Sean clears his throat and says, “I make a seriously mean meatloaf.” Claire smiles at him, and he ruffles her hair.
“‘Lay on, Macduff.’” Peter bows. “‘And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’ After all, one can never have enough meatloaf.”
All of us troop up to the porch. Scurrying forward, I scoot past our new guests before Claire can unlock the door. “Can you two please turn around?”
Victoria opens her mouth to object, but Sean pivots to face the junk pile. Clamping her mouth shut, Victoria turns, too. Her back is stiff, and I know she isn’t happy to be mistrusted. Considering she had a gun pointed at me not long ago—and still carries it—I refuse to feel guilty for my inhospitality. Blocking the mechanism with my body, I unlock the door.
“Okay,” I say cheerfully, as if I didn’t want to escort them to the gate and send them away. I swing the door open and lead our guests inside. “Welcome to our home. And if you try to ‘fillet’ Peter again...” I try to think of a threat that would carry weight, and I can’t.
“That was past,” Sean says solemnly.
Peter studies the ceiling and says nothing.
In a show of politeness, Victoria leans her shotgun against the wall. I shoot a look at Claire and then nod at the gun. She knows what I want her to do. Regardless of how much she likes Sean or his meatloaf, she’ll hide the gun first chance she gets.
“Give me just one minute...” I duck into my bedroom and change into dry clothes as quickly as possible. I emerge to find that Sean is in the kitchen with Peter and that Victoria is poking her head into each of the rooms. I feel like a dog whose territory has been invaded.
Claire is following her like a puppy. If Victoria does anything dicey, Claire will shout. Or simply pull her knife. Victoria’s gun may still be in the hallway, but Claire is quick.
“Would you like a tour?” I try not to sound frosty—she’s not an enemy anymore.
“You managed to turn this place into a home.” Victoria waves her hand to gesture at the house and smiles, as if to make it clear that this is a compliment.
I summon a smile to match hers. “I plan to strip the wallpaper and paint the walls a soft blue.” I’ve already made a few changes to the hall: the photos of an unknown family are gone, and instead, one of the lost Degas hangs on the wall. “Still have a lot of work to do.” I lead her to the living room, where the front of the train engine juts through the wall. It’s broken a bookcase, and the books are spilled all over the floor. Bits of plaster dust have settled all over the couches. “Also, some cleaning to do.”
I show her the dining room and point out the built-in cabinets stuffed with unmatched china. Claire likes to play tea party, and so Peter and I have been collecting teacups and saucers from a hundred different china patterns. Victoria admires the chandelier. Claire and I then trail her to the bedrooms. Claire has her bedroom piled high with her finds, primarily stuffed animals and dolls. I wish I’d made my bed. And put away more of my clothes. At least the closet door is shut so I don’t have to explain Peter’s nest.
Victoria then climbs the stairs to the attic room, the only room that I haven’t yet decorated. I follow her, while Claire lingers behind to hide the shotgun. Victoria waits for me at the top of the stairs. “This room has potential,” she says. “You could add some couches...”
I’m shaking my head, though I don’t realize it at first. I can picture this room so clearly, filled with easels and canvases and supplies... Stopping myself, I force myself to smile. “I’m glad you found what you lost.” She can go home, if the Missing Man returns. I don’t have that option, and it’s hard, very hard, not to feel jealousy itch inside me. She can see her family again. She can rejoin the world, reclaim her life, whatever it was. It hurts, thinking about it, and so I try to push the ache deep down like I always do and pretend it’s enough to paint walls and collect teacups.
She smiles. When she smiles, she’s a truly beautiful woman with features that would be stunning on a billboard or on the cover of a magazine. Jet-black hair. Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Red lips. “He never would have proposed if you hadn’t found this ring.” She holds up her hand to admire it. The star sapphire winks in the light.
“He might have. Sometimes it takes almost losing someone...” I swallow hard, not able to finish the sentence. I miss my mother so badly that it hurts. Most days, I’m able to keep from thinking about home, but with Victoria and her glow in front of me, it’s harder.
Victoria waves her hand. “Spare me the clichés. You performed a miracle here. I’m saying thank you. Just say ‘you’re welcome’ and we’re done.”
“You’re welcome.” I venture a question. “Did you...did you lose a husband?”
“He cheated on me, and I torched his diner. So in a way, yes.” Victoria turns away before I can react, though I have no idea how to react. “Come on. Sean should be finished taking inventory of your kitchen.” She clip-clops down the stairs in her high heels.
I feel as though I’ve missed a moment that I should have seized. Something important that could have happened or could have been said...but it’s gone, as certainly as a popped bubble.
In the kitchen, Sean is opening all the cabinets and drawers. He dumps out dozens of half-used spices, as well as a drawer full of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise packets from fast-food restaurants, also packets of strawberry jelly. (Claire loves strawberry jelly.) He also discovers our cabinet of cookies. (Claire has a knack for finding those.) He sorts through our cutlery drawer. We have an assortment of random kitchen items, the oddballs on wedding registries that people think they want and then shove into a corner of their basement and forget they ever owned. I still haven’t found a decent saucepan.
Stalking back and forth through the kitchen, Sean makes little humphs of approval and then dismay and then back to approval. He unearths a pomegranate. “Unusual.” He adds it to the growing pile of ingredients next to the stove. I’d found the pomegranate the other day, but then Peter called me Persephone and I hadn’t been able to eat it. I didn’t want to find a way home and then discover I had to return every six months. Odd the things that one becomes suspicious about when one doesn’t have any real hope to cling to. It seemed too big a risk—as if what I eat has anything to do with where I am. Anyway, who eats only six seeds of a pomegranate? That’s like eating six raisins and declaring yourself full.
Hopping up on the counter, Claire examines the ingredients Sean has selected, including the pomegranate and a stack of half-eaten fast-food cheeseburgers. Victoria has drifted into the kitchen and is unwrapping the cheeseburgers, removing the buns, pickles, and cheese.
I wonder where Peter is, and I step into the hallway to listen for him. I see him in the dining room. He’s climbed on top of the table. I wonder if he climbs things when he wants to flee—he always climbs on rooftops to escape. Or maybe he climbs to think. Or he wants to remind me that he has better balance than I do. I don’t know why he climbs things, and I don’t care why. I only care that Peter is unhappy. I don’t question that feeling too closely. Joining him in the dining room, I climb onto the table with him. “You okay?” I ask.
“You know, we could leave, right now, while they’re distracted.” He takes my hands, and I feel as if my hands are tingling. I like the warmth of his hands, probably too much. I remember how I felt in the ocean, so aware of him. “Find a new house. Bring Claire. There’s nothing here we can’t replace.”
I think of the Degas. And of the empty attic room. And of the hallway that I plan to paint. And of Peter’s closet, and the way our toiletries are comingled in the bathroom. I know it shouldn’t matter since this is temporary, but still... I draw my hands away from his. “It would be nice to have allies in town. Especially if Lost is shrinking.”
“I’m your ally. Isn’t that enough?”
“It would be nice to have a few more people who don’t want to shoot me on sight.”
