“I’ll get your things from the trunk, and we’ll go inside. Okay?” He opens the car door.
I follow him up the three wide steps that lead to elaborate double doors. A woman who looks to be in her forties opens the door as we reach the top step. She’s petite, with dark hair, clad in black pants and a plain smock. “Welcome home, Dr. Hunter,” she says, and then turns to me. “Hello, Mrs. Hunter. I’m so happy you’re home.” She smiles like she’s thrilled to see me, and I feel horrible that I have no idea who she is. I look to Julian and raise my eyebrows.
“Cassandra, this is Nancy, our housekeeper.”
I put my hand out to shake hers. “Thank you for your warm welcome, Nancy.”
She beckons me in, opening the door to its full width. “So nice to see you, Mrs. Hunter.”
With some hesitation I enter the hallway, with its dark wood floors and wood-paneled walls. The domed ceiling is two stories high, and the walls are dotted with oil paintings. Despite the lofty space, the room is dark, and it feels confining and stiffly formal.
“I’ll take these upstairs to the bedroom.” Julian carries my bags to the staircase. “Would you like to change and have a little rest before dinner?”
I don’t move, unsure of what to do. The word bedroom has made me anxious and nervous. As if reading my mind, Julian says, “I’ve moved a few of your old things to the guest room, and that’s where I’ll take your suitcases. There’s a nice balcony that overlooks the pool and gardens.” He gives me a look of assurance and understanding. Relieved, I follow him up the long flight of stairs to my room. He puts the cases down, gives me a little nod, and walks to the door. “There’s a pull rope next to the headboard. Just tug on it if you need anything.” He turns to leave, then stops and takes something from his pocket. It’s an iPhone. “I got you a new phone and had all your data uploaded from your old one. I charged it for you too. Maybe looking through it will jog something for you. Your password is our anniversary, eleven eighteen.”
I click the side button, and when the screen lights up, I enter the password. The wallpaper is a picture of Julian, Valentina, and me at the beach. We’re at the water’s edge; I’m in a cover-up, Julian has board shorts on, and Valentina is wearing a polka-dotted pink bikini. I’m curious to see what apps I have, but the first page consists mostly of the preloaded kind. I touch the Photos icon and begin to scroll through. There are loads of landscapes and water scenes. There are no pictures of any of us, but then I think maybe it’s because I’ve shot most of them with other cameras. Next I go to my calendar. I’m surprised to find nothing there—for the past two years I’ve put everything in my phone. Maybe the old me preferred a paper calendar. There’s a Kindle app, and I open it, curious to see what I used to read. There are lots of books here, most of them with dark covers and titles that indicate they are horror. Some of the authors I recognize right away—Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, Dean Koontz—while others are new to me. Scrolling down, I see some nonfiction: books about dealing with anxiety and depression, ways to improve self-esteem, and what to do when you’re suicidal. My heart sinks, and I close the app. I continue looking through everything, but there’s nothing else of interest. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed. I’m grateful that Julian arranged for Valentina to be away for a few days; I’m not ready to see her yet. I stand up, needing to busy myself with something, and begin to unpack, putting underwear and sweaters in the armoire drawers. When I open the closet to finish putting away the rest, I see the things Julian mentioned hanging there: a floor-length cotton nightgown, white with embroidery on the edge of the long sleeves and a cozy-looking fleece robe. Two pairs of pants, one linen and one corduroy, hang next to a white cotton shirt, a navy pullover, and a green-and-blue flannel shirt. I imagine Julian trying to decide what to choose. He’s picked wisely; there is nothing suggestive or sexy about the clothing he’s left. Nothing with an underlying meaning. To me the clothes say, I am not rushing you. My only concern is that you be comfortable and feel safe.
After I’ve unpacked everything, I take a moment to absorb my surroundings. The room is large and uncluttered, with dark green walls and heavy curtains. The only furniture is a four-poster bed, its thick posts ornately carved, a low mahogany bureau, and a matching bedside table. A weighty black-and-gray quilt with a geometric design covers the bed. Darkness seems to pervade this house. I wonder what drew Julian to it. Next to the bed, on the nightstand, is a book, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. When I open it, I see my name in black ink on the inside cover, written in my hand. Maybe it is not Julian who is drawn to darkness. Maybe it’s me.