“Life with Lottie,” I started, trying to cover the very inappropriate thoughts I’d been having with zero provocation at all. “Well, I’m the oldest,” I said. “So that means all the parenting practice happened on me. When I was little and my dad was still around, things were good. They were strict, but it was good, I think. But after Dad died, and Mom was so sad for such a long time. And by then, we had Paige and Amberlynn, and it was almost like I had to be the parent. She checked out.” Lottie would kill me for sharing so much with anyone, especially a Tucker. But there was something so understanding in Michael’s gaze, I didn’t think he’d judge us.
“That must have been hard,” Michael said quietly. “How old were you?”
“I was ten.” I took a sip of my beer, remembering how I’d felt all those years ago, like if I slipped up or screwed up, there was a chance Mom would just leave. She was already so distant in her sadness, sometimes I wondered if she even knew how much I’d been doing to try to help.
“How long was your mom depressed?”
I sighed. It had taken me so many years to realize that Mom had been depressed. “A long time,” I said. “As a kid though, I didn’t understand that’s what it was.”
“Of course not.”
“I just thought that maybe without Dad around, Mom wasn’t interested in being a parent anymore.” A shadow of the fear and sadness I had felt as a little girl awoke inside me and I tried to press it down. I had purposely put those feelings away. It was odd that I was talking to Michael about something I’d never even mentioned to Luke.
“Well, it wasn’t what she signed up for, right? Raising three girls alone?”
“It wasn’t what any of us signed up for.” A wave of sadness threatened to wash through me, and I ignored it, pasted on a smile.
“And so what about you?” He asked.
I shook my head in confusion. “What?”
“You. You became this super successful career woman. So, no kids for you?”
“You might have missed the part of my super successful career where I had something close to a breakdown and ended up sitting in a shack eating clams out of a bucket.”
Michael’s face changed then, and I thought I might have offended him. I rushed to apologize.
“I mean, tonight is fun, this isn’t what I meant. It’s just—”
“Addie, I get it.” He smiled, waving away my apology. “If I’ve learned anything about life, and honestly, I don’t think I have learned much—no one’s coming to me for tips, at least—but it’s this: nothing ever goes the way you want.”
“Wow. Cynical much?”
“Yeah. Well, I guess I learned pretty early that making plans is pointless. Or maybe I just suck at execution.”
I frowned at him, surprise making the wheels in my head turn as I tried to figure out what he meant. “You own a huge farm supply store. You’re your own boss. You have a wonderful son. What plans did you have that went so wrong?”
He sat back in his chair and his face completely changed. He reached out, lifted his glass, and downed the remaining whiskey. “Nothing.”
I sensed that we were finished. I felt a little cheated—I’d told him so much, and when it was his turn, he clammed up.
“Should we head back and see if burning a bunch of crap made the spirits decide it smelled too bad to stay in the house?” He asked.
“Funny,” I said, though I did feel a little silly about my knee-jerk decision to try to cleanse the house today.
“I don’t blame you,” he said, his tone softening. “That noise is terrifying. Especially if you’re there alone.”
“And there’s something else,” I said, deciding to just tell him. He had to live in the house too.
He cocked his head as he signaled for the check, still listening intently.
“When I was reading those letters, I had this feeling,” I said, dropping his gaze because it was just too embarrassing to hold. “Like someone was right there with me, reading over my shoulder. And in a way, I felt like maybe they were mad, like I was invading their privacy or something. That was when the scream came.”
He nodded, moving to sign the check. I reached for my purse. “You get the next one,” he said, dismissing my gesture. “And I don’t blame you at all, Addie. The house is a little spooky. But we’ll fix that. We’ll make it the most amazing house in Singletree, okay?”
I lifted a shoulder. The house, this project—it was more of a means to an end than anything else. If it ended up looking amazing, it would be good for resale value, but didn’t make a difference to me otherwise. “Sure.”
“I’ve got the roofers coming out tomorrow like we talked about.”
“Okay.”
“So you won’t be there alone when I go into the shop.”
I was almost embarrassed at the relief I felt at this knowledge.
“And this weekend, we’ll start on the floors downstairs, okay? Together.”
I nodded, realizing Michael could see every single emotion I felt—I’d never had a poker face. And he was trying to reassure me.
“Thanks,” I said, but it was almost a whisper, and I wasn’t sure he heard me.
The night was cool and breezy as we walked back through the square and up the hill to Maple Lane. It was a moonless night, and it was peaceful as we walked side by side, the town settling into slumber around us, pulling the darkness up like a warm quilt. But the dark seemed to gather and convene at the top of the hill, where overgrown oaks and wrought iron formed the foreboding entrance to my new home.
I suppressed a shudder as Michael unlocked the gate and we made our way through the deserted side yard to the back door. A single light glowed over the door and it cast a ragged circle out onto the back lawn, making the dark reaches of the yard feel that much more threatening.
We went inside, each of us saying polite words about dinner and then going our separate ways to get ready for bed.
“Goodnight,” Michael said, passing me in the upstairs hallway as we traded places in the bathroom.
“Goodnight,” I said.
And then the house was quiet, except for the creaking of the structure itself and the scratch of overgrown branches outside the bedroom window. I had brought an Aerobed from Mom’s house when she sent me home from the diner, and it was far more comfortable than the camping setup I’d borrowed from Michael. I thought maybe I’d actually be able to sleep.
I forcefully kept my mind from thoughts of ghostly presences, terrifying shrieks, or angry correspondents, and tried to find something more peaceful to let my mind turn over as I drifted off. Somehow, my thoughts turned to Michael Tucker, to his conflicted face as he told me there was no point in making plans for ourselves, that they’d all get ruined anyway. And then to the strong muscles of his forearms, his hands, the broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his deep green Henley shirt. He might be a Tucker, I told myself, but I could still appreciate his aesthetic appeal. The man was attractive.
I’d just begun to drift into the calm happy place between waking and sleep, when an ear-splitting scream sounded from just beside me. I shot straight up to sitting and searched the darkness around me, terrified to discover a set of beady eyes glowing in the darkness, staring right at me.