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“Take a night off.”
I don’t know when Honey got so damn bossy, but I do not like it. Unfortunately, I’m in no position to argue. Not only can’t I sayno to Honey, but this is the perfect way to prove to Noah I’m not a hopeless workaholic. I save my work and turn off my tablet. “Fine. Let’s go.”
To get to the attic, we have to go to the back of the house and up the spiral staircase to the second floor. There’s another, regular, set of stairs on the West side of the house, but we tend to use the spiral staircase. It’s wrought iron and the stair rail is cold and smooth under my hand as we climb. “Remember when we took that trip to the beach when we were kids?”
“If you were a kid, I was probably a baby.” Honey looks back at me over her shoulder, expression unreadable.
“A toddler at least.” I think back. “I was probably seven or eight, so you would have been two or three. You probably don’t remember.”
“Nope. I don’t remember any family vacations.”
“It was the only one we ever took that wasn’t to visit family.” I climb the stairs but I don’t see them, lost in a memory. “I think Dad had a buddy with a house out there and we were able to go pretty much for free. Anyway, none of us kids knew quite what to do with the ocean and Mom was terrified one of us would drown. So we mostly built sandcastles on the beach and played in the surf. As I remember it, the highlight of the trip was this spiral staircase in the house. We’d never seen anything like it and we loved to hang off it like it was a jungle gym.”
We reach the top of the stairs and start down the hall that runs between our back bedrooms. “That’s why Dad put it in here,” Honey says. “He must have remembered how much we liked it.”
“The thing is, Mom and Dad weren’t even around that much. They’d brought a sitter with us and they spent a lot of time going out together, just the two of them. They were so in love back then. I think they called the trip their honeymoon.”
“That’s sweet.” Honey stops at the door at the end of the hall, waiting like she suspects I’ve got more to say.
“Maybe the sitter told them how much we liked the staircase, or maybe we talked Mom and Dad’s ear off about it, but it doesn’t seem like Dad to remember a detail like that and put it in the house for us. Dad was always so practical. He’d be thinking about things like utility and re-sale value.” I’m not explaining this right. Probably because I’m not sure I understand it myself. It’s just a niggling suspicion I have. “I mean, do you ever remember Dad noticing what we like?”
Honey nods, her expression distant while she considers my words. “I called him once when I was a teenager and he asked me to send him one of my pencil drawings, because he wanted to see my art.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugs, but her frown is pronounced - unusual for Honey. “Like you said, he never paid that much attention. I was so thrilled he wanted to see some of my art, I sketched the bowl I made in art class and sent him that. I never told him my passion is pottery, not drawing.”
“Exactly. So, how’d he remember the spiral staircase?”
“You think he had help.”
“Yes.” The idea crystallizes with her words. “And that help had to be Mom, but why would he put so much effort into filling this house with things we like?”
“Like the big porch.” Honey wraps a strand of her long, black hair around one delicate finger. “Clover’s always said she wants a house with a big porch.”
“And Goldy used to dream of being a princess and having a castle with a huge ballroom.”
Honey’s smile is tight. “Mom must have helped him.”
“But why? What was Dad hoping to gain by forcing us to live in this house? Did he think we’d love it so much we’d neverleave? And why would he want us to stay? He got out of this town and never looked back.”
“If Mom knows, she probably won’t tell us.” Honey turns away and opens the door to the attic stairs. “She’ll want us to think Dad came up with all of this on his own. She wants us to have some good memories of him.”
“Maybe.”
Honey starts up the stairs without looking back. “One thing I think we can say for sure is that Dad definitely left these instruments here because he wants us to play again.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about doing anything Dad wanted.”
Honey says nothing and I follow her. She flicks a switch as we go up, but it’s hardly necessary. The attic is huge, covering the full length of the house, with big windows at either end that let in sunlight. The floor is hardwood, the walls and ceiling fully finished. It still smells of freshly cut wood and paint.
“Wow.” I spin to take in the space. “Someone could live up here.”
“It reminds me of the sort of place Jo March would have a writing desk and put on plays, or the hideaway Jane Bennett would seek out when she needed to get away from her family.”
“Mom must have read those books to you too,” I say.
“She read them to us all when she had the time. When she didn’t, you’re the one who read them to me.”
