Page 56 of The Treasure House

“High five, kid, we did it.”

As Flo energetically slapped Jake’s hand, I felt an odd weakening. It was a wave of feeling that was unfamiliar to me, an eddy of something sad and sweet and bright and sharply pleasant. Oh God, was I about to cry?

“I might just pick some flowers for the table,” I said, turning away. What was wrong with me?

I grabbed a pair of garden shears and a basket from the laundry, where Wayne had left a neat little collection of tools for me, and headed out into the garden. Dean Martin’s whiskey-warm and lazy voice was crooning, “Who’s your little who-zis?” as I passed the big white wedding tent full of culch on my way to the garden. I could hear Flo laughing at the silly lyrics of the song as I picked the late roses, which were fat and old-fashioned and highly perfumed. I sheared off wands of lilacs too. Around the outbuildings were thick beds of hydrangeas, all in pastel shades of pink and green and palest purple, and I snipped with abandon. There were thickets of small daisies everywhere, and taller wildflowers whose names I didn’t know. I cut armfuls of everything, not knowing what was weed and what was wildflower, and not caring. It was all beautiful. And cutting flowers stopped my tears.

“Is there still a garden left?” Flo asked, her eyes widening when I came in with my overflowing basket.

“I doubt she even made a dent in it,” Jake said. His blue-green, marble-glass eyes were amused. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the denim of his jeans outlining his strong thighs.

“Look, Mom, we have Beatles albums! Jake says they’ll be worth a lot!” She held up Rubber Soul.

“I said they might be worth something.”

“Can I get you something to drink now that your work is done?” I asked Jake, as Flo took the needle off Dean Martin and swapped him out for the Beatles. She was treating the records like they were made of glass, which made me smile.

“Sure.” He uncoiled from the floor. I was painfully aware of his closeness. That smell of wood shavings and sea salt curled around me.

“Um…” I tried to pull my thoughts together. They were scudding about like clouds in a strong wind. “Beer? Or iced tea?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Right. Okay. “Beer,” I blurted. In the fridge I had a variety of boutique Maine beers Wayne had bought to try. He’d left them for me. “To ease the pain,” he’d joked, giving me a squeeze as he’d said goodbye.

As “Drive My Car” exploded tinnily from Flo’s record player, Jake followed me into the kitchen. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in pockets, watching me as I dropped the flowers on the table and rummaged through the fridge.

The evening was bluing and the kitchen felt unsettlingly intimate.

“Ah, do you mind turning on the overhead lights?” I said, wanting to dispel the intimacy as fast as I could. “What kind of beer do you like?”

Jake flicked the switch and the bare bulbs blazed to life. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“I have pale ale from two different places in Portland, IPA from Bangor, lager from Augusta, or stout from Bar Harbor?”

“Pale ale.” He sounded amused. “Doing a tour of the state in there, are you?” he asked as I handed him the aggressively fluorescent can.

“Something like that.” I took a pale ale too and went to find us glasses. Suni had organized the cupboards, but the glassware was a carnival of jelly jars, wineglasses, tumblers, champagne flutes, and highballs. Some were crystal, some dime store finds. I grabbed a couple of oversized wineglasses and handed him one.

“Not using the range to cook?” he asked as he cracked his can and poured it into the glass.

“To be honest, I’m afraid of it,” I confessed.

“I’m calling this one mint!” Flo shouted over the music.

“Good stuff,” Jake called back, without looking away from me. “The woman who bought this house is afraid of a little old range?”

“Yes,” I said fervently. “It’s terrifying. I mean, where do you even start?”

“I’d recommend time travel.” This time the double dimples led to an actual smile. “Will you keep it, do you think?”

“It doesn’t really seem right to get rid of it,” I admitted. “It feels like part of the house. It would be like knocking down a wall.”

“Well, people do that too.”

I shook my head. “It feels wrong to remodel an old house that much.” I thought of the houses I’d seen renovated in reels online. “Have you ever watched TikToks of treasure houses?” I asked him, as I opened a cupboard door to reveal wall-to-wall vases. Marly must have liked cut flowers a lot.

“Have I ever watched what of what?” Jake took a seat at the scrubbed-wood kitchen table as I filled a couple of vases with water.