Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
The chimes are long gone now.
All the outdoor furniture has disappeared. Old wicker chairs I used to spend hours slowly picking apart—and every time I came back, they’d be repaired again.
He never said anything.
Never told me off, never yelled at Margot for joining in, even though it must’ve been annoying.
I’ll admit I was a brat.
That knife in my belly twists again. More memories.
Better times.
I only have vague memories of the last time I really hung out with Margot and Ethan. They were older than me and past a certain point, we weren’t glued together. Especially when Ethan moved on to bigger and better things and avoided Portland like the plague.
Still, the family meetings were warm. I didn’t have a stable home, but there was always a place where I belonged, in this house, with kin who made me laugh and acknowledged my existence.
It doesn’t feel so warm today.
Stop it. Switch off your nerves.
That’s what I tell myself as I climb the stairs to the front door.
I’m jittery because I don’t belong here anymore. Plus, coming to this house alone without PopPop or my cousins feels wrong on a cosmic level.
Honestly, it feels like this house shouldn’t exist without him.
Dad would’ve loved to get his hands on this place so he could turn around and pocket the money from the sale.
Another dark thought. Another reason why I’m nothing like my father.
With everyone collecting their piece of the estate, I’m the last one standing who gets a sliver of Gramps’ legacy.
I squash that thought as I rap on the door. My knuckles sting.
The angry, confused knot in the pit of my stomach gnarls tighter.
I don’t know why coming here feels so momentous. Maybe because I don’t get why we couldn’t just have some quick, painless meeting at a clinical office in town. The lawyer must have one, right?
Then the front door swings open and a balding, smiling man gestures me inside.
“Miss Blackthorn? Come on in,” he says.
All my visions of ghosts disappear in his image. He’s wearing chinos and polished shoes so shiny I can see my face in them.
PopPop would approve. He liked men who were well put together and who projected themselves well.
Man, I feel underdressed in my simple black blouse and skirt. I should’ve shotgunned some makeup on, I guess, since I still wound up dressing for a funeral today. At least I threw on some moisturizer.
“Hi.” I clear my throat and find my voice. “Thank you so much, Mr. —”
“Mr. Roan. I’m taking care of the place until the estate goes on the market. But you can call me Dave.”
“Dave,” I repeat. “Call me Cleo.”
I step inside.
“Nasty weather today. I really thought we were done with winter,” he says politely, shutting the massive door to block the chill. “I think it’s going to rain.”
“Perfect for today,” I joke.
It falls flat.
“Well, I turned up the heat for you,” he says, leading me through the house, so familiar and alien as hell.
So many personal touches missing now. There’s some furniture left, but not a ton. Not enough to be a home. I hope the lion’s share went to the rest of the family.
My heart aches at the empty spaces where chairs and shelves once sat.
Dad would say it’s practical to sell all the stuff. Especially if you don’t have room for it in your life—and who has room for ginormous old-world furnishings?
No normal person can take on soaring gold-framed paintings that look museum-worthy or furniture imported from Europe that’s over a hundred years old. PopPop was a collector of things, and his haul of treasures grew with his age.
Now, it’s just weird seeing the place emptied out.
Not even ghosts in the walls.
“Miss Wilkes is ready for you in the library,” Dave says.
My heart does a little flip.
The library.
It was always my favorite room here. When I used to play hide and seek with Ethan and Margot, I’d usually pick the library.
It got to the point where they always knew where to look, right behind the huge potted ferns or stacks of old books that seemed to come and go from storage to shelves with the seasons.
Just walking in feels like stepping back in time.
The old book smell is a hug for the senses.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves, a fireplace, and big, squishy chairs around a long table that could’ve had a double life at King Arthur’s court. And then, of course, PopPop’s desk in the corner.
Dave turns a corner and gestures me through an empty door.
I smile at him and hold my breath, hoping to walk back into my childhood.
Still the same place, thank God.
The books have some gaps, but the shelves are still there. The furniture hasn’t moved. There’s a huge roaring fire in the hearth, and when I blink, I see my childhood self playing with dolls in the balmy glow.
When I got older, PopPop used to read to me by the fire. And whenever he was working on high-stakes real estate deals that felt too vast to understand, he’d sit me down next to his huge desk, encouraging me to draw and paint while he worked.