Page 29 of The Sound of Harmony

The hour had ended before she could tell Jen about Kendrick. But that was fine. She didn’t have to tell her therapist about Kendrick because Kendrick was not a problem. He was a handsome and talented man who was so far out of her league that he wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. Which was perfect, because she didn’t need possibilities.

This was the kind of thing she should talk to Gwendolyn about. How did that saying go? “Who needs therapy when I have a sister?” Actually, Emma needed both therapy and a sister. Gwendolyn was at work, but Emma texted her a short message.

Thinking about you, weirdo.

Hi what’s up? Gwendolyn replied.

Nothing. Just saying hello.

Can’t talk now, but I love you. Make good choices!

Emma typed a bunch of heart emojis and slid the phone back into her pocket.

She let herself into Kendrick’s house, careful to leave the front door unlocked. She went through the house and unlocked the back door too. Once both exits were open, she also opened windows on both sides of the house for a cross breeze.

Built before air conditioning, when even electric lights were a luxury, houses of this era were designed with thought and care. The walls were thick plaster, not flimsy drywall, and the brick exterior would last generations. As a bonus, sound didn’t travel as well, so it didn’t echo like a modern McMansion.

The air felt like a blessing as it flowed through the rooms. The buzz of lawn mowers a few streets away, dogs barking behind fences, and the whoosh of cars driving by reminded her that the neighborhood was thriving and alive.

Tomorrow, the estate company would come to inventory the house, and there were a few possible antiques she wanted to send out for appraisal before they got down to the business of arranging and staging the sale. She was also going to ask one of her friends to have a look at the landscaping, because Kendrick clearly needed help in that area as well.

In the meantime, she couldn’t resist peeking into drawers and cupboards to see what was there. Could she get a sense of Kendrick’s grandmother? But the family had removed everything personal already. There were no photo albums, journals, or craft projects.

Emma gleaned what she could from the books on the shelves and the clothes in the closets, but the kitchen was the real treasure. There was a small set of everyday plates and two sets of formal china, including all the serving pieces. A punch bowl. A soup tureen. A deviled egg plate. So much silverware. She found a tea service and acres of table linens—the kind that were actual linen and would be sent out for cleaning after every dinner party. Clearly, Mrs. Bell liked to entertain, but only formally. A sit-down dinner for eight rather than a barbecue in the back yard.

She found a decorative fountain shoved in the back of a cupboard. It stood about a foot tall and was the kind of thing popular in the 80s or 90s. It wasn’t in keeping with the rest of the house, but there was something charming about it. Three levels of water dripped into shell-shaped basins and a pile of rocks in the bottom concealed the pump.

She tried plugging it in and adding water, but it didn’t work. Digging deeper, she discovered a broken switch. Well, that was easy enough to fix. She could get a new switch at the hardware store for a few dollars. Kendrick wanted everything to go, but he might want this. And if he didn’t, it would sell better if it was fixed.

She took photos in the kitchen and got all the measurements she needed for the new rolling island. She took notes, measured, took more notes, and found a few possibilities online that might work. She’d do more extensive research when she got back to her computer.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text from Kendrick’s cousin Mitch. He was showing a house in the neighborhood, saw her truck, and wanted to stop by to meet her when he was finished. She told him yes, double-checked that she had a clear path to both doors, and kept working. She was curious about Kendrick’s relatives. Not that you could judge a man by his family, but there were always juicy clues there.

Ten minutes later, a burst of country music shattered the day. It was at least half a block away, but the drums pounded in her chest and the guitars leaked into her brain through her sinuses as a car turned onto Cricket Lane with its windows down and the radio turned up. And what should happen to be on the radio at that moment? Riding for Trouble by Jonah Dalton.

Emma dashed for the window and slammed it closed, gripping the windowsill while waiting for the car to pass. It didn’t pass. The dark red SUV pulled up in front of the house. This had to be Mitch. He sat out front for the duration of one verse, window wide open, singing along.

Emma knew all the words. She’d written half of them.

She forced herself to take deep breaths. It’s just a song. A stupid song. Jonah is not here.

How many times did Jonah hit her? Why couldn't she get away from him that time, the way she'd done before? She didn’t have a specific memory of who called the police that night. There were gaps, like a record with a scratch that wouldn’t play the whole song through. But she was nearly certain that Marta had called 911. Marta was their housekeeper. Marta’s husband was their driver. He was the one who took her to the hospital. No ambulance. They thought it would keep the reporters away. It didn’t. Maybe Marta had called them, too.

Emma hadn’t properly thanked her. As far as she knew, Marta still worked for Jonah, and it was safer for them both not to speak.

Riding for Trouble ended a moment later, followed by the slamming of a car door, but Emma didn’t see Mitch get out of his SUV, because her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was trying not to shake. She used one of the calming mantras that Jen had taught her. “This too” on the inhale. “Shall pass” on the exhale. Breathe in. Breathe out. This too shall pass.

She tuned in to the sound of her breath, the hum of a leaf blower in the distance, another car driving by. Mitch’s steps on the porch. This too shall pass.

“Knock knock,” Mitch said as he let himself in.

Emma scrambled behind the nearest piece of furniture—a wing chair next to the fireplace. She gripped the back of it to steady herself and tried to put on a neutral expression. This is okay. I’m okay.

“Hi, there. You must be Emma. I’m Mitch Bell.” He charged forward with an outstretched hand.

Emma kept the chair between them, reaching across it for an awkward handshake. Mitch resembled his cousin, with the same build, the same mouth, and the same hairline. But their eyes were different. Kendrick’s were round and soft, while Mitch’s were narrow and shrewd, like he was sizing things up. He wore pleated khaki trousers and a red polo shirt with Bell Real Estate stitched on it in white thread.

“I’m glad you could find time in your schedule to help us out.” Mitch smiled with Hollywood-people teeth—very white and very straight.