The house behind her is gray.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur, turning it over to the other side. There’s a cursive inscription, but the soft pencil has worn away all but the letter M. “It was pink. Why do I remember it being pink?”
Wesley isn’t looking at the photo. His attention is locked on another piece of paper that’s tipped out of the stack: an old clipping from theDaily Times, dated 1934.
Fall in Love with Falling Stars Hotel!
By Elizabeth Robin
THE DAILY TIMES
WE HERE ATtheDaily Timescovered the construction of Falling Stars Boarding House in 1884, when the newspaper was only a year old. It’s fitting that on the fifty-year anniversary of that article, we’re back with the first peek into the mansion’s fresh revamp as a luxury hotel. Goodbye, outhouses and candlesticks, hello, twentieth century! The new proprietor has gone modern with an elevator and all-electric
The clipping cuts off after that. To the right, no bigger than two inches, is a black-and-white smudge of a house that I’d know anywhere. A glamorous woman with finger waves and dark lipstick twists her hand in hello under a wrought-iron archway that spellsfalling stars hotel.
“I didn’t know it wasn’t always just a house,” I tell Wesley, stupefied.
“I didn’t know there was an elevator. When did it get taken out?”
“No clue.” That’s so fascinating to envision—an elevator here, in myhouse. “I wonder if it was still a hotel when Victor and Violet bought it. I think they’ve had this place since the seventies.” I keep using the present tense. “Or, theydidhave it.”
He doesn’t find this as fascinating as I do, evidently. “Weird location for a hotel. Who’d want to come all the way out here?”
“We did.”
He glances at me briefly, then scratches his jaw and lines up his screwdrivers in a neat row.
“It’s pretty here,” I point out. “Lots of hiking trails. Mountains to explore. I haven’t checked out all the nearby towns yet, since I’ve been so busy. Any good restaurants or shopping malls within thirty miles?”
“I hate restaurants and shopping malls,” he grumbles.
Jeez. “Whatdoyou like?”
If his scowl is any hint, Wesley doesn’t like that question. It takes him two seconds to disassemble the rest of the table, and after he hauls it outside, he doesn’t return.
•••••••
BY EARLY EVENING, Ican’t take being in the house by myself anymore. I have to get out. A painful lump that’s been rising up my throat since I found my old letters to Violet intensifies when I try to seek refuge in the cabin—her memory lingers there, too. Everywhere I go, a fresh wave of confusion or guilt or heartache follows, or a funny remembrance that sets me off-kilter because how can I laugh when it’s all so terriblysad, so I decide to pour all of my attention into her dying wishes.
Wish 2. Victor thought there was buried treasure out here but I never did find any. For the intrepid explorer, Finders Keepers rules apply.
“I’m going to go digging,” I call out to Wesley, who’s sitting in his truck bed with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. I can only assume that the reason he’s not eating in the cabin’s kitchen is that I was just in there. He’s been avoiding me all week. Any time I walk into a room, he finds a reason to leave that room. When I try to make chitchat, I get crickets.
He stiffens with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Digging up what?”
I ignore him. A taste of your own medicine is healthy, now and then. To the garden shed I go! I’m surprised dust doesn’t shoot out in all directions when I open the door, since the groundskeeper around here obviously isn’t doing much pruning. Imagine being a professional groundskeeper and getting paid to make someone’s yard look worse. But inside, I’m surprised to find a tidy space. The door doesn’t stick. Someone’s been prowling around recently.
Wesley’s invested a fortune in insecticide, I’ll give him that. Along the dirty plywood walls are propped-up shovels, a million varieties of seeds, shears he doesn’t use, weed killer he doesn’t use, and a wheelbarrow piled with boxes. Shoeboxes, Amazon boxes, a round hatbox. I’m about to lift the lid of one when a shadow slips across my hands and it’s whisked away, over my head. A large body towers behind me.
I duck, letting out an “Aghh!”
An unreadable face scrutinizes me, but says nothing.
I drape a hand over my heart. “How do you keep sneaking up on me like that? Please announce yourself!”
Wesley places the shoebox on a shelf out of reach, followed bythe other boxes. His face is tight as his eyes sweep mine, estimating whether putting the boxes out of reach is going to stop me. It is. I’m curious about them now that I know they’re off-limits, but scrounging up a stepstool sounds like too much work. Life is short, like me.
“Calm down, I’m only here for a shovel,” I explain, barely managing to grab one before Wesley’s silently edging me out of the shed without touching me, pushing a rake like a shuffleboard stick at my shoes.
