At the end of the street, backing up to the forest and the edge of town, sits the historic Griffin residence, as declared by a tiny golden plaque nailed over the broken doorbell. The massive redbrick home is straight out of the Victorian era, all curved corners and a thousand windows and a turret. If not for Harper and her architectural obsession, I doubt I’d know what a turret was.
I ease up the whining wooden steps to the porch and past the rustic rocking chairs, slipping out of the cold night and into the foyer. Despite the warmth inside, a chill washes over my shoulders; the house is always too cold. Mom attributes it to the old house and a draft. Something shifts in the corner of my eye, but when I turn, the hall is empty. I attributethatto my little brother, three feet tall and always on the move. To my left, in the curved section of the room where Dad’s grand piano sits, Margot misses a note and tries to disguise it. A few more keys and the song ends.
“Getting rusty,” I say as I pass her on my way to the swinging kitchen door. The light tease might have landed well a year ago, but I realize too late that it won’t now.
“Eat glass,” Margot replies, pushing off the bench and slamming the lid on the keys. If I weren’t guaranteed an eye roll, I’d give her hell for being so rough with the instrument.
In the kitchen, the remnants of half-hearted dinner prep are piled in the sink. The house is ancient, but Aunt Paige replaced the old kitchen fixtures and appliances years ago. The tacky floral wallpaper and curtains managed to hang on.
The Cranberries’ “Zombie” crackles out of the speakers, thoughI know my mom probably tried to change it to her seventies station.
“Joanna?” My mom’s voice rises from the mudroom, the three syllables of my full name making me wince.Jocaught on quick and easy a decade ago with everyone but Mom.
I didn’t give you a name so you could slice it into pieces.She’s always had a penchant for the dramatic, and it jumped over me and into my sister.
“Hey.” I lean into the doorway, arms folded. I jerk a chin at the stereo. “Cranberries, huh?”
“The spirits hate anything made after the turn of the century, apparently,” she says, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe it’s actually a supernatural entity screwing with the radio.
“Purists,” I say. Mom snorts.
She sits at a small card table, her glasses sliding down her nose and glowing blue from her laptop’s screen. Papers are spread around the table, along with two paper coffee cups. She took over the finances for the Stacks when my uncle left, and though as far as I know we’re in decent shape, she twists herself into knots over the papers at this table. I don’t think she knows what to do with herself if she’s not stressing about something.
She smiles, brushing hairs that have escaped her ponytail out of her eyes. “How was your day?”
Boring. Monotonous. “Good.”
She purses her lips. Nods to the bag over my shoulder. “Any progress?”
The notebook of unfinished lyrics and notes weighs heavy on my shoulders as I say, “Actually got pretty close on one song. One verse left.” It’s a lie, but a harmless one. It’s easier to bend the truth. Honesty is too big a pill for her to swallow. For anyone to swallow.
“That’s amazing. I’d love to hear it once you’re done.”
Considering I can count the number of times I’ve touched my piano or guitar since we moved in—once—it’s not likely, but I know how to play my part.
“Of course.”
She smiles again. I don’t even feel guilty for lying anymore. It’s better than the alternative.
“Where is everyone?”
“Paige went to that conference in Denver,” she says. “She should be back tomorrow night.” She nudges the laptop closed, an effective end to what was probably a few hours of staring at numbers. “Paige claims it’s for visibility for the store, but I’m fairly certain she’s knee-deep in signing lines.”
“She’d better bring us back something good.”
“Knowing her, they’ll fill up the trunk.” She pauses as footsteps echo over our heads.
“Jasper?” I ask.
“The house settling. Your brother made a bold proclamation about never sleeping again and promptly crashed on the couch. Margot carried him up.”
“You’d think after a hundred years, the house would be settled.”
Mom smiles.
“Any plans tomorrow?”
“Just the store.”
