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Now the den seemed empty and lonely, although the furniture remained. A couple of fake Windsor chairs framed the fireplace where she and her siblings had hung their Christmas stockings. Because no one had built a fire in years, she needed to have the chimney cleaned. The ancient candlesticks at each end of the mantel had blackened with age and could use a good polishing, too.
Her mother had loved her silver pieces just as she’d loved all her antiques, but after Dad’s death she had sold most to pay debts, replacing them with a few fake pieces and other furniture sturdy enough to withstand the rigors of three adolescents. Brooke was glad the candlesticks and the armoire had survived. The house and its contents were a bittersweet reminder of everything her family had suffered and lost.
Grandpa George’s inheritance money would have meant much more ten years ago after Brooke’s father died. Mother had needed help badly, but her grandfather had never let on about his vast wealth. Part of her wanted to be bitter about that.
She had a quick flash of the day she, Zach and Vivienne had buried Mother. Barely out of high school, she’d been dumbstruck with grief. Grandpa George had not attended the church service but he’d come to the cemetery, his face haggard and gray. Afterward he’d come to her, Sinatra-style fedora in hand, and murmured, “Your mother was a fine woman. She endured when others didn’t.”
Though Brooke hadn’t completely understood the meaning, the words were the kindest she’d ever heard from Grandpa’s lips. At the time, they’d comforted her broken heart, and she’d been grateful. His kindness proved, she supposed, that there was good in everyone, even George Clayton, Sr.
“Well, Grandpa, there’s the one good memory.” Perhaps if she focused on that single comment, she’d feel less bitter about the things he could have done and hadn’t. Maybe.
She set the spray can on the floor and opened the doors to the armoire. The musty smell of old books filled her nostrils. A spider scampered up the door facing. Brooke smashed it with the dust cloth. The dust in the downstairs rooms had started to relent but cobwebs and spiders hadn’t. She hated spiders.
With a shudder, Brooke reached into the cabinet and took out the contents to clean inside. Once done, she turned her attention to the stack of books, photo albums and newspaper clippings on the floor. They were crisp and yellowed and probably full of spiders. Still, she slid cross-legged to the floor and began to sort and dust.
“Today the den. Tomorrow the living room.” Eventually, she’d clean out the bedrooms, with the hope that Zach and Vivienne would come home to occupy them. The master bedroom with the connected bath would be great for Zach. Viv could have Zach’s old room. Lucy’s room remained a clutter of storage because Mother never wanted to change a thing after her death. Brooke certainly didn’t want to sleep in there and was glad for the downstairs room she’d once shared with Vivienne. Eventually, she might eliminate the musty, wet-wood scent in her old room.
She checked her watch. The locksmith—actually Henry Johnson, the local handyman and plumber—had promised to drop by sometime today and change her door locks. After talking to Vincent, she knew he’d taken her key. He was probably just trying to intimidate her, but she was taking no chances.
She stacked books from the armoire to one side and laid the photo albums out on the floor in chronological order, wiping away dirt and grime. Then she turned each up by the binder to shake out any resident spiders and bugs. Several photos trickled to the wood floor. Zach in his football uniform scowled from one, his game face on. Brooke smiled, remembering how he’d growled and slammed his body into walls to “warm up” before a big game.
She opened the album to replace the photo. Gut-punched, her breath whooshed out. “Lucy.”
Her baby sister’s angelic face smiled up at the camera. On her father’s lap, Lucy pretended to read an oversize children’s book.
A fist closed around Brooke’s heart. This was taken before the world as her family knew it had ended.
Suddenly, she wanted to remember her family as they had been when they were happy. She started at the beginning, thumbing slowly through each book. There were her parents, George Jr. and Marion, smiling and in love at a beautiful wedding and honeymoon in Hawaii. Then came the births of Zach, Vivienne and herself, and still her parents smiled, arms around each other. She flipped through years of school photos, Christmases at the Clayton House, birthday parties, and then there was her mother, round and expectant with the last baby, Lucy.
