The House on Hancock Hill (26 page)

“Really?” I said without thinking, sipping my white tea. It was a new thing I was trying in an attempt to cut down on coffee. I didn’t like it much so far. “We should introduce him to Caleb.”

Annie sat up straighter, and I regretted opening my mouth instantly. That look bode well for exactly no one. “Who’s Caleb?”

I explained and was promptly drafted into snooping around to see if Caleb was still available in every sense of the word. Another thing to take up my time, not that I minded. All my activities here had been gradually unwinding the tight coil of stress I’d felt since Dad died. There hadn’t been an asthma or panic attack since I’d arrived in the UP. Come to think of it, not counting the one last winter—and I very much believed I could discount that one—I couldn’t remember having an attack of any kind here.

A
ND
SO
it was that August rolled into September with a changing wind that brought red to the leaves before I saw Henry. It wasn’t my intention to go out of my way to avoid him, but I hadn’t allowed myself to deal with the eventuality of seeing him again just yet. It had been almost six months since I’d talked to him last, and in my mind, seeing him again had become this insurmountable obstacle that would throw my carefully gathered equilibrium completely out of whack. Not to mention inflame my guilt for hurting him so badly.

Which meant I was not at all prepared to see him when I dropped off a wedding cake on a Friday night for the party the following day.

There he was, stepping outside and holding the door to the restaurant for someone. A guy nearly as tall and broad as him. In the split second it took to recognize Henry, I saw him direct a small smile at the guy, a smile I’d only ever known him to give to me. Like the giant coward I was, I ducked behind a minivan, clutching the cake box and scanning the parking lot to make sure there was no blue Avalanche on my side of it. Because if there was, I was going to have to straighten and walk up to the restaurant right the fuck now, before both of them walked past and saw me hiding like a cop in a shootout. Only instead of a Beretta, my weapon of choice was white fondant mocha cake.

There was no Avalanche, but Henry’s date did walk past me all by himself. I looked down, pretending to check the box, but he never even glanced over, just went along his way, shoulders slightly hunched. In the distance behind me, I heard a car rumble to life, and I moved before Henry drove past on his way out of the lot.

By the time I was home again, the adrenaline had worn off, and I was worn out. As I sat on my back porch, watching the sun set over my rented little square patch of fenced grass, I tried to examine the hurt I was feeling objectively. While I’d been in Traverse City, maybe even before that, I’d sort of taken it as my due. I had found, and I had lost; the heartache was mine to have and to hold.

It had all become overshadowed by the betrayal I’d felt my father had committed toward me, and—because I was an inherently selfish creature—in smaller amount toward my mother. While I was certainly more understanding of her pain, I didn’t think I’d ever reach a point where I’d want regular contact with her. That was a lift bridge permanently stuck in the up position. I had walked through life with the illusion that, while taken away cruelly and too soon, there would always be the memory of someone who had loved me unconditionally to fall back on. It never had seemed like something that defined me, but when that safety net was yanked away, I changed. I stemmed from a family where love was genetically missing, like a chromosome none of us had. The heartache I’d been feeling over Henry had been nothing more than a selfish need to be wanted, and I was unworthy of it. So in theory, I should be happy Henry had someone, that he was dating, if nothing else. If I were a good person, I’d feel like that, but since I wasn’t, all I felt was quiet, debilitating pain. I wanted him, I still
needed
him, like I’d never needed anyone in my life. And I had blown it.

Still,
this too shall pass
. Out of experience, I knew tomorrow I’d feel better, and better again the day after that. In a way, it was freeing for as much as it hurt. The prospect of seeing Henry again had been a weight pressing on me, an unknown with many outcomes. At least now I was forewarned. I knew if I did bump into him—it was actually a miracle I hadn’t so far—I wouldn’t be crushed on the spot to see the worst outcome realized. If I let enough time pass, that one week we had together would become a memory of a memory: a negative of itself.

So I baked, and I taught, and I bugged my contractor until I was sure he was considering knocking me over the head with his hard hat and hiding my bones underneath the concrete drive he hadn’t poured yet.

O
N
M
ONDAY
,
I stood leaning against my car outside the property, waiting for the new site overseer to make his introductions. I’d come bearing coffee and homemade croissants, because I’d learned if there was one way to honey up to builders, it was with caffeine and pastries in the morning.

Most of the rough work had been done before I’d arrived in the UP. The farm’s charcoal remains had been torn down, foundations for the new house dug while I was still in Traverse City. If there was one thing we were good at in Michigan, it was erecting houses quickly and efficiently during the short summer months.

By the beginning of September, my future home had a walkout basement and a separate heated barn. The outdoor swimming pool had received the green light from the county to be dug next spring. By the side of the road stood the framing for a building with twelve bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and right next to it was room for another building, in case business over the years became good.

In the distance, I heard a truck rumble across the dirt road, the noise cutting through the droning rhythmic chirp of crickets. A dust cloud rose up before I saw it come around the bend, and my chest began to squeeze tight like I had an asthma attack coming. Sharp sunlight glinted off a blue truck and for one heart-stopping beat, I thought it was Henry. But it wasn’t an Avalanche and neither was it the right shade of blue, so it caught me completely unawares when Henry’s boyfriend jumped out of the cab.

“Mr. Wood?” he called, rummaging in the back of the truck. A toolbox had become dislodged during the bumpy ride and he refastened it, giving me a much-needed second to gather my wits. God, he was fucking gorgeous. They’d be so good…. I quenched the thought.

