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CHAPTER SEVENJules
I was right, just so you know.
About drinking coffee on that back veranda and never being capable of unhappiness again.
As I sit in an Adirondack chair on my first morning at Ashby House, hands curled around a steaming mug, the mountain sloping down into treetops in front of me, I feel a kind of contentment I hadn’t known existed.
The quiet wraps itself around me like a cozy quilt, the soft gray of the sky giving way to a hazy blue as the sun begins to burn off the mist, and I want to start every day of my life like this, serenely gazing out at this view, knowing it belongs to me.
I’m not going to lie: last night, I was a little worried. The house was everything I dreamed, and while Libby was a bitch, she wasn’t all that bad. Neither was Ben, honestly, but Cam had seemed distant all evening. We’d eaten maybe the most delicious casserole I’d ever had, something with chicken, cheese, butterycrackers… comforting, homemade food that I couldn’t imagine anyone else in this house eating, let alone cooking. Cam had said it was the work of Cecilia, the housekeeper, and that the dish had been one of his favorites growing up.
It was a thoughtful gesture, and it should’ve made him happy, but he’d barely touched his plate, and we’d ended up going to bed before nine o’clock, like we were grandparents or something.
I’d been surprised by Cam’s room, which felt more like a very pretty guest room at a stuffy bed-and-breakfast than a place where a teenage boy had once slept. It was filled with heavy oak furniture, a big canopy bed dominating the space. But it felt like it had its own center of gravity––like if you moved a piece of art or a throw pillow out of place, the room would right itself, put everything back where it belonged.
Given that we’d gone to bed so early, I had joked about us findingsomeway to pass the time until we were sleepy, walking my fingers along Cam’s chest just in case he wasn’t getting the message. But once again, he’d kissed me and told me he was beat, and then lay awake next to me for hours.
It bothered me, and the hurt lingered this morning. I woke with the sunrise and went into the massive bathroom to take a shower. But after a few minutes, I heard the shower door open, felt a rush of cool air on my back, and then Cam was there, his hands smoothing down my sides, his lips finding the place where my neck met my shoulder, and we fell back together just like we always do.
So yes, life was good this morning. Comfy chair, gorgeous views, excellent coffee, and two orgasms before 8:00A.M.What more did a girl need?
From behind me, I hear the door to the veranda open, and I turn, hoping it’s Cam. He’d promised to join me for coffeeonce he’d finished getting dressed and checking email. Instead, I’m greeted by an older woman, her red hair faded to a sort of apricot color, a pair of glasses hanging around her neck from a sparkly chain.
I wonder if this is Nelle—if so, she looksamazingfor seventy-nine—but then she smiles and gives me a little wave. “You must be Jules. I’m Cecilia, the housekeeper.”
Rising to my feet, I cross the veranda, offering her my free hand. She waves it away and opens one arm, so I let myself be pulled into a hug as she pats my back hard enough to almost spill my coffee.
“I am so happy to meet you!” Cecilia says, and I actually believe it. “And I’m so happy Camden has finally come home where he belongs.”
Ah. An ally, then.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I tell her, and she beams at me as she pulls back.
“You’ll have to get Cam to give you the full tour,” she says. “That boy knew every nook and cranny of this place. I swear, sometimes I’d go looking for him, and find him in a room evenIdidn’t know existed.”
I picture Cam, a serious little boy finding hiding places and secret alcoves, sneakers scuffing the hardwood, and I can see it so clearly that I know we’ve done the right thing coming back here. He loved this place once, and I can make him love it again.
“I see you’ve found coffee, but let me get you something to eat,” Cecilia says, turning back into the house, and I find myself following her even though I hadn’t planned on leaving this perfect spot.
“You don’t have to feed me,” I say as we step back into the den, ceilings soaring high overhead, a stone fireplace big enough to roast an ox along one wall, sofas deep enough tosink into for days angled to get the best views out the windows.
“That’s her job,” a voice says from the doorway.
Ah. Sothisis Nelle.
Her hair is white, a puff of snowy curls that I bet she gets “done” in town once a week and never touches otherwise. She’s wearing a tartan skirt that hangs to mid-shin and sensible shoes, a beige cardigan over a white blouse, and if a prune could talk, it would probably look like her.
There’s just something… pinched about her entire being. Her lips, puckered in distaste, her eyes narrow, her knobby fingers clenched together. As she moves closer, her shoes squeak on the parquet.
“You must be Camden’s wife. Julia?”
“Jules,” I correct, and her mouth somehow, impossibly, gets even tighter.
“Is that not short for Julia?”
“It’s short for Julianne, actually, but only my mom called me that.”
Nelle sniffs. “Well, I’m Eleanor, Nelle for short, but you may call me Mrs. McTavish.”
