Patrick was my shard of glass on the first day of flip-flop weather. From the start he was dangerous, and even my best efforts at self-preservation failed. I knew nothing good could come from climbing into bed with my boss, but I went there knowingly. It ripped me open and branded me with the kind of thick, silvery scar that never faded.
And it hurt like a motherfucker.
*
Patrick seized everyopportunity to get me alone—which wasn’t easy, considering the Sam-Riley-Shannon-Patrick-Matt Show was packed into a couple of cramped offices and it was turning into a full-blown variety hour as the wedding neared—and he wrapped me up in tenderly whispered pleas for another chance. Between the office construction, the wedding, and all things Patrick, the week was overflowing with commotion, and I needed space to get my head on straight.
The wedding weekend finally started Thursday afternoon when two waves of Walshes loaded into Shannon and Matt’s cars, and headed to the Cape. Patrick elected to stay in Boston to keep an eye on the construction—or stalk me, whichever let him sleep at night. Evading him and his perfectly timed teas meant bouncing between jobsites and dodging the office entirely.
Not a day went by that I didn’t contemplate skipping Matt and Lauren’s wedding. Backing out felt horrendously wrong and the thought surfaced Jess’s raw critique, but neither killed the urge to stay home. Lauren and I texted about last minute preparations throughout the week, and she inquired as to my well-being one time too many. It was evident she knew what went down between Patrick and me, but she seemed to be the only one.
I didn’t want to dump that on her this week. I also knew she’d have to choose between Patrick and me, and there was no contest. Before leaving for the Cape today, she insisted we spend her last single night together. It wrecked my plan to show up for the ceremony and leave after the cake cutting, but I agreed.
I carved out most of my afternoon for Wellesley with the goal of walking through every element on the design plan. That site required work straight through the summer and into the fall, and I wanted to leave detailed notes about the progress before the end of my apprenticeship. Unlike the rest of the Walsh Associates projects, I was the only one who monitored progress on the site.
Staring at the dining room fireplace, I cocked my head to the side in an attempt to determine whether the sconce was crooked. It was off by no more than five degrees. Caring about those five degrees was my job but a big part of me wanted to yank the fixture right out of the wall and replace it with something new. And straight.
Preserving the past now felt like an exercise in futility. It was all going to collapse eventually, right? What was the point in cleaning it up, preserving it, putting it on life support for another decade? We were tricking ourselves into thinking we could save anything.
Gripping the fixture, I inched it to the right and heard a pronounced click in the next room. My eyes scanned the library for the sound’s origin, and I found one shelf in the built-in bookcase jutting out slightly. Just enough to be off.
I pressed the shelf backwards, and another click sounded in the hallway. Ghosts seemed the likely culprit after twenty minutes of running my fingers over every inch of the hallway and finding nothing.
A minimalistic modern house wouldn’t pull this kind of shit.
I walked toward the front door to retrieve my notebook, and the hand-carved casing around the coat closet caught my eye. I saw an inlaid rosette in the upper right-hand corner standing out a bit too far. Not quite right. A firm push sent the rosette back into its inlay, and a gust of air blew the closet door open from the inside.
The shock sent me stumbling backwards and I stared into the open half-door at the back of the darkened closet. A narrow path illuminated by my flashlight led straight through the heart of the house.
I knew every hidden door and alcove in the house. Built-in bookshelves in one room connected to another, closets opened into other closets, and window seats revealed staircases to the rooms below, plus zigzagging laundry chutes and dumbwaiter systems. This wasn’t one of them.
With a steadying breath, I was on my feet and headed for the front porch—I didn’t need to make friends with any wall-dwelling creatures—and determined the situation called for Patrick’s involvement.
17:08 Andy:You need to get out to Wellesley RIGHT NOW.
17:09 Patrick:Are you ok?
17:09 Andy:yes but you need to get out here as soon as possible
17:10 Patrick:on my way
My legs dangled over the edge of the stone porch while I updated my project notes and waited for Patrick to arrive. He tore up the driveway within nineteen minutes, and dashed up the stairs to stand at my side. Patrick looked around, and reached a hand out to stroke down my back before snapping it back and shoving it in his pocket.
“What happened? You’re okay?”
I beckoned him to follow me. “I’m fine but I found a secret tunnel in the middle of the house.” I explained how I discovered the door, and pointed into the closet. “It might be Narnia. I can’t be sure.”
“What the fuck did you do, Angus?” Patrick knelt in the closet and examined the small door. The space was not much more than two feet wide, but it appeared to open up as the passageway deepened. He glanced at me. “I don’t care how much you hate me right now. I’m not going into the secret room alone.”
I rolled my eyes and followed him inside, between the walls where decades of dust and cobwebs billowed around us. Patrick reached for my hand and I let him—it was a creepy hidden hallway after all.
We approached a brick junction formed by the living room and dining room fireplaces, and a narrow staircase spiraled between them. “This is the stuff of horror movies, right?” Patrick asked as we climbed the stairs.
“Every time.” I missed the warmth of our old routines. “Are we expecting to find something in here, or are we just looking for trouble?”
“Look around. There’s no better definition of trouble than this.” Ten fire-safe closets lined the second floor, and we stared at each other.
“What could be in there?” I asked.
