“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 justweirdseeing 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.
I remember feeling the poster paints on my fingers as I went to work, translating images from my head to paper and later to canvas.
He’d just chuckle when I made little spills and tell me he’d clean it up later.
While I can’t say he’s the only reason I chose art, after Dad’s grim example, I doubt I would’ve had the courage to move forward if it wasn’t for PopPop’s encouragement.
I blink away the memory as a smart-dressed woman stands behind his old desk and holds out her hand in greeting.
“Miss Cleopatra Blackthorn,” she says with a nod. “So good to meet you. We spoke on the phone.”
The infamous Miss Jackie Wilkes. She looks like she sounded, all focused intelligence and business. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s wearing subtle makeup that enhances the natural brown beauty of her face.
A smart blouse that looks designer grade. Nails perfectly manicured. An arrow of a woman, dangerously professional.
“Cleo,” I correct. “Nice to meet you, finally.”
She smiles, friendly and brisk.
If I ever wound up arrested, I could do a lot worse than her. I’m not sure she’s that type of lawyer, though.
