|Reese|
Andrea and I look silly at this long dining room table with our take-out food. This thing's meant for eight people with crocheted place mats.
I spear a bite of ravioli from the plastic container and offer Andrea some. She shakes her head. My dad's the chef in the family, which kind of makes sense, since he's a spice importer. Andrea doesn't cook much. And when she does, it's always steak and potatoes, and I'm a vegetarian.
"Your father always used to talk about his childhood here," Andrea says.
"Not to me." He never wanted to talk about Ipswich, especially in the past year since my grandmother died. I didn't even know we still owned this house until a couple weeks ago.
"I guess he and Mrs. Beal were longtime friends," she continues with a tinge of judgment.
"I think she's sweet." I take a bite of garlic bread.
Andrea crinkles her nose. "Too sweet. I bet she's nosy as anything."
"I don't know." I'm not going to agree with Andrea about Mrs. Beal, who seems perfectly nice.
"Watch, she'll be sending her son over to gather information for her." Andrea shakes her head. Then, with an eye roll, she continues, "But I bet you wouldn't mind that."
I stop mid-bite. "I really don't care one way or the other."
"Uh-huh. Well, it wouldn't hurt you to try to make friends here." She dabs the corners of her mouth with her napkin and a small amount of cranberry lipstick marks the linen.
My fingers tighten around my fork. "You know it ends in disaster anyway." It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt or their parents forbid them to spend time with me.
"People are disappointing. Still, you'll have to curb the attitude a bit. Smile, even." Andrea's subtle judgments poke at my fears that this place will turn out to be just like the City.
"Maybe I'll visit Mrs. Beal." I watch for a reaction. "Learn by example."
Andrea raises one perfect eyebrow, trying to assess whether I'm serious. Four months ago, she would have laughed at that, and I would have meant it as a joke.
I close the ravioli container with a sigh. As a child, I used to follow Andrea everywhere. My dad called me her personal fan club. Andrea loved it. She's always her best self while being admired. But since my dad was admitted to the hospital, there's been tension between us. And since I found out we had to move, it's ballooned into something I don't know how to step back from.
I push my chair away from the table and Andrea winces as it scrapes against the floor. I don't say anything as I exit the dining room, which looks like it was plucked from an old British movie. The only things missing are white-gloved servants and pleasant company.
It's a short walk to the stairway. I pass a bathroom with dark mulberry walls and another room I can only describe as a lady's tearoom, which looks out over a rose garden.
I grab the railing and take two steps at a time. When I reach the top, the only light is the one coming from my room, which glows a soft yellow at the end of the hallway. Andrea's room is at the end of the other hall, probably her way of trying to get as far away from me as possible. Andrea and I were never the cuddly types or people who worked things out with a heart-to-heart. But I can't say this divide doesn't bother me, either.
I wish my dad were here. These old rooms must be filled with his memories. Maybe being here is good in a way. Distracts me from constantly worrying.
I push open my door.
"Seriously?" My once neatly folded clothes in my armoire are now in a heap on the floor.
I inspect the armoire latch to see if it's broken. It seems fine. Maybe I just didn't close it all the way...?
"That's one way to unpack," Andrea says, standing in my doorway.
"These were all put away an hour ago. Must've piled them too high."
"Maybe we have a ghost who doesn't like you." Andrea smiles. I'm sure she's trying to lighten the mood, but this move to Ipswich has left me a little raw.
"Hilarious," I say, and she turns down the dimly lit hall and away from me.
A pair of black sweatpants rests on top of the pile of clothes, and I trade my jeans for them. As I straighten the mess, I assess my new room. Pictures of my dad rest on the old trunk under the far window, and my mother's jewelry box is on the vanity. I try to imagine my parents hanging out in this room when they were young.
I put the last folded shirt back in its proper place and close the armoire, tugging on it to make sure it's latched. I pick up the small golden picture frame off my trunk before plopping onto my down-and lace-covered bed.
In the picture, I'm four-years-old and sitting on my dad's lap outside a café in Paris. His cheek rests on the top of my head as I hold my cream puff with both hands. He's just smeared a bit of cream on my nose, and I'm laughing. This was the trip where we met Andrea, before I started going to school and stopped traveling with him as much.
"How can I start school on Monday without you here to give me a pep talk?" I ask the picture. "These kids have to be nicer than at my last school, though, right? Sleep tight, Dad. I'll love you for always."
