Finally, we let ourselves back out onto the porch, and I took in the huge sprawl of overgrown yard. We descended the steps and wandered through the weed-filled garden and I imagined it trimmed and well kempt. It could be beautiful. Maybe if Michael worried about the structural things inside the house, I could fix up the garden. There was a wrought iron bench at one edge of the space that was pretty clear, so we sat for a moment, Michael and me side by side as Daniel prowled the yard. It was strange in a way—we’d just sat down side by side as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And now, with Michael next to me, sitting so close, I had warring emotions suddenly bouncing around inside me. I hated him. He was a Tucker and that was what I’d been taught to do. But really, I didn’t hate him at all. I actually felt myself drawn to him, to his confidence, his warm but firm guidance of his son.
“This is weird, right?” Michael said, one hand rubbing the stubble at his chin as he turned to look at me.
I let my gaze trace his face—the cleft in his chin, the strong jaw, the hesitant smile—before landing on his deep blue eyes. “I think that’s a pretty significant understatement.”
“What do you think we should do? I mean . . .”
“Neither one of us planned for inheriting a worn-down house. Together.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “So we could sell it, I guess.”
“Except for that stipulation about having to live in it.” I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine living here. I’d never sleep. I’d lie there at night, waiting for whatever spectral thing lived there now to come whisper “red rum” in my ear or for Freddy to appear in my dreams as soon as I drifted off. This place was a horror movie waiting to happen.
“It’s probably worth some money though, to the right buyer.” I could hear him considering it, his voice slow and thoughtful. He didn’t seem to be thinking about axe murderers or ghosts.
“Right, but . . . It needs a lot of work.”
He nodded. “If I live here for a bit and fix some things up, maybe you could move in second, and then, after a year we could sell.”
I couldn’t imagine what I’d be doing next month, but I knew that in a year I was not going to be living in this creepy old house alone just so we could sell it. If I was going to collect whatever we could get out of this place, it would have to be as quickly as possible. And there was no way I could live with Mom for another six months. I’d lose my mind while gaining thirty pounds in muffin fat. “I don’t think that will work. I’m not staying that long.”
“Oh, right, sure.” He sounded disappointed, his gaze moving to the dark edges of the yard. “You have to get back to . . .”
“New York. Work. My actual life.” Although not much of my actual life still existed. At least not the man, or the place to live. I wasn’t totally sure about my job.
“Right. Of course.”
We sat in silence for a long minute, each of us lost in thought. It was strangely quiet here, considering how near to the town center we really were. If the garden hadn’t been so lush or the vines so thick, I probably could have seen Mom’s cafe from where we sat—we were a straight shot down the hill to the square.
“Well, I guess we can go back and talk to Augustus, see what our other options are,” Michael said, standing.
I stood too, confused as a stab of disappointment winged through me.
“Daniel!” he called, taking a few steps back toward the gate.
No answer came.
“Daniel!” he called out again, an edge of something a little more urgent in his voice.
We were met by silence, thick and heavy, all around us.
“Shit,” Michael said, and without speaking, we went in opposite directions, searching the masses of greenery around us for his son.
Gnomes in the Garden
Michael
In the long list of crap I’d screwed up in my life, even I realized that losing my son on the grounds of a dangerously run-down and potentially haunted house was going to be up there. Shelly would have a field day with this one—she was usually the less responsible parent, and she loved any opportunity to point out one of my failings.
“Daniel!” I called his name as I circled the house, wading through a decrepit rose garden, past a cellar door (locked) and across a weedy patio out back, where I ran into Addison again. Her wide eyes and worried expression told me she hadn’t found my son on her half of the search either.
“Daniel!” I shouted again, a twinge of desperation edging my voice. “Where the hell could he have gone?” I asked.
Addison shook her head, and we both turned back to face the house. The kitchen door stood ajar, as if beckoning to us, and without speaking, we went back inside. Had we come out that way? Did we leave it open? I hoped Daniel was inside, though there was plenty in the run-down house to worry about.
The house was like a different world. The second we crossed the threshold, the atmosphere around me took on a dampened feeling, rich with the whispers of memory and decaying things, dust and layers of time. It felt wrong to disturb it all by yelling inside the house, but I was increasingly worried about my son.
“Dan!” I called out, moving back to the bottom of the big staircase.
“Upstairs!” His voice came back, sending my heart galloping with relief, and Addison and I exchanged wide-eyed expressions before heading back up the stairs, sending little clouds of dust swirling at our feet.
On the second floor, I could hear creaking from the ceiling over the master bedroom, and I realized exactly where he’d gone. Telling Daniel no, or we’ll look later, had never been especially effective. He was an impulsive, live-for-the-moment kind of kid, and he usually found ways to get what he wanted. He was in the attic. Anger threatened, but it was shadowed by the relief I felt to hear Dan’s voice, to know he was okay. We’d need to chat about disobeying directions.
“Upstairs,” I shrugged, opening the closet door and eyeing the narrow stairs skeptically. “You coming?”
“Sure,” Addison said, sounding less than sure. I didn’t blame her. The whole house was creepy, but the narrow stairway-in-a-closet was creepy times ten.
“You go first,” I said, trying to be chivalrous.
She narrowed her eyes at me, as if maybe sending her up first was some kind of grand Tucker plan of mine, but after a second she seemed to realize I was just trying to be a gentleman.
Of course a true gentleman wouldn’t ogle her ass as she climbed the narrow risers just ahead of me. But it was impossible not to. She wore jeans that hugged her curves perfectly, and climbing stairs put it all right at eye level. Her ass was round and tight, swaying back and forth as she climbed, and I had to work pretty damned hard not to focus on the very inappropriate thoughts racing through my mind at the sight of it.
Once she’d reached the top and stepped out into the attic, I heard Daniel’s voice. “Look at this.”
A second later, I moved into the tight narrow space with them. The attic was a long wood-planked room with sloping ceilings and a lot of stuff sitting around in piles here and there. A bookcase stood at one end, stuffed with shoe boxes. A couple of trunks that looked like they might have been brought from another continent via ocean liner sat at the other end. In between there was an ancient sewing machine table and stool next to some kind of mannequin thing, a record player with the big horn part I’d never exactly understood or seen up close in real life, and a collection of garden pots scattered across the floor, some of them broken. There were scatters of dirt and leaves up here too, as if a window had been broken at some point, but they all appeared intact now. I sighed. This was one more part of the house that was going to need work.