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“It’s not that bad!” I say optimistically, even though I’d just been having the same thought myself.
“Not that bad?! Look, Lacy, I renovate hotels for a living. And I’m telling you, I wouldn’t touch a project like that with a ten-foot pole.”
“Well, I’m not here to overhaul the whole place. I’m just going to clean it out, spruce it up a bit, and get it ready for buyers.”
“So that dad can sell it and make a butt-load of money off of it?” Lillian asks, her eyebrow raised in judgment.
“That’s the plan.”
“Please tell me you aren’t doing this for free.”
“No! Of course not. Dad’s going to let me keep a portion of the commission from the sale.”
“Okay good. Just making sure he’s not taking advantage of you. You’re always doing too much for him.”
“He’s ourdad, Lillian.”
“Our dad, who was never around! Unless he was dragging us three sisters to an event as a trio, so he could show off his ‘beautiful family.’ What a sham.”
Lillian shakes her head in disgust and takes another swig of wine.
“Well, that was a long time ago,” I mumble. “I mean look at Lyra. Even she’s repairing her relationship with dad, and she barely talked to him for a decade.”
We’d all had our ups and downs with our domineering dad, Elliot. Our oldest sister, Lyra, had long had the most fraught relationship with him. That is until recently.
“Fine, fine. Anyway, don’t waste too much time and energy trying to fix up that dump. Get the job done and get out of there. Good riddance to Rose Manor.”
“I’m only planning to stay two weeks,” I reply patiently. “I have a hard deadline anyway, with my book release and the PR tour ahead.”
“Oh, fun! You excited?” Lillian asks eagerly.
“Looking forward to finalizing the book, I guess. Dreading the PR tour.”
“Well, don’t let this ridiculous project get in the way,” Lillian says with a shrug. “Rose Manor is probably best off being burned to the ground by now.”
“Don’t say that!” I reply in horror. I know Lillian is just being protective, but she’s starting to make me feel bad about this whole plan. I wish I hadn’t picked up the call at all. Time to end it. “Look I should get going.”
“Okay, sis. Good luck. Call me if you need anything. Love ya!”
“I will. Love you too.”
I end the call, breathing a sigh of relief. I love Lillian, but I’m tired of arguing about our dad with her. Yes, Elliot wasn’t the perfect dad. But he wasn’t a bad dad, by any means.
His offer to let me clean out Rose Manor in exchange for a cut of the sales commission is incredibly generous. He could just pay a professional cleaning company to do the job for a flat fee and keep the profits from the sale for himself. Instead, he gave me this opportunity. And I really,reallyneed it. With this money, I can push back the deadline to complete my book of poetry. It’s my first book deal, and my editor is breathing down my neck about it, eager to get it done. But I’m hesitant about sharing my words with the world, for everyone to read and criticize. And the thought of going on a book tour and reading my poems aloud, in front of other people, honestly makes me want to pee my pants.
These two weeks will give me a chance to clear my head and work on my writing, while also giving me the money I need to tide me over until I finish the book and—hopefully—start seeing sales. And as run down as Rose Manor may be, it sits on acres and acres of land. It will sell for a few million, at least.
I hope.
I open the back of the oversized car and start taking out bags and boxes. Groceries. Cleaning supplies. And, of course, books. Lots and lots of books. My sisters always tease me for my voracious reading habit, one I’ve had since a kid. I’m looking forward to getting plenty of reading done in these two weeks. At Rose Manor, I can enjoy my solitude, away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and far from the inquisitive eyes and curious questions of people.
I grab an armload of books, a box of cleaning supplies, and a couple bags of groceries, and make my way awkwardly up to the house. As I get closer, I could swear I hear piano music, but I quickly write it off to my overactive imagination. My brain is clearly reliving old childhood memories.
Benjamin used to play piano here, back in the day. Lillian may remember him as the “fucked up” kid who almost burned the house down, but I caught glimpses of a softer side in the six months we lived together as brother and sister. He used to play music as a teen, a talent he carried into adulthood, as he’s now a well-known musician. I sometimes read about his rock star antics in the tabloids. Although now that I think of it, I haven’t seen any salacious headlines about him for some time. At least half a year, I think. Wherever he is, I hope he’s doing well.
I carefully balance my armload of goods as I slip the key into the front door’s lock and turn it gently. As I push the door open with my hip, the piano music I thought I’d imagined gets louder. Am I losing my mind? Or is Rose Manor, as Lillian suggested, really haunted? I feel a shiver run through me. But as the door swings open, the mystery is quickly solved. Because there, sitting at the piano, playing intently—and without a shirt on—is none other than…
“Benjamin?!” I squeak out his name in shock and drop the goods in my arms in surprise. Bottles of cleaner go crashing to the floor, a pack of paper towels bounces across the entryway, and books go flying. One bag of groceries bites the dust, sending eggs splatting. A yellow yolk lands on the cover ofCall Us What We Carryby Amanda Gorman and another onThe Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. One of my notebooks, with scribbles of poetry in it, also falls to the floor, wide open.
