The Promise of Home (30 page)

O
n the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Emily was working in the marble mansion by herself. Gus was lounging on his dog bed, as usual, but Matt was up in Maine visiting his family for the long holiday weekend.

It was a relief to have Thanksgiving over with. They'd gathered at her mother's house, and it had been special in a way because it was the first holiday when she and Rose had been together on speaking terms in over a decade. Now, she was having trouble imagining a holiday dinner without everyone—including Rose and her husband and son—being there.

There was a downside to having a close-knit family, though, and that was the lack of privacy. Between her mother and Rose pumping her for information about Matt, it had been all Emily could do to prevent herself from covering her ears and running for the door. Her relationship with Matt was so new. She wasn't ready to share it with anyone. Finally, within the solid, quiet walls of the old McAllister house, she was feeling relaxed.

Her work was nearly done. She had subcontracted out the replacement of the corroded pipe. That had been finished on the Friday after Thanksgiving, although she'd had to pay a holiday rate to the plumber. She had spent the rest of the holiday weekend replacing the waterlogged wall and ruined hardwood flooring in the bedroom she'd flooded. Miraculously, the water hadn't soaked all the way through to the dining room ceiling beneath it. She was especially thankful for that, because having to replace a ceiling might have jeopardized her ability to finish the house on time.

The remainder of the new furnishings was scheduled to arrive over the course of the following week, and she hoped to take Ruth and Fitz on a walk-through. That would be quickly followed by the necessary state inspections. The Fitzgeralds would then have a green light to open for business, with just enough time to prepare for Kyle and Claudia's wedding.

The two projects Emily had yet to complete were minor ones. She had created a stained glass window as a gift to Ruth and Fitz, and she'd obtained their permission to install it above the front entry in place of a drafty window that needed to be replaced. The other issue, which she was nearly ready to address, was the drain in the old antique tub in the owners' suite. It was so slow that it took hours to empty a full tub of water, and plunging it had done nothing to improve the situation. She had no idea how heavily the tub had been used over the years or what might be clogging the drain. Most likely, it was the typical mix of soap, hair, and grime, the kind of clog she'd dislodged countless times in the past.

Emily double-checked to make sure she had turned off the water supply to the house. Then she carried her toolbox up to the bathroom and set it beside the bucket of water, coiled plumber's snake, and air compressor that were already there. Flashlight in hand, she climbed into the tub. A visual inspection of the drain didn't reveal the problem. Fortunately, the drain and overflow pipes of old claw-foot tubs were easily accessible. Instead of being beneath the tub in the floor or behind it inside a wall, the drainpipe protruded upright from the floor, right next to the end of the curved cast-iron tub. Emily grabbed her pipe wrench. Although the drain assembly and overflow pipe were somewhat corroded, she was able to disconnect them from the drainpipe. After she had everything in working order, she would install new pipes and fixtures for the tub.

The thin, coiled plumber's snake passed from the entrance to the drain and all the way through the disconnected drain assembly beneath the tub with no resistance, which meant that whatever was impeding the flow of water from the tub was in the drainpipe itself. With a sigh, she reconnected all the pipes. She wouldn't be able to tell if the clog had been cleared unless she could observe water exiting the tub down the pipe.

Once everything was put back together, Emily climbed into the tub and pushed the end of the snake into the drain. She then began to turn the crank on the reel, which fed the snake farther into the pipe. Three feet went in, then a couple more, before the end of the snake encountered a barrier. She continued to turn the handle, but the snake moved forward only another half foot or so. When she cranked the reel in reverse to withdraw it, the corkscrew-shaped hook at the tip was covered in thick sludge but had not pulled out any sort of clog.

Typical
, Emily thought as she wound the snake back onto its reel. Old houses often had small, corroded pipes that were difficult to clear. Those leading from sink and tub drains were usually only an inch and a half or two inches in diameter. In her experience, a snake often failed to remove a clog in houses like this. But she was sure that her trusty air compressor would succeed where the snake hadn't.

She pulled the compressor closer to the tub, plugged it in, and turned it on. The motor hummed quietly for a few moments until the regulator indicated that the pressure level had risen to twenty pounds per square inch. Carefully, Emily pulled the hose over the edge of the tub, inserted the nozzle into the drain, wrapped a rag around the hose where it met the drain to prevent air from escaping backward, and squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled
whump
as air was forced into the drain.

Emily plugged the drain, got out of the tub, and poured in the bucket of water. When she removed the plug, though, the water didn't budge.

She repeated the process with the air compressor, this time waiting until the regulator read forty pounds per square inch before repositioning the nozzle and again releasing the air. Another
whump
sounded. Again, the water in the tub didn't drain.

With sweat beading on her forehead, she cranked up the pressure on the air compressor to one hundred pounds per square inch.
Surely this'll do it
, she thought as a third
whump
sounded in the bathroom.

A second later, there was an enormous
BOOM!

The walls shook as the sound reverberated throughout the house. Instinctively, Emily sank lower into the tub and covered her head with her arms. Her first thought was that she had blown out one of the old pipes leading from the bathroom. It was then that she realized some sort of wetness had sprayed her. A strong septic odor filled the bathroom just as she looked down to see hundreds of slimy gray and black droplets clinging to her arms and clothing.

Emily stood up and turned around. The sink had obviously been the source of the geyser-like explosion, because the counter, mirror, walls, floor, and ceiling were coated with copious amounts of the same disgusting sludge. Beyond that putrid blast radius, the sludge had been dispersed in smaller droplets like those that covered her.

The sink drain.

It had apparently been connected to a pipe on the same branch as the bathtub. Even though she knew better, she had completely forgotten to close the sink drain and weigh it down to prevent whatever the air compressor dislodged from being ejected through it.

