Nadine put her hand on the knob, and Wes placed his hand on top, the same way he had that first day. “Ready?” he asked, smiling down at her. “Still think it’s going to be pine and white paint?”
“I thought we agreed on funky wallpaper.”
Brent caught up to them and stared at their hands. “Are you going to open that door or what?” he asked.
They twisted the knob and pushed, then stood on the threshold. “This was not what I expected,” said Wes. “But somehow also exactly what I expected.”
Dot’s room was simply beautiful, an elegant and calming space painted pale blue with white accents. It was like living in a Wedgwood cameo. A single piece of art decorated the wall, a portrait of Dot and Allan that had caught them laughing together against a hazy romantic background that would have been the first thing Dot saw when she opened her eyes. A large bed with a reasonable number of pillows was pushed against the wall, with a low blue velvet bench at the foot. A chaise lounge was placed near the gauzy curtains that covered the windows.
They split up the space, and Nadine took the closet, a huge walk-inaffair that was a vintage collector’s dream. Caftans filled an entire wall, and Nadine first poked through the shoes, which ranged Victorian boots to disco platforms to an entire shelf of orthopedic runners. There were surprisingly few handbags, and all of them were empty apart from some spare change and old gum packages.
“Nothing in the washroom,” called Brent.
“All clear on the rest of the room,” said Wes.
Nadine heard the men chatting about the house sale and tuned them out. There was the faint smell of amber in the closet, and she reached out to touch a familiar outfit, the psychedelic caftan of their first meeting. It looked almost faded on the hanger, as if it had needed Dot’s personality to make it shine.
“Nadine? Brent has a meeting,” said Wes. “Did you find anything?”
“Sorry.” She came out of the closet. “Not a single thing.”
“Disappointing but not surprising.” Brent shrugged. “She called her room her oasis and refused to do anything but sleep in bed. She didn’t read or work there.”
“Goals,” said Nadine, and Brent laughed.
They walked Brent to the entrance, going over the details about locking up before they left Dot’s house tomorrow. Brent walked down the steps, then paused by his car. “Thank you for everything you’ve done,” he said. “I mean what I said about appreciating your work, regardless of the result.”
They waved goodbye and went back in the house. Wes paused as they passed the corridor leading to Dot’s room. “That’s it,” he said. “The last room checked.”
“There might be something we missed,” she said.
Wes gave her a kiss. “I doubt it,” he said. “You’re thorough.”
“True.”
He laughed and went to clear the coffee cups as Nadine walked into the library.
Everything felt gray. Soon she’d be back working the night web shiftat theHerald. She looked at her phone, where she’d been reworking Dot’s obituary since she arrived, taking inspiration from Dot’s files and the obits she’d left. She could see how it would look on the page. The story it could tell, if only she had the chance.
And the nerve.
Her mother texted and disturbed her thoughts.Nadine, we bought some new locks for your apartment doors. Dad will install them on the weekend, and they’ll be good until you move home.
Thanks, Mom, she wrote back dutifully. Then Octavia jumped up before she could send and batted the phone right out of her hand. “Octavia! What are you doing?”
She picked it up and settled back in the chair, thinking about her apartment. She was tired of being scared. She wanted to tell her mother she had her life under control and didn’t need help. She wanted to push herself. Totrustherself. Those 3:00 a.m. shadows weren’t where she wanted to live. She wanted to be brave again, the way Lisanne was, able to deflect the criticism and, yes, unwarranted hatred. It wasn’t right she had to deal with it to do her job, but she wasn’t going to change anything by hiding.
Catching sight of Dot’s shelves, she realized she was at her own nexus point. She tapped her fingers against the keys of the old aqua-gray typewriter, the letters worn almost to invisibility, and thought about how she felt when she was working. She felt good, as if she was doing what she’d been meant to do.
Yet she’d allowed a nasty, small-minded, hate-filled loser to take it from her, and she’d allowed her parents to pressure her until she doubted that she could manage on her own.
No, she wouldn’t blame herself. At the time, she did what she needed to. She took the break she had to.
But she wouldn’t let him or her parents steal any more of her life. She was ready to engage with the world again and to take risks.
That decision was like a puzzle piece falling from the sky to landright in the center of her mind, connecting it all together.
She stood up so fast, she made herself dizzy and reached out to the bookshelf in a desperate attempt to keep her balance. Her fingers tugged out one of the books as the black dots cleared in front of her eyes. “Wes!” she called.