I kiss my dad's picture and put it down on my bedside table near a slender vase holding a single daisy-like flower with a dark center. Looks like my doorknob.
I turn out the light.
I spend my Saturday afternoon exploring more of the house, rather than lounge around and watch Soap Operas with Andrea. I turned down her offer of over a bowl of oatmeal in the dining room. Besides, I'm fairly used to being alone, as of late, that I'm beginning to prefer it.
I'm currently ambling down the long hall located to the right of the main staircase of the house, and it's lined with lots of doors. Portraits of dead relatives hang on the walls - I can practically imagine them walking down here with only a candle.
I peek inside the fireplace room—which is probably the living room. There's a beautiful old rug, and the coffee table is an antique leather trunk. The next door in the hall is closed, and I push it open.
"Whoa." The room is huge, and on the left is a grand piano. There are a couple of seating areas with white antique couches that I can't imagine sitting on. Crystal decanters containing some sort of drink rest on a silver tray with small crystal glasses. I lift the cover on the piano keys and press an out-of-tune note.
At the far end of the room, between two tall windows, is a painting of a girl about my age. She wears a blue and white silk dress draped with lace and holds a bouquet of yellow flowers. Her expression makes her look at ease, like she knew the artist. I'm intrigued. Under the painting is a small table with an open book of poetry on it. The pages are yellowed. " 'Black-Eyed Susan,' " I say, reading the poem title. The flower! Right, that's what she's holding. And come to think of it, that's the kind of flower that's in my room, too.
Something crashes behind me, and I let out a small scream. I whip around to find the keyboard cover on the piano slammed shut. Not okay.
Andrea's muffled calls of my name can suddenly be heard and I sprint out of the fancy room, closing the door behind me. My hands shake.
"Yeah?" I reply.
"Door!"
By the time I get back to the foyer, Ethan is standing in the middle of the room holding a plate of cookies. "Don't laugh, my mother wanted me to bring these."
Andrea gives me a look that can only mean, "I told you they were nosy" before she turns to leave. I might agree with her, but it seems that Ethan is willingly offering his friendship, and who am I to turn it down?
I take the offered plate. "I never laugh at cookies."
"Chocolate-chip butterscotch."
"Seriously? Your mother's amazing," I say loudly for Andrea's benefit.
"Yeah, if you ever get hungry, stop by. My mom kills it in the cooking department."
A strand of Ethan's ginger hair falls out of place and I stare at it for a second longer than I should. "You wanna stay for a bit?" I find myself asking before I can give it any thought. "I was just looking around the place." I can't remember the last time I invited someone to hang out with me.
If my dad were here, he would be grinning wickedly at us, and I would feel super self-conscious. Four months ago, I would have awkwardly avoided eye contact with Dad, now I only wish his eyes were here to avoid.
Ethan pushes the loose hair out of his eyes, smiling lopsidedly. "Sure. I love this place."
I remove the saran wrap on the plate of cookies, and he follows me down the hallway. "So, I only made it to the piano room," I inform him with a full mouth as we walk past.
I reach for the handle of the next door at the same time he does, and I almost smack him with the half-bitten cookie. He smiles. No one really talked to me in New York, especially not guys who looks like Ethan. But the way he's enjoying my awkwardness makes me want to sock him.
He swings the door open to reveal a room covered floor to ceiling with books. Every dark-wooden bookshelf is packed, and there are even books on the ground and on the small tables. The only place without books is an old brick fireplace with bare wooden paneling on either side of it. It's not fancy like the fireplace in the living room, but I like it better.
"A library," I murmur breathlessly, and I suddenly find myself forgetting all about hitting Ethan.
"Every time I saw your grandmother she was in this room."
"It's strange you know more about her than I do." I put the cookies down on a nearby table.
"Why didn't you ever come visit?" Ethan wonders aloud.
I hesitate. I wonder what he knows about my family.
Ethan's fingers graze the top of an antique reading table surrounded by plush armchairs. A small cloud of dust rises. "It's okay if you don't wanna answer, y'know."
"No, it's fine. I just don't really talk about my family that much. I don't have any other relatives besides my dad and my stepmom." I can tell by the expression on his face that Ethan knows what happened to my dad. "Dad never wanted to come to Ipswich. So we just never came. And he and my grandmother were always fighting, so she never came to the City, either." I busy myself by looking through a pile of books.
"Charlotte used to talk about you," Ethan says.
I put down a book too fast and it slips off the top of the pile. My grandmother talked about me? I didn't even know she knew anything about me.