As if to point out the silver lining in her situation, a loud gurgle caused her to glance down just in time to see the last of the water in the tub disappear down the drain.

“Emily? Emily, are you up there? I heard an explosion. Is everything okay?”

Matt's voice echoed through the marble mansion, and she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
What in the hell is he doing here? He's supposed to be in Maine,
she thought.

“I'm fine,” she yelled. “I'm in the owners' suite bathroom, but you might not want to come in here right now.”

“What? Why not? Are you all right? Oh, God.”

It was too late. Matt appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, made a gagging sound, and immediately pulled up the front of his shirt to cover his nose and mouth. His eyes grew wide as he looked first at her, then at the colossal mess around the sink.

“I unclogged the tub drain,” she explained matter-of-factly. “I forgot to stop up the sink before I shot compressed air into the pipe.” What else could she say? She was disgusted with herself for the amateurish oversight and embarrassed to have Matt see the result of it. Just when it had seemed like there was great potential for their budding relationship, she'd made a complete and utter fool of herself. She didn't know whether to cry or laugh or throw up from the smell.

“Okay. Okay.” Matt's voice was muffled under his shirt. He was looking all around, from the mess surrounding the sink to her and back. “Tell me what you want me to do. Should I go get some stuff to start cleaning?”

Emily fought back tears and tried to think through her next steps. “I need disinfectant cleaner, something with bleach. A clean bucket and mop, sponges, and rubber gloves. Paper towels and plastic garbage bags. I'm going to have to scrub down everything, even the walls. I'll need soap and shampoo and some clothes I can put on after I wash all this off. After everything that's happened, you'd think I would have brought a change of clothes over here.”

“Don't worry, I've got plenty of stuff you can throw on.” Matt fixed his gaze on her and chuckled a little.

“What?” She felt her temper rising, and her chin trembled. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I was just thinking about that old saying. You know, that there's shit in every job.”

Emily snorted. She still felt like crying.

“The other thing I was thinking is that even covered in it, you're still the most beautiful, amazing woman I've ever seen.”

As Father O'Brien straightened up in the sanctuary after Mass, he grew increasingly worried about Karen. She'd been there in her usual pew, but she'd seemed distant and distracted. She hadn't made eye contact with him once. It was easy to tell which of his parishioners were actively listening and connecting with his message. This morning, unusually, Karen hadn't been one of them.

Father O'Brien walked slowly down the aisle back to his church office. Once there, he tried to call Karen several times, but each time, his call went directly to her voicemail. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the way Karen had stared vapidly during the homily continued to bother him. It was a nagging feeling of déjà vu, and the association with whatever similar prior experience he'd had lingered stubbornly out of his grasp.

The feeling preoccupied his thoughts throughout the evening and as he shifted restlessly in bed. It was when his mind had started to enter the realm of sleep that the answer came to him, and it shocked him back to full wakefulness. In only one instance had he seen eyes like Karen's, with the light of vitality having faded so completely.

On the last night he'd visited her, Mary McAllister had looked at him like that. After he had left for the evening, she'd taken her own life.

In her house a few blocks from St. John's, Emily was also retiring for the night. After scrubbing and bleaching and rinsing, she'd finally rid the owner's suite bathroom of every trace of the sludge that had exploded from the sink. When Matt had returned with the supplies she'd requested, he had offered to stay and help, but she had insisted on doing the job herself.

Once the bathroom was clean, she'd stripped off her soiled clothing, climbed into the now-functional bathtub, and scoured every inch of herself with shampoo and soap. She'd opened all the upstairs windows in the mansion, hoping the smell would dissipate overnight, and she'd showered all over again at home in her own bathroom before changing into her pajamas. Never in her life had she felt as filthy, and never had she been so thankful to be as completely, mercifully clean.

Emily had every intention of going to sleep early, but when she reached toward her night table to turn off the light, her hand brushed a bundle of letters from the briefcase. How long had it been since she'd read any of them? She thought for a moment. It had been a few weeks, at least. In fact, she hadn't touched them since Matt had started helping her in the marble mansion. Part of the reason was that she'd been completely exhausted and basically falling into bed each night. Also, the allure the letters once held, of being able to peer into the private conversations between two people of the past, had faded dramatically once her own life had taken an unexpected, romantic turn.

Still, there were many she hadn't read, and she wasn't so tired that she couldn't stay awake a few more minutes. The mere possibility of finding something juicy prompted her to grab one of the bundles.

Emily looked at the postmark of the top letter. It was dated May 1971, the latest date of any postmark she'd seen on the correspondence. The envelope was different, too. It was light pink and larger than the common white envelopes containing the other letters. She opened it to discover that it contained
two
letters: one from Anna to Mary, and one from Mary to
Father O'Brien
and dated a few years after the first. She removed each one and began to read. When she finished them, Emily let her hand drop onto the covers and fell back against her pillow. At that moment, she realized two things.

The first was the extent to which her decision to read the letters in the briefcase was a gross and shameful invasion of privacy—both Ruth's and Father O'Brien's. She wouldn't read another word, but she would atone for her actions at the earliest opportunity.

And second, the letters she had read weren't just gossip from a bygone era. They revealed a long-held secret, one with the potential to change Father O'Brien's world.

On Monday morning, Karen was already dressed and in the kitchen when Ben came downstairs.

“I made you your usual breakfast sandwich,” she said, sliding a plate and a glass of juice toward him.

“Wow, you're up again! Are you going out?” he asked as he began to eat.

“Yes. I didn't sleep well last night, and I need to go shopping. I can drop you at school on my way, if you'd like.”