Page 29 of The Treasure House

There would never be a day that I wouldn’t miss her, I thought wretchedly. It didn’t matter how old I got, or how many years it had been since I’d seen her, it still hurt like new. It was a deep feeling, full of grit, like a wound that had never been cleaned.

I wiped my face as best I could, given I didn’t have any tissues, and crept close to the moon-splashed water, carefully navigating the rocky edge so I could go wash my hands and face. To my surprise I found an old set of stairs leading down to the water. They were steep, with a curved black wrought iron banister. There was another faded sign at the base, in the same curly writing as the Saint-Cyr sign back on the dirt road. Private: Saint-Cyr guests only. The salty bay water was cold, the shock of it pleasant on my skin after the hotness of all those feelings. I heard footsteps and hastily ran my cold wet hands over my face.

“Mom!” Flo’s voice cracked through the hush of the woods.

I jumped. “Just wait there, honey,” I called back hurriedly. I didn’t want Flo to see me puffed with tears. “I’ll be right up…”

“Suni’s on the phone! She says I need to get off Netflix and make sure you haven’t been eaten by a bear. She read a Stephen King book once set in Maine where a kid got lost in the woods and eaten by a bear.”

“I’m fine!” I called back, feeling the urge to laugh. I jogged back to the cabin.

“Hurry, I’m getting bitten by bugs!” She all but threw the phone at me and ducked back inside, safe behind the screens.

“Zoe?” Suni’s tinny voice sounded from the phone in my hand.

“Oh, Suni. Sorry!” I put the phone to my ear and climbed the porch steps to one of the rocking chairs. I sat down shakily and tried to answer her rapid-fire questions about the house. “I was just getting some fresh air.”

“Forget the fresh air, tell me about the house!” Suni demanded. The sound of her voice filled me with warmth. I sagged back against the rocking chair.

“It was what I expected,” I admitted. “Only maybe worse. I put in a bid,” I took a breath before I continued, “and they accepted.”

“You bought the house? Already!” Suni’s voice was a high-pitched squeal in my ear. “Wayne! Wayne! She bought the house!” I held the phone away from my ear as she yelled. Her enthusiasm eased the pressure in my chest, and I relaxed as I told her about the rooms full of junk, the Tiffany lamp, the kitchen, and the promise of that bedroom with its views of the sea.

“Wayne wants to know when you’ll be closing. We’ll come and help.”

“You don’t have to…” But the thought of them helping made everything feel less overwhelming.

“Alison might come too. She needs to get her mind off things. But I think Lance might be too busy with work to get away.”

“Great,” I said, even though I doubted Alison would be much help. She was in the depths of a pretty bleak depression with her divorce and I doubted she’d be up for a task as grueling as our treasure house.

By the time I managed to get off the phone, the pink moon had crested above the treetops, flooding the campground with light, and my new house felt less scary than it had when I was crying alone on the shore.

In fact, as I listened to Suni’s energetic exclamations, it felt like an adventure. I thought about the house on Tinker Street, with its layers of time and secret history. Soon I’d step through the door and into its story, joining all the people who’d lived there before me.

Eight

OXEYE, MAINE, 1953

Marly had been upstairs reading and missed Freddie de Marche bringing Cilla back from Saint-Cyr in his elegant gray Chevy Bel Air, but she heard plenty about it when she came down for supper. Even her brothers were interested—in the car at least—and Mom and Sylvie wouldn’t shut up about the stupid boy. Cilla, who did look sweet in her apricot dress, was blushing and coy. Although she refused to answer Marly’s questions about dessert carts.

Cilla looked a lot older this year. Maybe college did that to a person, Marly thought. A girl anyway, since Marly’s brother Paul sure didn’t look or act any older. He was just as puerile as he’d ever been. Cilla, however, had cut her hair in the poodle style everyone was crazing over, even though it suited hardly anyone. Cilla, however, could carry it off. Her wavy hair made it look effortless. She was wearing lipstick too, and a touch of rouge, and reeking of those dead flowers.

“Are his folks nice?” Aunt Bet demanded. She’d had a bunch of the iced tea from the seashell jug and was more relaxed about the whole thing than she might otherwise have been. “Are they good people?”

“I only met his mother and his sisters,” said Cilla shyly. “His father is still in town working, of course. But his mother was perfectly lovely.”

“And where’s town?” Marly’s mom asked.

“Boston.”

There was relieved sighing at that.

“How lovely that you’ll be close to home.” Marly’s mother sounded pleased.

“Oh, Aunt Lorraine, you talk like I’m marrying him!” But Cilla smiled a secret smile as she said it. “He has asked me to the Saturday dance at Saint-Cyr, though,” she confessed, smiling a less secret smile as Sylvie almost fell over herself with envy.

“Oh, whatever will you wear?” Mom exclaimed. “You’ll need something new.”