, you should have seen the dirty look on her face!”
The strident pitch of that voice is burned into my memory. Sharon Aaronson was always loudly unhappy about something; her husband or her house or her kids or the weather. The kitchen seems like a less desirable destination now that I know she’s in it but there’s no other way to go unless I want to squeeze past Andrea and her date.
There’s a closed door ahead on the left. It used to lead to a den with a large television and a pair of mismatched sofas. I don’t know what it’s used for now but I take a chance in the hopes it might be empty. All these trips down memory lane are messing with my head and I need a minute.
No sooner have I shut the door behind me when I realize the room is indeed still a den.
However, it is not empty.
“Who are you?”
I can’t tell which little girl fired out the question. They sit huddled close together in a large brown armchair and stare at me with their mother’s wide green eyes.
The girl on the right frowns. “Why are you here?”
The girl on the left cocks her head and looks more wistful. “Did you know our mommy?”
Her sister elbows her. “He’s a stranger, Mara.”
I move slowly so I don’t alarm them and take a seat on a footstool that was randomly left by the door. The floor is casually littered with children’s books and stuffed animals. Cracker crumbs have been embedded in the brown carpet. The television is playing some movie where the cartoon characters break into song constantly. Right now they are singing about snow.
The girls watch me in their identical dark blue dresses that might have been worn for the holidays not too long ago.
“I’m not a stranger,” I assure them.
“I’ve never seen you before,” insists the first girl.
I try to remember what her name might be.
“I grew up just down the street. And yes, I knew your mommy. My name is Trent.”
“I’m Caitlin. This is Mara. You can tell which of us is which if you try. She has a freckle on her left cheek and I don’t. And my hair is shorter. See?” She demonstrates by touching her brown hair, which is cut just around her shoulders while her sister’s is a good four inches longer.
“I do see, yes.”
“I don’t like having my hair too long.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“Gramma doesn’t try,” says Mara and plays with the long satin sash on her dress. “She always gets us mixed up.”
Caitlin raises her chin. “She’s supposed to be in here watching us. Aunt Gretch said so. But Gramma said we were giving her a headache and she needed some air.”
They’re probably better off and I almost make the mistake of saying so before I catch myself.
For all I know, they are going to have to live with their sharp-tongued grandmother after today.
The thought is depressing as shit.
“I’m so very sorry about your mom,” I tell the girls. “I lost my mom too when I was a kid.”
Caitlin’s eyes cloud. Mara swallows and sniffs.
“Were you friends with our mommy?” Mara asks as she continues to sniff.
But both girls are looking at me with something like hope, eager to hear something nice about their mother.
My time around children has been nonexistent. I’ll have to avoid cursing.
“Your mom was a couple of years older than I was. But I always liked her. And I spent a lot of time here, some of it right in this room. My best friend was your Uncle Danny.”
“Oh!” Caitlin looks to her sister and then back at me. “Mommy told us about you. You’re Trentcassini.”
I’m surprised and I can’t help but chuckle at the way she spits out my name like it’s all one word. “That’s right.”
Mara points at the television. “Do you like Frozen?”
I have no clue what she means. “Sure.”
“We just started the movie again,” Caitlin says. “You stay and watch with us.”
She says this as if I have no say in the matter. But I don’t really want to leave them in here alone. Their grim little faces are a reminder that I know how they feel. I was older when my own mother died. Two months past my thirteenth birthday. But the choking suffocation of loss must be the same no matter what age you are.
“I’d like that,” I tell the girls and do my best to look like I’m interested in what’s happening onscreen.
The twins sing along and recite the dialogue together so it’s clear they’ve already watched this movie a hundred times before. The shy one, Mara, keeps glancing at me like she’s worried I’m not enjoying myself so I make an effort to seem as interested as possible. In between all the singing and dancing I take a look around the room where Danny and I used to play video games a million years ago.
The far wall is still a shrine to Rosebriar, the old summer resort that was owned by the Aaronson family for generations and has since been sold off and left to rot while developers haggle over what to do with the land. Most of the framed wall photos are a lot older than I am, featuring people dressed in clothes that now look like theater costumes. Lots of polyester and checkered pants and fake hair. There’s a faded eight by ten shot of a little boy standing on a polished wood stage in front of a line of smiling people. The boy is probably the same age as the twins and I can’t remember being told that he is Alex Aaronson but I know this to be the case. Directly behind him stands a petite brunette weighted down with a huge rose bouquet and I know she’s a famous singer but I’d never heard of any of her music and didn’t bother to remember her.
“Let It Go is the next song,” Caitlin informs me. “So you need to sing along.”