My mother was really gone. I’d never see her again.
Her old station wagon was parked in the cobblestone driveway, close to the street. At the far end of the drive, nestled against the back of the property, stood the antique shop in the converted carriage house. The Salt Box, Clare had called it. Her pride and joy. A ‘CLOSED’ sign hung on the barn door.
I blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.
I pulled in to the curb in front of the house. Before I could even cut the engine, Ocean popped open her door and darted toward the front gate, curious as ever.
At the far end of the block, a middle-aged couple rounded the corner from Franklin Street. They smiled politely as they crossed in front of my car before disappearing into Arthur’s bookstore. As I climbed out of the rental car, their voices drifted out through the open door.
Arthur. Another goodbye waiting for me, once I sold Clare’s house.
I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump rising in my throat. No emotional outbursts. Not in the bookstore, not now, not in front of strangers. Arthur would understand. He knew we were coming. I’d check in with him later, once we were settled. Once I had a second to breathe.
“It’s locked. Do you have a key?” Ocean called, already at the front door, her hand on the knob.
“I’ve got it...somewhere.” I went up the slate-topped steps I’d walked a thousand times, digging through my bag. Crumpled receipts, phone, brush, loose change, an old cough drop.
“It’s in here,” I said, more to myself than to her. “Clare gave it to me before I moved out West.”
I knew I hadn’t lost it. Not that key.
Harbor View is your home, Skye. This house is your home. You can always come back.
Clare’s words echoed in my mind as my fingers finally closed around the familiar key ring. I pulled it out with a little flourish—one that didn’t come close to matching the tangle of emotion I felt—and slid the key into the lock. It turned with a quiet click, and the door creaked open.
A wave of stale air drifted out. That closed-up-house smell: dust, silence, and time. It wrapped around me like memory.
I hesitated on the threshold, the weight of the past pressing in from every corner, then stepped inside.
“Whoa,” Ocean said from behind me. “It seriously smells in here. Want me to open windows?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “That’d be great.”
I didn’t need any light to know every inch of this house. The floor plan was engrained in my mind. It was the first place I’d ever called home. To my right, the stairs leading up to the second floor. To my left, the large living room Clare had always used as her business office, with a huge wooden desk; bookcases packed with ancient volumes and magazines on furniture, paintings, and other antiques; and a row of battered old file cabinets where she kept the bookkeeping records for the store.
Straight ahead, an arched doorway led to two connected rooms—dining and sitting—linked by a coal stove where a wall had once separated the space. At the back of the house, a kitchen and a small half-bath had been added to the original structure. Upstairs, three bedrooms and a pink tile bathroom completed the home.
Ocean pulled back a heavy curtain covering a window facing the street. I blinked, forcing myself to focus on the space before me.
It was a lot to take in. Clare’s office was filled to the brim. There was furniture in every available space, stacked and wedged in like a puzzle. The overflow continued into the old sitting room, where more pieces crowded the space, each one familiar and yet oddly out of place.
A fine layer of dust dulled once-polished surfaces. At the far end of the office, large paintings draped in canvas leaned against the wall, blocking the French doors that led to the dining room. Cardboard boxes were stacked up in teetering towers, the lower boxes buckling beneath the weight. Papers, books, and curled maps spilled from open containers, cluttering the floor in silent disarray.
It was as if the antiques in the barn had reached a high tide mark and begun flooding into the house itself.
It had never been like this when I was growing up. Even the last time we visited, the house had still felt…ordered. Loved.
“What happened?” Ocean whispered, her eyes wide. “I don’t remember Grandma ever being a hoarder.”
“She was an antiques dealer. Went to estate sales. This is not hoarding,” I said in her defense, dropping my bag onto a nearby table.
“But that’s what the barn is for, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, Ocean. Maybe there was a leak in the roof, and she had to move stuff in here.”
I worked my way through the clutter, helping my daughter climb over furniture to reach the windows and open them.
I planned to sell the house. But I hadn’t thought about how to dispose of the antiques. I definitely didn’t expect this much stuff.
