He held her gaze, a soft light in those grey eyes. “I’ll always fight for you, Bluebird.”
For a moment she couldn’t look away. Then they both did, wishing they could say more, wishing they already had. Because it was too late now.
Outside the hospital, she watched him join the other returning men in the back of an open truck, using her hand as a shield to block out the sunlight and shadow the tears welling in her eyes. Some of the soldiers in the truck were bent over, their faces in their hands, resigned to their fate, but Jerry was looking up at the sky. From this angle, she couldn’t see the scarring. Then he lowered his gaze to hers, and she saw the face she’d grown to love. As the truck’s wheels jolted forward, she raised her hand in farewell. He lifted his briefly before letting it fall, but his eyes held hers until the truck bumped out of sight.
PART– two –
sixCASSIE
— Present Day —
Cassie turned her ancient Prelude onto the long gravel drive she knew so well, and her stomach rolled with anticipation. As she passed between half a dozen hundred-year-old elms, she leaned closer to the windshield, eager to catch sight of the house. When she was a little girl, this place had seemed massive, with its two stubbled acres of cornfields, the grey barn, and the stately two-storey house just past the big sinkhole, complete with a wraparound porch. Almost like a palace, to a little girl. Seeing it now as an adult, everything looked a little diminished—the fields were abandoned, the barn appeared slightly crooked, and the once bright blue shutters of the house had faded. Even the sinkhole behind the barn looked less dramatic, though she still thought it was an interesting part of the geography, like someone had forgotten to cement in a pool.
The day she’d left the place for good, it hadn’t felt like a palace. She’d been only a kid, but she remembered how the house had lookedshrunken from her perspective inside the police car, how the upstairs’ windows were like eyes, sad to watch her go.
A lifetime had passed since then, and just like the house, Cassie had changed. She took a deep breath as her car rolled past the barn toward the house and felt a mix of anxiety and anticipation tingle in her chest. The last time she’d driven by, the windows and doors had been blocked with plywood, but they were open now. Despite all the years and general decay, the house stood proud. Like an unflinching old farmer overseeing his land, pretending to be unaffected by the arthritis ravaging his bones.
She parked beside what she assumed was Matthew’s navy-blue F-150. Avoiding the puddles left by last night’s storm, she wrestled four black plastic storage bins from her trunk, then climbed the porch’s two uneven stairs. She paused in front of the door, beside the big bay window, trying to prepare herself for the moment she’d come face-to-face with the long, shadowed staircase she’d seen in her nightmares for almost twenty years.
The sound of hammering interrupted her thoughts, and she let the memories go. Hitching the storage bins higher on her hip, she knocked on the door with her free hand, determined to appear confident no matter what her stomach was up to. Seconds later, she heard shoes thumping down the stairs, then the door opened.
“Hi,” Matthew said, running a hand through his hair and creating a small cloud of drywall dust. “Good to see you, Miss Simmons.”
Suddenly, she was nervous. Hugging the tubs awkwardly against her chest, she gave him what she hoped was an easy smile. “Oh, it’s Cassie. Please call me Cassie. May I come in?”
“Of course. Here, let me take those for you.”
They angled around one another, with him trying to take the tubs and her trying to release them, and they ended up dropping everything onto the floor. He flushed with embarrassment as he picked them up, but she only laughed, grateful that whatever ice had existed between them had broken.
“Come on in,” he said, leading the way to the living room. “This is…”
He was still talking, but Cassie didn’t hear him. She felt like she was stepping back in time, the empty room before her filled with furniture, photographs, and the brown, upright piano in the corner where her father used to play. The same old chandelier from decades before still hung from the ceiling, though it was coated with dust. Some might say it was a little gaudy compared to today’s chic styles, but she was unreasonably glad to see it was still there.
Her inspection stopped at what was left of the wall dividing the living room from the kitchen. It was mostly broken plaster and splintered two-by-fours, and Cassie could see the familiar, sage-green kitchen cupboards through the remaining framing. Before coming here, she had thought she would hate the demolition Matthew had mentioned, but she was pleasantly surprised that it was quite the opposite. The kitchen was flooded with light from the big window in the front room. It was a beautiful change.
“Wow.”
He turned to face her, misinterpreting her reaction. “I’m sorry. It’s a disaster zone in here.” He set down the tubs then gathered broken chunks of wall from the floor and shoved them into a half-empty garbage bag. Three others were already full and lined up along the wall. “This room was supposed to be an easy reno, but then I found the bottles and—”
“It’s so bright like this,” she said, taking it all in. “So open.”
“You’ve been here before?”
She sidestepped his question. “So this is the famous wall. What made you take it down?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. It wasn’t load bearing, and it just felt like it didn’t belong. Actually, I think it was put up later—the trim was different from the rest of the room. Plus, I figure people are more into open concepts these days.” He hesitated. “Do you think it’d be worth more if I leave the rest as is? Maybe just spruce it up?”
“You’re planning to sell the house once you’re finished?” she asked, her heart falling a little.
“That’s the goal. I’m trying to decide what I should upgrade.”
She felt a little insulted on behalf of the house. Then again, why should he feel emotionally attached to the place? He had bought it, but it wasn’t really his, after all. At least he was trying to improve it; another buyer might have leveled it entirely.
“I don’t know anything about real estate, but I’m sure most people would want new floors, and probably a new kitchen,” she conceded. “Personally, I hope you don’t change it too much. I like the authenticity—though I’m a museum curator, so I like original things. But the house obviously needs work. It’s been empty for so long.”
“My realtor told me it’s been twenty years, but it looks like a time capsule from long before then with all the vintage fixtures. Parts have been updated, but a lot hasn’t. I’m new to renovating houses of this era, but I read up on it. Some of the electrical systems from the ’20s aren’t even grounded. This one isn’t. It’s amazing there hasn’t been a fire. If I hope to sell it, I’ll have to update all that.”
She turned back toward the broken wall, spotting a glint of dark glass within. “I’m not surprised. This house is a piece of history. It was built by Robert Clyde Bailey in 1890 and has been passed down through the Bailey family for five generations.”
