Splintered souls, p.2
Splintered Souls, page 2
Other than a quick stop for food and fuel and a few more for bathroom breaks for the bladder challenged, we drove straight through. Even with lighter-than-usual traffic, close to nine hours of Twenty Questions and I Spy nearly pushed me over the edge. By the time the sun had melted into the horizon with a sizzle, leaving an orange glow across the sky, we’d reached Port Michael.
I didn’t want to like it. In fact, I wanted to hate the quaint little harbor town. It had no business being so idyllic when Dad was gone. Life was utterly and completely unfair, yet I caught myself smiling as Mom wove the SUV through the narrow streets past rows of Colonial houses and cobbled walkways.
We pulled up to a battered gray three-story shingle house. I could almost taste the salt water that had been eating away at the siding for over a century. Overgrown rose bushes crawled across the front porch, and green and brown vines climbed up the side, devouring entire sections of the house. In the glow of evening, one of the two upper windows appeared to wink at us like a giant jack-o’-lantern.
“This is it?” I leaned out the window to stare at the ancient monstrosity from the safety of my seat. A curtain of vines hung in front of the porch. “It looks deserted.”
Mom shut off the engine and climbed out of the Durango. “Nobody’s lived here since… before your grandmother died.”
“Well, that’s a glowing endorsement of the place,” I muttered under my breath, unbuckling my seatbelt but staying put, taking it all in.
“Can we go inside?” Josh hopped out and ran up the walk to the front porch.
“Hey, be careful.” Mom fumbled with the keys as she hurried to catch up to Hurricane Josh. “Wait for me!”
The glint of sunlight reflecting off the third-story windows drew my attention again. Mom said no one had lived there for over a decade, and yet, it felt as if the house was watching me.
“Are you coming?” Mom called from the front porch. “You’d better stake your claim on a room before your brother does. He’s still fascinated with the pocket doors between the living and dining rooms, but we both know it won’t be long before he realizes the third-floor bedroom has its own bathroom.”
I climbed out of the car and stood in a patch of weeds alongside the driveway. “Really? It does?”
“Yep. Even has a claw-foot tub. That’s where your dad and I stayed when you kids were little.”
“Oh.” My shoulders deflated a little. It would have been nice to have my own bathroom, but of course, Mom would want that room.
She tilted her head and watched me from the front steps with a glint in her eye. “It’s yours if you want it.”
“What?” Shock held me in place as she made her way back to where I stood. “You don’t want it?”
“Too many memories.” Grief rolled off her in waves, soaking me with her pain. “Oh, don’t look so sad. They’re all good memories, but I think, maybe that makes it worse, somehow. Besides”—she flung an arm over my shoulder—“you’re starting college in a few weeks. You should at least feel as if you have a place of your own.”
“Thank you.” I gave her a quick hug, fighting back tears. I understood all too well how good memories could be worse than the bad ones. Those were the ones worth grieving for. My attention drifted back to the third-story window as I imagined all the memories trapped within the walls.
I peeled back the draping vines and stared at an old porch swing. White paint flaked off old boards. Would it hold me? I didn’t weigh that much. Deciding against it, I gave the wooden seat a shove with my foot and listened to the rhythmic creaking as I followed Mom inside.
I did a quick scan of the cracked plaster walls and the wavy window glass. Thick black skid marks stained the red brick fireplace surround and the chipped mantle. My footsteps kicked up miniature dust clouds, and I almost hacked up a lung breathing them in. The place reeked of mildew and old people and reminded me of an old black-and-white horror movie. “You call this renovated?”
“It was renovated.” Mom flipped a switch, lighting a grungy crystal chandelier and bathing the shadows in a warm glow.
I spun around to take in my surroundings. I knew it was my grandmother’s summer house, so I wasn’t surprised the place came completely furnished. But white sheets draped the furniture like the ghosts of summers past, and several layers of dust coated every surface. I wondered if we could figure out how long the house had been vacant by counting the layers—like carbon-dating dinosaurs or something. “When? In the last century. Or the one before that? How old is this place, anyway?”
“Over a hundred years old. Maybe two.” Mom eased back a sheet to reveal a gray linen sofa with rolled arms and plump cushions. “I remember work being done years ago, but that was probably before you were born. And when Grandma got sick back in 2002…” That devastated look washed over Mom’s face again. “Well, I can’t say if anyone bothered to air out the house after that. Your grandmother was the glue that held the family together.”
I understood glue. Dad had been our glue, and his loss had the three of us clinging to each other to keep from breaking apart.
The sound of thundering feet from above shook the house just before Josh came barreling down the stairs. He charged through the glittering dust motes hanging in the waning rays of daylight, scattering them to the air. “I call the third floor!”
I had no idea how he’d made it up there without us seeing him. “Too late, peanut. Mom already said I could have it.”
“No fair! I got there first. I already wrote my name in the dust!”
