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Chapter Two
Kathryn
The sun sits high in the August sky, but there’s no warmth as I walk through the house for the first time. I have no clue what I was thinking, coming back here. Too many memories, both good and bad, invade my thoughts as I move from room to room, surveying what was left behind by our hasty retreat. The furniture is covered with cloth and everything else is covered in a thick layer of dust. This place will be a major undertaking to get cleaned, but I’m up for the challenge.
At least I think I am.
My attorney, David, tried to convince me to hire it out. The cleaning of such a large house is sure to take forever, but I didn’t want someone else here, underfoot and going through everything. This is my house.
My memories.
The phone in my pocket vibrates again, but I ignore it. I already know it’s one of two people, and frankly, I’m just not ready to deal with either of them. I came here to get away from all the chaos they’ve created, and hopefully, rediscover the girl I use to be. Before New York City, business dealings, and fake smiles. Before my life became about what the bottom line was and how much profit the firm made.
Back when all I cared about was painting.
Jensen.
The future.
But all of that was stolen from me, like a thief in the night.
Now, here I am, at the place it all began. I try to push all thoughts of what could have been from my mind, but my heart doesn’t seem to get the memo. Being here is harder than anticipated. The memories are too strong, too raw, too painful.
I hold my purse against my side and make a dash down the grand staircase. I don’t even stop to reminisce about how many times I slid down the banister. Even as a teenager, I found joy in that simple act, but right now, I just need air that isn’t stale and stuffy from years of being closed up and hidden from the outside world.
The moment I step outside, I can finally take a deep breath, but it’s hard. The familiar panic is there, right along with the tears, as I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like my doctor told me so many years ago. I’m all too accustomed to the rapidly beating heart, the uncontrollable shaking, and the inability to catch a breath as the panic attack sets in. They’ve never really been horrible, but enough to scare the crap out of me and usually anyone around me when it sets in. I’ve had them since I was eighteen. Since the night we left. Since I was forced to start my life over, without so much as a look back.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, my breathing starts to even out and the pressure in my chest eases. I hate having an attack, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with for the last twelve years. The usual trigger is a new situation in which I feel uncomfortable and uneasy, much like this. I knew this would be a trigger. I knew it would be hard. But I’m going to fight through this.
I’m super sweaty, and it isn’t completely due to the August heat. Unfortunately, it’s one of the side effects of my panic attacks. I hate it—no one likes someone with sweaty pits and who freaks out when she is alone in an unfamiliar location, especially in the real estate business world. It just goes to show you how much I wasn’t made for corporate America.
When I feel like I can walk on sturdy legs, I force myself to head around to the back of the house. I step over fallen branches and can’t believe how overgrown everything is. My attorney had arranged for a landscape architect to come up with a new design for the property, which was delivered to me before I got in my car and made the drive down the coast to Rockland Falls. It’s going to be perfect. The company, New View Landscape and Design, incorporated the few things I had asked, while adding in a lot I hadn’t. Really, I gave them free reign to redesign the entire property and grounds, utilizing their expertise and creativity.
Everything but the pool house.
As I round the corner, the expansive backyard comes into full view. The pool is in rough shape, but mostly cosmetic, at least according to the pool company that came over yesterday and inspected it. I glance down in the gaping hole as I make my way to the wooden structure in the yard. I push open the door, noticing instantly the lack of panic setting in. Instead, I feel the rush of familiarity and calm wash over me as I glance around the mostly-empty building. It’s definitely in need of a little TLC, but for the most part, the building is fairing pretty well, all things considering. The building inspector said the house itself and the outbuildings were all sound, though needing some cosmetic repairs. This structure will need a new roof, which will begin next week, with many of the other repairs around the house.
All in all, this home will receive a new facelift, including a new roof, kitchen, carpeting and tile, and two new windows on the lower floor that were broken by a tree branch. All of those tasks, with the addition of a complete exterior repaint, will be completed by a contractor. An electrician will begin going through the wiring and updating a few fixtures, while a plumber makes sure everything is in proper working order with the pipes.
Everything else is on me. At first, I almost caved to David’s suggestion to hire the work out, but at the end of the day, I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty cleaning the house. Even more so, I’m excited at the thought of painting. I can practically smell the fumes and feel the splatter on my skin right now. Most people would look at an eight thousand square foot home in need of fresh paint as some sort of torture task, but not me. Personally, I can’t wait to dip the brush and give the entire place a whole new appearance.
A fresh start.
I spend the next hour walking around and exploring, making a mental note of everything I need to do, and just enjoying the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. This home has always had a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean and is just down the road from the infamous Rockland Falls waterfall that the town was named after.
By the time the sun starts to set, I make sure the house is secure and head out to my car. It’s a new cherry-red BMW that I hate, but Mother insisted I have a car to represent the family business and myself. Honestly, give me an old truck on a dirt road and I’d be happier than a bedbug in a hotel. But Elliotts don’t drive Chevrolets, Kathryn, I hear her voice in my head for the thousandth time.
I head down the paved driveway and engage the security gate before turning on the highway and heading toward town. I’m staying in a bed and breakfast, one that isn’t too far from where I grew up. I got very lucky when I called and the Clawsons had a cancellation in their reservations. Otherwise, I’m not sure I would have been able to stay at one of the many B&B’s in Rockland Falls. Actually, the probability of having to pitch a tent in the backyard was very high. Thankfully, they were able to accommodate me for three nights. That gives me three whole days to get a bedroom and bathroom ready for me to use, as well as the temporary kitchen that the contractor is setting up for me.
The drive to the bed and breakfast is familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. Houses are the same but the landscape has changed. New families have taken up residence, different businesses occupy the storefronts, and unknown people loiter the sidewalks and city park. I feel like an outsider in the place I spent eighteen years of my life, and that leaves a hollow pit deep in my gut.
As I pull alongside the road in front of the Clawsons’, I can’t help but dread this moment. If they recognize me, I’ll be bombarded with a million questions I’m not prepared to answer, and it’ll be around town before the dinner dishes are cleared. Sure, I knew coming back to Rockland Falls wouldn’t mean I was anonymous, but I was hoping to keep it hidden for a few days anyway. A week would be pushing it.
The woman I remember as Janice Clawson appears on the porch, waving. Whether I’m ready or not, I slide from my car and grab my bag before making my way up the stairs. “You must be Kathryn. It’s lovely to have you stay with us, honey.”
She pushes open the door and steps back for me to enter. Inside, the place has a formal feel to it. Floral curtains and wingback chairs, antique pieces, and a formal dining room. Nothing like the Grayson Bed and Breakfast. Of course, it’s been more than a decade since I was inside it, but the Grayson home had a friendly, cozy feel to it. This one reminds me of my childhood, actually, and makes me worried I’ll wrinkle the linens just by looking at them.
“Here’s a pamphlet with all of the details for your stay,” Janice says, handing me a brochure. “Are you new to the area?” she asks casually while running my credit card.
