His breath caught.
It was the drawing of his hands.She’d brought it down from wherever she’d been keeping it safe.Only part of the guitar was visible, the lower part of the neck and the sound hole.His left hand wrapped around the neck, pressing strings against the frets in a chord, and his right hand plucked at the strings.
The picture was held in a frame those same hands had made, by a desk those same hands built, in a room in an entire house that the whole loud family had built back together.
He managed a nod of approval before retreating and mumbled something about letting Presley have the room to herself to try out the desk.The real reason he fled had more to do with not being ready to find out if a Steele could, in fact, cry where he would be seen.
That night, Hank walked through the newly restored rooms switching off lights and turning off lamps.The house came along with him the way an old, settled horse would, moving easy, leaning into him a little.He’d built his life around being the solid thing that held its ground while everything else flowed around him.
He’d never once recalled being steadied and held up by anything or anyone else in return.But he was finding out now, one room at a time.It was both better and more frightening than anything he’d ever imagined.
He stopped a moment in his office.Sunny had somehow managed to turn it back into a historically correct front parlor worthy of this grand house.And yet, she’d tucked in his examining table and work desk near the far wall of glass cabinets in a way that fit the space and didn’t feel out of place.
This room was fully a reflection of him, now.It contained an elegant sense of age and permanence that fit the house.This roombelongedinside these walls.But the space was still comfortable and felt lived in.Solid.It spoke of a both a doctor and a family man occupying this space.
It was shocking how clearly Sunny saw him.And, it was a tribute to her talent that she’d so perfectly translated who he was into the furnishing, décor, and ambience of this room.It humbled him to know that this was how she saw him.
He left a small lamp glowing on one of the side tables near the front window for no reason other than it felt right to do so.Perhaps it was an invitation for anyone in need of help to come in.Or perhaps it was meant for one person.To light her way and guide her here any time she needed to sit in its gentle warmth with him.
He went up to bed in a house that was, like his heart, finally too full to echo.
13
Sunny came back to the house after the children were down, the way she did most nights now, on the thin excuse of oiling a pocket door that still got stuck in its original track occasionally.
Hank not only had the kettle on before she got there, but her tea was finished steeping before she shrugged off her jacket.She gazed at his newly tiled kitchen, redone with old, gently wavy, white tile backsplashes.A master tiler had just finished grouting and sealing a magnificent floor mosaic consisting of tiny white and blue tiles in the motif of an elaborate Persian carpet.
The stripped, sanded, and refinished oak cabinetry gleamed.The waist-high, tongue-in-groove wainscoting was painted a fresh, high-gloss white typical of the early 1900’s.The plaster above it was the pale blue that people back then thought repelled flies.The brass faucet, light fixtures, and drawer pulls glinted like gold coins around the space.
The worn out, avocado green appliances from the 1970’s were finally gone, replaced with white enameled ones that were brand new but shaped like their antique ancestors.The dishwasher and microwave oven were discreetly tucked behind faux cabinet doors Dillon had milled to exactly match the original oak cabinetry.
The oak kitchen table was round and seated ten people with ease.It currently had eight wonderfully mismatched chairs around it.She’d let Madison bid on it at an auction two weeks ago, and the only other serious bidder, an antique buyer from Jackson Hole, had dropped out when Madison shot him her best sad puppy eyes and asked him please to let her have the pretty table.The child had positively stolen it from him and was still smug about it.
As Hank pressed a mug of hot, lightly sweetened tea into her hands, it dawned on her that she’d built this trap herself and walked right into it.When she’d turned her attention to the kitchen and asked Hank what he wanted in here, he’d merely shrugged and told her to do whatever gave her joy.And she had.Stepping into this space that was frankly her dream kitchen felt like getting a hug from the house ...and from its owner.
It was a good trap.That was the whole trouble with it.A warm house, an inviting kitchen, a quiet man, her children who’d started referring to Natalie’s place asthe rentaland this place asthe houseinstead ofHank’s house.She’d let each and every one of them lull her into feeling comfortable.Safe.Like she belonged here.
And all the while she’d ignored the biggest reason of all not to let down her guard and feel at safe or at home anywhere.Her husband.
What brought her back here tonight started as a small thing.While tucking in the twins this evening, Harris asked her, half asleep, if someday they’d all live in the big house together, her and his siblings and Madison and Hank.
Shocked, she’d mumbled something along the lines of, “Maybe, Baby.We’ll see.”
Pacing her living room afterward, she’d realized she was letting her children fall in love with a future she was building over a hidden fault line.Of all women, she knew exactly what it was to live in a lovely house secretly filled with rot, out of sight beneath the floor, destroying it from the ground up.
She’d grabbed her coat and keys and driven over here before she could lose her nerve and back out of doing what needed to be done.
“Hank, I need to tell you who my husband was,” she blurted before she could lose her nerve.“And I need you to let me get all the way through it before you say a word because if I stop, I won’t ever start again.”
Without saying a word, he pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and held it for her as she sat.Then he sat down beside her, gave her the whole of his still attention, and said evenly, “All right.I’m listening.”
She was too nervous to stay seated.She stood up, moving around the kitchen, touching the cold soapstone counters, the brass and white enamel knobs on the stove.
“His name was Winston Perry.My married name was Susannah Perry.He was the Chief Financial Officer for a very large shipping company.He managed all the accounts, its investments, its pension fund.He was the most respectable man in any room he walked into.He was charming.The kind of man who remembered your mother’s name and asked after her bad knee.People trusted him.So did I.”
She took a deep breath and plowed into the rest of it.The hard part.
“He stole from the company for a decade.Tens of millions of dollars, a little at a time, hidden so cleanly that three separate auditors signed off on books that were a lie from the first line.I lived in his house and slept in his bed and spent his money.And I never had any idea what he was doing.I knew we seemed to have a lot more money than he earned, but he told me he’d made good investments.Really good ones.And some of them I could see.Art that went up sharply in value.Real estate that appreciated rapidly.I believed him.”