I bit back a laugh.
“Sorry, Josh. I guess you’ll have to share the second floor with me.” Mom caught Josh at the bottom of the stairs and wrapped her arms around his middle. She pretended to eat the side of his face as she towed him toward the car to get his bags, leaving me to explore on my own.
I ran my finger through the thick layer of dust on the mahogany handrail as I made my way up the stairs. Some long-lost memory must have come dislodged because my feet knew exactly where to take me, and before I realized it, I stood in a doorway, staring at my new bedroom. Or maybe suite would be a better description.
I didn’t blame Josh for wanting dibs on this room. For an attic space, it was pretty amazing. Polished wood floors. An antique iron bed with what looked like handmade quilts and feather pillows. A glossy dark wood dresser and mirror. And the cherry on my bedroom sundae—a carved marble fireplace. I could get used to this.
Josh must have already uncovered the furniture because a pile of white sheets lay in the corner, and I couldn’t find even a sprinkling of dust anywhere but the floor, where Josh had scrawled his name in giant block letters—JOSHUA DAVID FLYNN, MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE.
The little idiot.
After swiping my sneaker through the message, I wandered through the space to find the bathroom. White marble subway tile covered the room from floor to ceiling. The glossy claw-foot tub took up one side of the room, and the dainty pedestal sink and toilet shared the other. There was even an ornate silver mirror over the vanity. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
With one last lingering gaze at the tub, I left the bathroom and continued my exploration.
Behind the bedroom door was another, smaller door that led to a tiny yet hugely creepy unfinished attic space running the length of the dormer. It was more like a long, narrow closet with a low, slanted ceiling, filled from end to end with dusty furniture and a few old trunks. I squeezed into the little room and peeked into the closest trunk.
Clothes. I ran my fingers over the cool, slippery skirt of a vintage floral dress. It looked like something straight out of Downton Abbey. Mom had forced me to sit through the first two seasons on Netflix, but I’d refused to admit I actually liked it. I closed the trunk and backed out of the closet, wondering how much I could get for the old clothes on eBay. Hopefully, enough for a down payment on a car.
As the exhaustion from the day finally caught up to me, I sank into the downy mattress as if falling into a cloud.
Oh, yes. I could definitely get used to this.
Loud honking wrenched me from my own personal utopia, and I shuffled to the dirty window to peek out. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the streetlights were coming on, but the two men and their truck had pulled into the driveway and were already unloading our stuff. “Impressive.”
I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to wipe away some of the thick grime coating the window. That’s when I noticed the guy leaning against the lamppost across the street. He couldn’t have been much older than me—dressed all in black, from his leather jacket to his Doc Martens, with artfully disheveled dark, wavy hair and a sexy crooked smile.
A warm prickle started at the base of my skull and worked its way down my spine. I cupped my hands against the glass to peer down at him. It had to have been too dark in my room for him to see me, but I could have sworn his eyes locked with mine. I almost wanted to wait for the sun to come up to see if he’d catch fire… or sparkle. The guy was that hot.
“What are you doing in my room?”
I squealed and spun around to face the wrath of my brother. His blue eyes narrowed—the same sapphire-blue eyes as Dad’s—and his stick arms crossed angrily over his loose-fitting Orioles jersey, the signed Cal Ripken jersey Dad gave him, if I wasn’t mistaken. The thing hung on him like a tarp, but he rarely took it off these days. If he hadn’t scared the life out of me, I would have found his fury hilarious. “Sorry, peanut. Mom said I could have it.”
“Josh… stop bothering your sister, and come get your boxes.” Mom’s voice carried up the three flights of stairs.
“I will get my revenge.” With one last death glare in my direction, he spun on his heels, grumbling to himself as he stomped out of my room and down the stairs.
As soon as I was sure he wasn’t coming back, I whirled to the window and the mysterious guy below.
But he was gone.
Chapter Two
After tossing and turning the entire night—images of the lamppost guy running through my head like an animated GIF—I finally fell asleep sometime before dawn. So when Josh’s gangly body crawled across my bed like a daddy longlegs spider just a few hours later, I was in no mood for his antics.
“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” He punctuated each command with a bounce, making the bed groan.
I let out a groan of my own and swatted him like a mosquito. “Go. Away.”
“It’s almost nine.” He leaned in until I could smell the peppermint toothpaste on his breath. “Mom said get up.”
I shoved him hard with my foot, knocking him off the bed mid-bounce.
He landed with a thud. “God! You’re such a bitch, Ava.”
Mom poked her head in the door as I was about to let him have it, saving me the trouble. “Josh, what have I told you about the swearing?”
He sighed and recited the mantra Mom had drilled into him. “No more video games if I don’t knock it off.”
“Exactly. Now run downstairs and get ready. We’re leaving in ten.” She ruffled his hair as he bolted out the door as quickly as he’d come in. “Ava, you need to get up so we can head into town and get a few things. I figured you’d want to get your room set up sooner than later.”