We're silent for a couple of seconds. He doesn't push the topic, even though I suspect he wants to. I pick up the fallen book and walk to the old fireplace. There are niches built into it, like small brick ovens for pizza. There's no guard separating it from the rest of the room. The wood floor just ends and the bricks begin.
"I bet this was used for cooking," I say.
He laughs. "Yeah."
"That's funny?"
"I mean, it's kinda obvious, but then again, you're a city girl," he says playfully.
I laugh, happy to be off the topic of my family. "Oh yeah? What do you know about old fireplaces?"
"Well, we're kinda really into our history around here."
"Tell me about it," I grumble. "You guys are obsessed with it."
"And I build furniture," he continues. "So I pay attention to these things."
"Really?" My surprise is genuine.
"Some of these fireplaces have hooks for hanging kettles and things." He ducks his head under the arched brick to get a better look. "Found one. Give me your hand."
I join him under the arch of the fireplace, and he grabs my right palm. His hands are lightly callused and warm. He directs my fingers to the left side of the arch. Crouched next to me this close, he smells like Christmas trees.
"You're right!" I grab hold of a small iron hook and pull. It moves in my hand. There is a loud creak and we look at each other. A gust of wind blows past us that smells like old leather and dried flowers.
I back out of the fireplace, not entirely convinced bricks won't fall on my head. "Holy…," I say, looking at the wall to the left of the fireplace. Part of the wood paneling has cracked open a few inches, revealing a door. "You have to see this."
Ethan stands next to me, eyeing the wall with curiosity. "I heard some of the older houses have these; I've just never seen one before."
"How are you so calm? We just found a secret freaking door!" My volume surprises me.
I run my fingertips over the edges of the door. They match perfectly with the fireplace and the paneling on the wall. No one would ever suspect. I give it a push and it swings open. Behind it, a narrow hallway leads to an equally narrow spiral staircase. The walls inside are made of the same old brick as the fireplace, and the floor has wide wooden boards like the older parts of the house. I practically shake with excitement as I take a step in. If there was one thing I always wanted as a kid, it was to find a secret passageway.
"Reese!" yells Andrea from down the hall.
I jump out of the tiny, intriguing hallway and back into the library, pulling the door behind me. "Quick, help me."
Ethan grabs the edge of the door and pulls. But it won't close the last inch.
"Reese, you down here?" Andrea's voice gets closer. I really don't want her to see this. I haven't even investigated it yet.
"Take your fingers out a minute," Ethan advises, reaching into the fireplace. Just as I move my hand, he pushes the hook and the door clicks shut.
"I've been calling you." An annoyed Andrea enters the room. "We have errands to run."
"Okay." I try to act like everything's normal, but I'm pretty sure I'm sweating.
She looks from me to Ethan, and she notices something's up. At least there's no way she could guess it's a secret door.
"Now, ask your friend to leave and go take a shower," she demands, snubbing her nose, and then leaves the way she came.
I release a heavy sigh, my shoulders collapsing, and turn to face Ethan. "That was a close one," I murmur, laughing faintly.
Ethan smirks. "Definitely," he agrees. "So, walk me out?"
I lead the way as we exit the room, and traipse down the hallway. "Thanks, by the way," I find myself saying, before giving it any thought, peering over my shoulder back to him.
Ethan looks bemused. "For what?"
"For today. I haven't had this much fun in-" And I stop myself short, realizing that people my age don't explore old, New England houses on a whim.
Ethan chuckles. "If you thought this afternoon was fun, then you gotta come with me out to the Dells tonight."
"What's there?" I inquire.
"Back-to-school bonfire," he answers, shrugging. "It's a pretty lax scene that mostly consists of questionable music choices and lukewarm beer."
"Sounds promising," I drawl out sarcastically, crossings my arms.
"Does that mean you'll come?" Ethan questions, eyebrows raised.
"Let me run it by Andrea, and I'll let you know," I assure him with a nod of my head. "Here, give me your number." I retrieve my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans and hand it to him.
He keys in his number and even goes the extra mile of taking a selfie with my phone. I can't help but laugh at the goofy expression he makes. "I'll be looking for a call," he informs me, then leaves through the front door.
A/N: Chapter two for ya, folks! I know I said before that Caleb and the others would be in this chapter, but that's not how it worked out lol. However, they will definitely be in the next chapter! :)
Hope y'all like the story so far! Let me know your thoughts/opinions!
Until the next chapter,
-Dev.
