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“She’s sweet, Henry. And she loves everything about this house. And she looks at you like you’re her world. I think it’s a sign.” Mom continues to stir the meat. I nab another cookie from the cooling rack. Serenashouldlove the house since she owns it. As for the way she looks at me? I have no clue.
SERENA
I avoid Henry for days and days. I mean … we pass each other in the hallway, but all I can do is give him a quick smile and chirp, “Lots of writing to do.”
Carolers stop at the house every night, and every night Martha serves them hot drinks and the cookies we made. I think of Jack and the day he died, but in the next breath I think of Henry … and Afina and Hermann. My grandma used to tell me her mom’s love story with Hermann, and she always ended it with“Maybe there’s a young Hermann Bechtel out there who will build you a house and help you fill it with children.”
In the early morning hours of Christmas Eve day, while Henry and Martha are sill asleep, I search the main floor for the hidden spot—the letters and photos I know are in this house. It’s only a matter of time before I find them. They hold the other side of the story I’m writing. I need my grandmother’s words. The ones she wrote to Hermann.
When the drawn shades begin to glow from the first rays of the morning, I give up. My socked feet climb three steps.
I stop.
Then I retreat to the wider first step that’s always creaked a little more. It’s always had a little wiggle to it.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
It sings a different tune than the rest of the stairs.
My eyes dart around the foyer, looking for something to use on the stair. I search the kitchen, the bathroom, then the living room.
“Perfect,” I whisper, plucking the matte black poker from the rack of fireplace tools in front of the hearth.
Wedging the pointed end under the loose stair, I lever it until the first plank of old wood lifts with a snap. Cringing, I stop and listen for any movement upstairs. Then I carefully pry it back some more, each inch releasing a tight whine. My hand fishes into the tiny gap, and I feel around, hoping something like a rat doesn’t bite my finger. Just beyond the loose debris, like dirt and saw dust, I feel something softer.
I try to retrieve it, but I can’t. The opening is not big enough. I know I’ve found the letters and photos. I just … know. Adrenaline takes over. I no longer ease the wood planks from the bottom stair; I use the poker to rip them apart and retrieve the cloth covered bundle of history.
“Serena! What have you done?”
Glancing up at the stairs, I see Martha in her robe and slippers, shock distorting her beautiful features while she grabs the railing and navigates the stairs. “You’ve ruined that step. What are you doing?”
I stare at the splintered pieces of wood surrounding me, but my gaze quickly returns to the treasure on my lap. “I’ve been looking for this since the day I moved in here,” I whisper, tugging at the twine around the cloth-wrapped package.
“What the hell is going on?” Henry’s voice drifts from the top of the stairs.
I lift my head, eyeing both of their pained expressions. “I found it,” I say with so much relief and an unavoidable smile.
“Found what?” Martha sidesteps my mess and bends to pick up the broken pieces of wood.
“Serena …” Henry says my name slowly, just as slowly as he descends the stairs.
A small stack of black and white photos rests on top of the brittle, yellowed folded pieces of paper. His photos are different than the ones Afina had, but they tell the same story. They were in love.
“What is all that?” Martha asks.
Henry squats beside me, taking one of the photos. Hermann is hugging Afina from behind, kissing her cheek while she smiles. I bet it was a giggle.
“Afina wasn’t a cat. Afina was the woman Great Grandfather Bechtel built this house for,” he murmurs with a slightly defeated tone.
“That’s not true,” Martha says, clearly flustered.
“It’s true.” Henry stands and hands the photo to her while I open one of the letters, instantly recognizing the handwriting from Afina’s journal.
“This is why I bought the house. To find these letters.”
And just like that … I let the truth slip.
“What are you talking about?” Martha asks.
