Page 43 of The Treasure House

“Wayne killed it,” Flo corrected cheerfully. “And there’s all this black gunk everywhere.”

“Plumber! Now.” Suni snapped her fingers at me and went to collect Wayne. “You get away from that filth this instant and go shower! You’re liable to get some horrible bacterial infection.”

By the time I finally got through to a plumber, it was after hours. The emergency service rates were exorbitant, but I could hardly let the broken toilet keep oozing sludge into the house. I sent Flo back to the campground with Suni, Wayne, and Alison and waited for the plumber to arrive. I should get him to fix my kitchen sink too, I thought morosely, as I regarded the water leaking from the shattered pipe. This was going to cost me.

This was the first time I’d been alone in the house, I realized, as I sank into the silence of waiting. All week the place had been a commotion of people and activity. We’d hauled things around, cleaned things out, stacked things, tossed things, fixed things, sorted things. I hadn’t stopped moving all week. Now that I was here alone, in the falling dark, feeling the abrupt absence of people, I was struck with the full import of moving. This was my house.

It was silly, but I felt like I’d barged in on someone and not introduced myself.

The kitchen had been cleared over the course of the week, stripped back to a bare black-and-white-checked linoleum floor, which was peeling and long overdue for replacement. We’d left the wooden table and the mismatched wooden chairs, and a single rocking chair by the fireplace, but otherwise the room was empty. It was a huge space, spanning the whole width of the house. The tall windows on either side let in the violet, velvety dusk. Suni and Alison had spent an afternoon scrubbing the old oven range—and the room still reeked of vinegar. I’d been tempted to remove the range entirely rather than clean it, but Doris told me not to be so ridiculous, it was worth its weight in gold.

“Once you get the hang of it, you’ll never regret keeping it,” she told me sharply. “People pay a fortune for these old things. And this one doesn’t have so much as a speck of rust.”

Tonight, the range sat good as new. I could have been standing in the same kitchen a century ago, it was so devoid of modern conveniences. The dusk gave everything an otherworldly feel, as though time had slackened its hold on the night.

Who had stoked that range on this night a century ago? Who had sat in the rocking chair? The twilight hush felt heavy with the presence of people unknown to me. Except for Marly. I knew her by name at least.

I drifted into the hall, which was more cluttered than ever now that we’d moved everything out of the kitchen. Through the glass panes of my new front door, I could see the deeply shadowed street outside, and the lights spilling out of the summer houses and the hardware store on the corner. The sky over the dark ocean was inky blue, the clouds pearly gray.

The house on Tinker Street didn’t feel haunted exactly, just sleepy with memory. I headed upstairs, which was now mostly habitable, except for the attic room full of clothes. Between us, we’d managed to box up the stuff in Flo’s room and clear it out completely. Suni and Ali had done an incredible job of washing the walls and ceiling, cleaning off years of dirt. Wayne had assembled Flo’s bed, which we’d brought from home. It now sat under the eaves in the corner, already made up with her rainbow quilt cover, her stuffed unicorn, and the purple pillow with the frill that she loved. A cute little bookshelf sat empty, ready for Flo to fill, and an old-fashioned wooden desk had been pushed under the window for her. The room needed new paint, and a rug, and an awful lot more, but it was a start. And it was a room of her own—which she’d never had in her life before.

I felt shivery with emotion as I sat down on the chair, staring out at the thick-leafed oak branches outside the window. Flo would be happy here. I knew it, as sure as I’d ever known anything.

I sat there until the evening glow had faded completely, and then I went to my own bedroom to wait for the plumber.

It was as perfect as I remembered. More perfect, because Suni had made up the bed for me. I’d kept the brass bed frame, glad to say goodbye to the narrow single I’d used for years, and Suni had bought me queen-size sheets and new pillows as a housewarming present. The room was a haven, and I felt like I was stepping into its open arms.

Through the window, I could see the moon rising over the bay, not pink this time but shimmery silver, and thin, like the curve of a cheek. It cast nets of moonlight over the waves and chalked the street with a long platinum streak. I opened a window to let in the restless song of the sea.

Down below, I could see the de Marche kids as they tore around their backyard chasing fireflies, and the people at the next house over packing their car so they could leave in the morning; the lights at the back of Roger and Alan’s bed-and-breakfast were buttery golden, and the slide of cars passing along Beach Road winked red and white. Above the hardware store, Jake had all his windows thrown open and through one I could see the faint blue flicker of a TV and hear the sound of Hazel’s excited barking.

The scent of lilacs was thick on the briny, piney air as I leaned against the windowsill. From here I could see the faint glitter of lights through the thick woods down on the spit, where the campground stood. And to my left, the curl of the shore sparkled, outlining Rockport’s city limits. I’d wondered if I’d feel lonely here, in this tiny town, but tonight I felt anything but. From up here, I could see people wherever I looked. Even the dark mass of the firs on the right side of Tinker Street felt comforting—a presence at my side rather than a frightening absence.

“I like it here,” I said to the house, sighing.

And I half imagined the creaking of the floorboards was the house sighing back. I wondered how many moonstruck summer nights Marly had spent here in Oxeye. And if she’d ever been happy here, before she’d buried herself in junk.

Eleven

OXEYE, MAINE, 1953

Marly got her day at Saint-Cyr. But it wasn’t quite what she expected. Firstly, because Freddie de Marche ended up inviting her entire family, which was not part of the plan. And secondly, because by the time the day was over, she had a red-hot crush on him.

“You invited everyone?” she complained when he dropped by with his stupidly wide-ranging invitation.

“You think people would believe I wanted just you along? It would be ridiculous to turn up and invite you out of the blue. As far as they know, we haven’t even met yet.”

Marly didn’t like conceding a point, so she stayed silent.

“This way you get what you want, and they won’t question it because they get to come too. Everyone’s happy,” he said smoothly.

“Except me.”

The slick jerk. Marly could see he’d won Aunt Betty and Mom over instantly. And Marly’s brothers were all chummy with him, keen to hit the water on the sailboats and to meet some of the girls they believed swanned about the resort in their bathing costumes.

“Well, lover boy, the deal was that you would escort me around.” Marly sulked. “None of this bunch will play tennis with me or take me out in a canoe. I want someone to do things with.”

“I’m sure your brothers will play tennis with you and take you out in a canoe.” Freddie rolled his eyes at her scowl. “But if they don’t, I promise I will, because a deal’s a deal. But the deal is one day, and one day only. And if you step so much as a toe out of line, I’ll tell them you’re a nasty little blackmailer.”