Mr. Lawrence stopped near the island. “This is usually the busiest area, especially in the mornings.”
“I gathered.”
His eyes followed mine toward the flour residue still clinging to the vent above the stove. Color rose slightly in his face. Oh, he embarrassed easily.
“There was an incident,” he said. “You might remember me mentioning it over the phone.”
I nodded and forced myself to avert my eyes.
Billie climbed onto a stool. “It was weather-related.”
“Mm.”
“In our defense,” CJ said, leaning against the counter, “we did learn important lessons.”
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “Airflow matters.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too obviously.
Mr. Lawrence looked at me then. Really looked at me for the first time since opening the door, probably assessing whether I was already planning my escape route. I calmly met his gaze.
Most people underestimated how obvious loneliness was. But I’d lived long enough to recognize it. This house was full of it. Thechildren carried theirs loudly while Mr. Lawrence carried his quietly.
Beneath all the noise and exhaustion, beneath the children’s shenanigans and their carefully maintained routines, the entire family was suspended in the exact moment their lives had broken apart.
The tour continued upstairs.
“This bathroom was renovated last year,” Mr. Lawrence said as he opened another door. “The hot water takes a minute longer on this side of the house for some reason. I’ve had people look into it, but nobody knows why it happens.”
Billie wandered into what appeared to be a secondary sitting room and pressed her entire face against the window. “It looks haunted outside again.”
“It’s cloudy,” Bianca said for perhaps the fifth time.
Mr. Lawrence sighed with great affection.
There it was again. That strange contradiction in him. He carried exhaustion everywhere, yet whenever one of his children spoke, some part of him softened automatically.
I had known men who loved their children, and I had known men who felt responsible for their children. They weren’t always the same men.
Conrad Lawrence, however, belonged to both categories.
We moved farther down the hallway. Family photographs lined the walls in mismatched silver and dark wood frames. The children at various ages, missing teeth, in school plays, at beach trips and pancake breakfasts, dressed up in Halloween costumes.
The wife appeared often. She was beautiful. Tall, willowy, with pin-straight, near platinum hair and big, blue eyes. Billie was the spitting image of her mother.
In nearly every photograph, she leaned into the frame instead of posing for it. Her arms were around the children, and she always seemed to be laughing mid-movement and looking at her husband instead of the camera.
I slowed near one photograph. The wife stood in a garden holding an infant Billie, while Bianca clung to her leg, and CJ grinned, showing off several missing teeth. Conrad stood behind all of them, wearing that dazed expression new fathers had: tiredness, happiness, and terror all rolled into one.
“You all resemble your mother,” I said quietly.
All three children reacted in three entirely different ways. CJ smiled immediately, pleased. Bianca looked down. Billie asked, “Even my elbows?”
I turned toward her. “Especially your elbows.”
Her entire face lit up, and she started spinning in place.
