I picture Cam, a serious little boy finding hiding places and secret alcoves, sneakers scuffing the hardwood, and I can see it so clearly that I know we’ve done the right thing coming back here. He loved this place once, and I can make him love it again.
“I see you’ve found coffee, but let me get you something to eat,” Cecilia says, turning back into the house, and I find myself following her even though I hadn’t planned on leaving this perfect spot.
“You don’t have to feed me,” I say as we step back into the den, ceilings soaring high overhead, a stone fireplace big enough to roast an ox along one wall, sofas deep enough to sink into for days angled to get the best views out the windows.
“That’s her job,” a voice says from the doorway.
Ah. So this is Nelle.
Her hair is white, a puff of snowy curls that I bet she gets “done” in town once a week and never touches otherwise. She’s wearing a tartan skirt that hangs to mid-shin and sensible shoes, a beige cardigan over a white blouse, and if a prune could talk, it would probably look like her.
There’s just something … pinched about her entire being. Her lips, puckered in distaste, her eyes narrow, her knobby fingers clenched together. As she moves closer, her shoes squeak on the parquet.
“You must be Camden’s wife. Julia?”
“Jules,” I correct, and her mouth somehow, impossibly, gets even tighter.
“Is that not short for Julia?”
“It’s short for Julianne, actually, but only my mom called me that.”
Nelle sniffs. “Well, I’m Eleanor, Nelle for short, but you may call me Mrs. McTavish.”
Oh-kay, then.
“I was just telling Cecilia what a lovely home you have, Mrs. McTavish,” I say, sugar and sunshine, but that only makes the old bitch glare even harder.
“I suppose I should be saying that to you,” she says. “Given that this is Camden’s house. Built by my grandfather in 1904, named after my mother, but since I had the misfortune of being born second and my sister loved nothing more than hurting me, all of it now belongs to some boy from the streets who might as well be a stranger.”
“Morning to you, too, Nelle.”
Cam appears behind her, his hair still damp, wearing a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets. It’s an outfit I’ve seen him wear a thousand times, it’s practically his uniform, but he looks different this morning, standing in the halls of Ashby House.
It’s a weird sensation, looking at your own husband and not quite recognizing him.
Nelle turns around, not even a little embarrassed. “You know my feelings on all this. Why bother to pretend?”
“Why indeed,” he murmurs, moving past her. He gives me a quick, warm look, then smiles at Cecilia, hugging her tightly.
“Thank you for the casserole last night. Can’t believe you remembered.”
“Can’t believe you think I’d forget,” she says, and there’s a sheen of tears in her eyes as she pulls back and looks at him.
“How long are you staying?” she asks, and he shrugs.
“Depends how long it takes to see all that needs to be done. A few weeks, maybe?”
Longer, I think. Forever.
“Well, it’s good to have you back,” Cecilia says, and I hear Nelle give another one of those sniffs.
“Speaking of, where’s Ben?” Cam asks, looking around. “I figured he’d want to show me where to spend my money.”
He throws a look at Nelle as he says that, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes when the barb lands.
Another side of Camden I don’t fully recognize.
But then Ben comes in, all bright smile and too-white teeth, and there’s talk about flooding damage and wainscoting and contractors, and I tune it out, already feeling the pull of the veranda, the desire to sink back into that chair and dream of the day when it’s just me and Cam here.
We have a good life in Colorado, I know that. Cam likes his job, and while I don’t love being Mrs. Burch over at Homestead Park five days a week, I could probably find something else. I may not have finished college, but I’m a quick learner. We have friends there, other teachers from Cam’s school, a few of the other women who work out at Homestead, some neighbors. We go for margaritas on Fridays at this cute Mexican place downtown, and we know that that one Safeway is always packed on Saturday, so it’s better to drive a few miles out of town to hit that other Safeway, and one of the baristas at the coffee shop closest to our house has figured out what we always order （me, hazelnut latte with oat milk; Cam, a plain black coffee that always smells, and I assume tastes, like burnt sadness）。