Dante.
I flip the page over, but it’s blank on the other side.
For a fleeting moment, I think the letter must be intended for Michael. That idea gets tossed aside when I realize it’s addressed to me. That’s my name right there on the front of the envelope, printed in neat block letters with blue pen. This Dante person, whoever he is, meant for me to receive this.
But why?
And what is he waiting for?
Unsettled, I fold the letter into thirds, stuff it back into the envelope, and drop it on the table. Then I make sure all the doors and windows are locked. I draw the drapes and blinds against the wet gray afternoon, pour myself a glass of wine, then sit at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope with a strange feeling of foreboding.
A feeling that something’s coming.
And that whatever it is, it isn’t good.
When I drag myself from bed in the morning, the headache is still with me, but the oppressive sense of dread is gone. It’s gray and blustery outside, but the rain has stopped. For now, at least. It’s wet and cloudy year-round in Washington, and January is especially dreary.
I try to work, but give up after only an hour. I can’t concentrate. Everything I draw looks depressed. The children’s book I’m illustrating is about a shy boy who befriends a rabbit that can speak, but today my rabbit looks like he’d rather take an overdose of Percocet than eat the carrots the boy tries to feed him.
Abandoning my desk, I head to the kitchen. The first thing my gaze lands on is the letter on the table. The next thing I notice is the water all over the floor.
Overnight, the ceiling has sprung a leak. Two of them, to be specific.
I knew we should’ve bought something newer.
But Michael didn’t want a new home. He preferred older homes with “character.” When we moved into this Queen Anne Victorian six years ago, we were newlyweds with more energy than money. We spent weekends painting and hammering, pulling up old carpet and patching holes in drywall.
It was fun for about three months. Then it became exhausting. Then it became a battle of wills. Us against a house that seemed determined to remain in a state of decay no matter how much we tried to update it.
We’d replace a broken water pipe, then the heater would go out. We’d upgrade the ancient kitchen appliances, then we’d find toxic mold in the basement. It was a never-ending merry-go-round of repairs and replacements that drained our finances and our patience.
Michael had planned to replace the leaky roof this year.
I sometimes wonder what will be left on my To-Do list when I die.
But then I force myself to think about something else, because I’m sad enough already.
I bring two plastic buckets from the garage into the kitchen and place them on the floor under the places the ceiling is dripping, then get out the mop. It takes almost an hour to get all the water up and the floor dry. Just as I’m finishing, I hear the front door open and shut. I glance up at the clock on the microwave.
Ten o’clock. Right on time.
My housekeeper, Fiona, walks into the kitchen. She takes one look at me, drops the plastic bags of cleaning supplies she’s holding, and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.
It’s a testament to how exhausted I am that I don’t even jump at the sound.
“Do I really look that bad? Remind me to put on some makeup before you come next week.”
Breathing hard, her face white, she braces an arm against the doorframe and makes the sign of the cross over her chest. “Christ on a cracker! You gave me a proper fright!”
I frown at her. “Who were you expecting? Santa Claus?”
Unlike the rest of Fiona, her laugh is small and weak.
Of Scottish descent, she’s plump and attractive, with bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and stout legs. Her hands are red and rough from years of work cleaning houses. Though somewhere north of sixty, she’s got the energy of a woman half her age.
Having her help me keep the place up is an expensive luxury, but with two stories, over five thousand square feet, and what seems like a million nooks and crannies that gather dust, the house needs constant cleaning.
She shakes her head, fanning herself. “Hoo! You got the old ticker pumping, my dear!” She chuckles. “It’s been a while.”
Then she turns serious and looks at me closely, peering at me as if she hasn’t seen me in a hundred years.
“How are you, Kayla?”
I glance away. I can’t lie while gazing right into those piercing blue eyes. “I’m okay. Just trying to stay occupied.”
She hesitates, as if unsure of what to say. Then she exhales in a gust and makes a helpless gesture toward the window and the cloudy view of the Puget Sound beyond. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I read about it in the paper. Such a shock. Is there anything I can do?”