Improvements.”
Emily rubbed her eyes with both hands.
Go away
. She’d call the contractor tomorrow, make up some excuse. A headache or phone call. Tomorrow she’d be rested, calmer, able to think.
“Go in,” the small voice whispered.
“We can’t just walk in. That’s rude.” Footsteps retreated. “Come on.”
“Nuh-uh. Nana Grace lets us.”
“Nana Grace is—
Michael! You
can’t—”
Hinges whined. Emily raised her head from her cocoon.
Bare feet. Red shorts. Huge brown eyes. “I’m Michael.”
Breathe
. Emily clenched and unclenched tingling fingers.
Live in the now
. “Hi, Michael. I’m Emily.” She smiled. It felt almost natural.
“Nana Grace gived us
peanuhbutter
cookies.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to bake.”
The door opened again. A man: dusty work boots, one lace untied and trailing; faded jeans, hole on the right knee; snug, heather-blue shirt; sun-lightened brown hair curling over his collar. Eyebrows rose above inquisitive eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She was sitting on the floor, half-curled in a ball. Not a chance he’d believe her. “Just…trying to get a feel for the place.”
He nodded and a chunk of gold-licked hair swung over his forehead. He looked toward the window and Emily witnessed a split-second startle. He’d seen the cane. He wiped his palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “Can I give you a hand?”
There was only one way she could get to her feet from where she was now, and Jacob Braden’s hand wouldn’t help. “Why don’t you go ahead and look around and I’ll join you in—”
The back door moaned once again. The older boy bounded in. “Michael, Mom said you gotta get home.” Eyes almost identical to his little brother’s jerked to Emily then up to the man beside him. “Why is she sitting on the floor?” he asked in a hushed tone, as if she couldn’t hear.
“Russell, say hi to Miss Foster. She’s going to be your new neighbor. She’s sitting on the floor because she’s tired. Miss Foster just drove all the way from…Minnesota?”
“Michigan. Traverse City.”
“That’s a long drive.” He nudged the boy.
“Hi. I’m Russell. It’s nice to meet you.” The words came out stilted, rehearsed. Precious. “Did you see the ghost yet?”
A chill shimmied up her spine. “Ghost?”
Jacob Braden put a hand on Russell’s head. “Local legend. In a town with this much history, people mix a little truth with a lot of fantasy. This house has been around a long time.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Say good-bye, boys.”
Michael took one last look at the empty counter, waved, and ran out. Russell said good-bye, turned toward the door then stopped. “My mom says maybe you will babysit us. Do you have any boys?”
Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
No cookies. No little boys.
Not this side of heaven
.
The soles of Jake’s boots whispered in the worn depressions in the steps.
If these stairs could talk…
A century and a half of footfalls. Newlyweds slipping off to bed…a worried mother walking her feverish baby… children’s voices echoing in the steep, narrow stairwell… The stories this house could tell. He reached the top and ran his hand over the newel post. Smooth. Polished by countless hands.
He smiled as he walked into a bedroom. What a sentimental schmuck he was.
Looking down at the river through wavy blown glass, he listened for footsteps. Then it hit him—maybe the lady couldn’t climb stairs. What was wrong with her anyway? The multicolored cane could have been left by the old woman who’d died right there in that kitchen a few months back, but he doubted it. And something about the wary look in Emily’s wide-set eyes told him her problems weren’t just physical. But in that area he was out of his element. Houses he could read. Women he
Emily rubbed her eyes with both hands.
Go away
. She’d call the contractor tomorrow, make up some excuse. A headache or phone call. Tomorrow she’d be rested, calmer, able to think.
“Go in,” the small voice whispered.
“We can’t just walk in. That’s rude.” Footsteps retreated. “Come on.”
“Nuh-uh. Nana Grace lets us.”
“Nana Grace is—
Michael! You
can’t—”
Hinges whined. Emily raised her head from her cocoon.
Bare feet. Red shorts. Huge brown eyes. “I’m Michael.”
Breathe
. Emily clenched and unclenched tingling fingers.
Live in the now
. “Hi, Michael. I’m Emily.” She smiled. It felt almost natural.
“Nana Grace gived us
peanuhbutter
cookies.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to bake.”
The door opened again. A man: dusty work boots, one lace untied and trailing; faded jeans, hole on the right knee; snug, heather-blue shirt; sun-lightened brown hair curling over his collar. Eyebrows rose above inquisitive eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She was sitting on the floor, half-curled in a ball. Not a chance he’d believe her. “Just…trying to get a feel for the place.”
He nodded and a chunk of gold-licked hair swung over his forehead. He looked toward the window and Emily witnessed a split-second startle. He’d seen the cane. He wiped his palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “Can I give you a hand?”
There was only one way she could get to her feet from where she was now, and Jacob Braden’s hand wouldn’t help. “Why don’t you go ahead and look around and I’ll join you in—”
The back door moaned once again. The older boy bounded in. “Michael, Mom said you gotta get home.” Eyes almost identical to his little brother’s jerked to Emily then up to the man beside him. “Why is she sitting on the floor?” he asked in a hushed tone, as if she couldn’t hear.
“Russell, say hi to Miss Foster. She’s going to be your new neighbor. She’s sitting on the floor because she’s tired. Miss Foster just drove all the way from…Minnesota?”
“Michigan. Traverse City.”
“That’s a long drive.” He nudged the boy.
“Hi. I’m Russell. It’s nice to meet you.” The words came out stilted, rehearsed. Precious. “Did you see the ghost yet?”
A chill shimmied up her spine. “Ghost?”
Jacob Braden put a hand on Russell’s head. “Local legend. In a town with this much history, people mix a little truth with a lot of fantasy. This house has been around a long time.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Say good-bye, boys.”
Michael took one last look at the empty counter, waved, and ran out. Russell said good-bye, turned toward the door then stopped. “My mom says maybe you will babysit us. Do you have any boys?”
Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
No cookies. No little boys.
Not this side of heaven
.
The soles of Jake’s boots whispered in the worn depressions in the steps.
If these stairs could talk…
A century and a half of footfalls. Newlyweds slipping off to bed…a worried mother walking her feverish baby… children’s voices echoing in the steep, narrow stairwell… The stories this house could tell. He reached the top and ran his hand over the newel post. Smooth. Polished by countless hands.
He smiled as he walked into a bedroom. What a sentimental schmuck he was.
Looking down at the river through wavy blown glass, he listened for footsteps. Then it hit him—maybe the lady couldn’t climb stairs. What was wrong with her anyway? The multicolored cane could have been left by the old woman who’d died right there in that kitchen a few months back, but he doubted it. And something about the wary look in Emily’s wide-set eyes told him her problems weren’t just physical. But in that area he was out of his element. Houses he could read. Women he
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