Page 79 of The Treasure House

“Mom, we should start the tour with my school in Camden and drive home that way,” Flo instructed from the backseat. “Dad, you should see these towns, they’re so pretty.” She then told him all about her cats, in detail.

“And how many do you have?” Tim sounded a little concerned.

“Forty-nine and a half.”

I saw his double take in the rearview mirror. “Only seven and a half are real,” I said hastily.

“You have seven and a half cats?”

Flo explained, love for those kittens radiating from her. It almost made the vet bills worth it.

It rained on and off as we drove through the patchwork of autumnal countryside. But by the time we reached Camden, the clouds had eased and sea smoke was rising from the harbor as we took Tim on a tour of the town. It curled around the anchored yachts and billowed at the shore.

“Wow,” Tim said, impressed by the beauty. Flo beamed.

I chauffeured and Flo chattered, showing off her school and listing the types of whales and seals in the bay. The sun came out as we drove down the coast, turning the rusty cliffs amber and striking spangles off the ocean through the smoke.

I saw Oxeye through fresh eyes as we drove into our town. Compared to Camden and Rockport, it was down at heel.

Flo played tour guide, pointing out the café and the summer houses, explaining how the hardware store sold lobsta rowls in tourist season.

“Wow, look at those woods,” Tim said as we turned the corner.

I’d gotten used to the thick balsam woods on our street, but I saw it anew now—a mass of untamed forest. Low mist was gathered in dips and pockets close to the ground among the fallen needles.

Our house looked better than it had back in July, but it was still a witchy-looking place. The front yard was cut back hard and it wasn’t pretty. The lilacs had been pruned and were naked stalks jutting up from their thick, old bases, and most of the out-of-control cottage garden had died back to a mulchy brown mess. Now the jungle was gone, you could see the broken porch palings and the cracked windows. I’d booked a glazier to come later in the month, and Jake had volunteered to fix the palings, but there was just so much to do. Seeing the place through Tim’s eyes, I noticed the missing shingles, the flaked paint.

But Tim was far more impressed than I thought he’d be. “Wow, it’s big,” he said. He got out of the car and looked down the short cul-de-sac to the cliffs. “And you have a prime ocean view!”

The cold November air was heavy with wet pine and the scent of the sea.

He looked at Elton’s place next door. “That gives you a good idea of what it could be,” he said admiringly.

“Wait till you see inside,” Flo told Tim, grabbing his hand. She went to pull him around back, the country way.

“Hold it,” I called. “Let him come in the front.”

The porch out back was still a work in progress, while the front hall was completely clear. It made a much better first impression.

“Zoe, this place is something,” Tim said, his nose pink from the cold, after Flo had given him the tour. Our house got cold.

“If we’re staying here for the day, I’ll light the fire,” I said apologetically.

“Let’s stay,” Flo told him. “Then we can play with the kittens. They’re going to miss me so much this week.”

Tim seemed happy enough with that. I lit the fire in the kitchen grate, glad Jake had made sure every single fireplace was usable, because our furnace was garbage.

“How are you going to get through the winter?” Tim asked ruefully as he warmed his hands by the fire. “This place is archaic.”

Flo had scampered off looking for her cats in the labyrinth of the house, leaving us alone.

“I have a guy coming to put in a heat pump this week,” I told him. “It’s costing an arm and a leg but there’s a rebate, and Jake—uh, my friend—says it will save me hundreds each year on my bill.” I leaned closer to the fire, cold to the bone. “All I care is that it works.” I shivered. The nights had got so cold. Flo and I had piled on the quilts and slept in our beanies, with ski socks on and hot wheat bags held to our chests. “And we thought Pittsburgh was cold!”

“Seattle’s pretty cold too,” he told me, “but probably not as cold as Pittsburgh. It rains more than it snows.” We kept the conversation to the weather, both avoiding each other’s eye. It was weird, having him in our house. He didn’t belong.

As he and Flo played with kittens by the fire and I served sandwiches and hot chocolate, I marveled at the fact that I’d ever loved him. He seemed like a stranger.

In the afternoon, Jake came by to resume work on the back porch. He was bundled up for the cold, a scarf looped around his neck and a beanie on. He came into the kitchen gingerly, eyeing Tim. They shook hands like a couple of kids sizing each other up in the playground.