“Yes,” I croaked, cleared my throat, and stepped toward him, hand held out. “Call me Jason.”

Wiping his hand on his faded jeans before taking mine in a warm, dry grip, he said, “Robby O’Brien, good to meet you. Sorry about the switch in overseers, but there’s some trouble with a construction down in Marquette, and Paul had to go deal with it.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “As long as there won’t be any crucial delays.” Robby glanced at me. We were of equal height, and maybe my gaze lingered for a fraction too long, or maybe his did too, but the wry amusement turned subtly into something a little more intense, and I looked away.

“We’ll be done with the rooms and the first floor of the main house before winter as per contract,” he said, face perfectly straight again, but I thought I still heard a hint of a smile behind the words. I wondered if he knew who I was, if Henry had talked about me.

I had to stop thinking like that.

“I brought coffee and croissants,” I said, turning away toward my truck, “if you want some.”

He followed close behind. “I won’t say no to that.”

Handing him the coffee and the small paper bag with two croissants in it, I headed up the drive toward the house’s new basement. I wanted this over with.

“These are really good,” I heard him say behind me. “They from a bakery in Houghton?”

“I make them myself,” I called without turning around. Long gone were my Pumas and designer jeans. Instead, I navigated the hardened mud in a pair of sensible Timberlands and black cargo pants. He easily caught up with me.

“Really? They’re amazing, I wouldn’t mind waking up to these every morning.” I stopped dead and stared. Robby halted one step ahead of me, eyebrows rising. What had Henry told him about me?

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He was beginning to frown with real concern, and I pushed past him again. I didn’t know if he was trying to bait me or what, and I was too afraid to ask and find out he
was
.

In the basement, we talked about the placement of the furnaces, A/C units, a potential for a bathroom. From there, we worked our way around the rest of the property, talking about things I knew he knew already, making sure we were on the same wavelength.

The house would have an industrial kitchen where I was going to make breakfast for everyone in the mornings. If things went well, I planned on hiring a chef so I could offer dinner for my guests and maybe even the locals in the evenings. Double doors and a bar would section off the kitchen from a dining area large enough to seat all the guests and then some. There would be a big table for large parties, but I wanted small round tables too, with real tablecloths and heavy wooden chairs. I planned on offering romance to people I didn’t know, so I could experience it vicariously through them.

A double-story, eighteen-foot slanted ceiling with clerestory windows to catch the setting sun would go in the communal living room. In the walkout basement, I planned a playroom for cats, and a playroom for dogs, while the upstairs would hold my living quarters. They would be done last, because I figured I could stay in one of my own B and B rooms while they were being finished, or in case the money ran out, whichever came first. It had been a long time since I’d had to think along the lines of things going well and money running out. It thrilled me as much as it frightened the hell out of me. And unlike every other place in this town, I would be open year-round, so no one would have to be cold in an abandoned house. There would never be another accident like Taylor’s, not if I could help it.

By the time we made it back to the cars, the sun was high in the sky.

“I have to run,” Robby said. “I have a lunch meeting, unless—” I saw him hesitate, and in one of those strange moments of clarity, I could predict exactly what was going to happen. He was meeting Henry for lunch, and he was going to ask me if I wanted to join them.

“Yes, of course,” I hastily said, yanking open my car door with so much force, it clipped my knee and I winced.

Robby stepped forward, hand held out. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” I told him, clinging to the door, desperate now to get away, and not in the least because I’d started to shake ever so slightly. “Enjoy your lunch. Call me if you need anything.”

“You too,” Robby said, watching me bemusedly as I clambered into the truck and shut the door. I managed a polite little wave and, once I was sure I wasn’t about to cover him in dirt, I gunned it.

Chapter 17

I
F
ANYONE
were to ask me, I would say there was nothing on this earth more beautiful than an Upper Peninsula fall. And that’s taking into account my trek through Europe where I climbed mountains to abandoned villages in France, stood on Cornwall’s Land’s End, and saw a perfect sky reflected in the still waters of Lough Ouler.

In my new hometown, roads beginning to empty of tourists were framed by every color red imaginable. Greens lost their shade to soft hues of yellow and amber, a last burst of golden life before winter’s sleep. Like a mirror, the canal reflected these picture-perfect woods framing its banks. I often found myself stopping and staring, taking in the beauty of it all, with an elation that had a tendency to turn into melancholy with alarming regularity. Far too soon, this vibrancy would turn to a universal brown, and I wanted, no I
needed,
to soak it in while I could, for it to settle in my bones and keep me warm during the upcoming cold.

Waiting for a Sunday when there would be no builders, I drove out to the house to take some photographs of this beauty, feeling a pride in it, possessive as it was laughable, since none of nature’s bounty was of my making.

It was coming together nicely now, which was good, because everyone from the weatherman to my neighbor with the gout predicted a harsh and early winter.

“Is there any other kind of winter up here, then?” I’d asked him, and he’d laughed, said that no, he supposed there wasn’t.

The eastern border of the property ended at the canal, and that’s where I went. The place I’d been avoiding all this time, because this was where my memories of Dad were the most vivid. Over the years, Dad’s face, when I tried to recall it, had turned into the one I saw in photographs: an unmoving image, snatched from a moment in time. It had become nigh impossible to imagine him talking to me, laughing, reading his books in his study. Still lifes they were, these memories, or maybe still deaths, because there was nothing alive about my memories.

Apart from here, where we’d come, just he and I, to sit by the water and fish. The tiny dock poking out into the water like a crooked tooth had been weather-beaten back then, and now there was no sign of it.