The idea had merit. But so did more sleep. I pulled the quilt over my head to block out the light streaming in through the clean patch on the window. “Can’t we do that tomorrow?”
Mom pulled back the blanket. “Nope. Tomorrow already has a schedule. And you, young lady, are messing with today’s. I’ll give you eight minutes.”
“Eight?” I sat up and rubbed my eyes, wondering if parents took classes on torture methods. “You told Josh ten.”
“Yes, and you’ve already wasted two.” She gave me a smile that reminded me of the old Mom, the one from before Dad died.
“Fine, whatever. I’m coming.” I pretended to be annoyed as I dragged myself out of the bed, but it was a pathetic attempt. Mom was smiling, and that was worth giving up sleep for.
Thanks to my bout of insomnia, I’d already unpacked my boxes, so it didn’t take me long to find a clean pair of jeans and black shirt—my favorite vintage concert tee, my first concert tee, as a matter of fact. Dad had bought it for me just after my thirteenth birthday. Amazingly, it still fit, though a little differently than it used to before the boob fairy came calling.
After wriggling into the jeans and pulling on my top, I grabbed my hair to twist it into a messy ponytail.
What if I run into him today?
I caught my reflection in the large mirror leaning against the wall and shook out my hair until amber-colored waves tumbled over my shoulders and down my back, framing the giant red lips and juicy tongue of the Rolling Stones logo stretched across my chest. I gave myself two thumbs up.
As I was about to turn and walk out the door, a prickling at the base of my neck led me toward the window again. I had to see if he was out there. I didn’t know why I thought he would be. Last night might have been a fluke. The guy was probably grabbing a cigarette on the sly or something. Maybe my rubbing a clean patch in the filthy glass had caught his eye. Whatever reason he had for staring up at my window could most likely be chalked up to a random coincidence. Nothing more.
I tried to sneak a peek without being seen—in case he was stalking me from below. But as I suspected, he wasn’t there. The street was quiet except for a girl jogging in a bright pink tracksuit and a man walking his Pomeranian. No uncommonly sexy guy dressed in black leather leaned against the lamppost waiting for me to show my face.
Disappointing.
With one last, lingering look at the vacant street below, I tore myself away from the window. I knew Mom wasn’t kidding when she said eight minutes. Joanie Flynn was ruthless when her schedules were screwed with. I grabbed my phone from the charger and hurried out of my room. The prickling sensation—though not as pronounced—still buzzed at the back of my neck, and I tried telling myself it was only nervous excitement, some sort of weird crush brought on by the move or something. Nothing more.
I might have almost believed it.
“There she is!” Mom’s overly dramatic tone made me giggle as I walked into the kitchen. She had a hand pressed to her chest as if my sudden appearance had knocked the wind out of her.
“Yeah, yeah. Here I am, ready to do battle with whatever tasks you’ve laid out for me today.” I leaned against the white marble counter and hopped up, scooting my butt back as I shot her a mock scowl. “Our first day in a new place, I might add. Really, Mom, even soldiers get a damn day of rest before shipping out to war.” Not that I knew much about going to war, but I had a feeling I was about to be put to work unpacking kitchen crap. Apparently, she hadn’t been as wired as me last night because it didn’t appear as if she’d unpacked a single box.
“War?” She rolled her eyes and waved me down from the counter as if she were afraid my hundred and fifteen pounds would crack the ancient stone. “I’d planned on something more along the lines of shopping. This house may have been completely furnished when we got here, but it’s sorely lacking in the personality department. It could use a little brightening up, don’t you think? And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, and there isn’t a stitch of food in the fridge.”
Josh thrust his fist into the air with a battle cry of “Food!”
“Well said.” Mom laughed then rubbed her hands together as if she were about to impart her evil plot. “So we’ll hit the cafe for breakfast, then the hardware store for a few gallons of paint and”—she swiped her finger through the dust on the island—“cleaning supplies. Then we’ll grab some groceries before we come back here and turn this old house into a home.”
A home. Sleep or no sleep, my day was looking up.
“What about this?” Mom held up a paint chip and gave me a hopeful smile.
I’d never been the typical moody teenager, but if she showed me another bubblegum-pink swatch, I’d go thermonuclear. “How many times do I have to tell you? I hate pink.”
Mom puffed out her bottom lip in a glorious display of the parental guilt trip. “You used to love pink.”
I let out a loud sigh. “Not since I hit puberty.” Around the age of thirteen, I’d moved on to more sophisticated color schemes. Coincidentally, it was around the same time Dad introduced me to classic rock.
She turned the card around and frowned at it. “But this isn’t really pink. It’s more of a salmon.”
I balled up my fists, trying to tamp down an unexpected burst of frustration. “Semantics, Mom. Can we please move to the blues? Or the greens?” Or black. Why couldn’t I just paint my room black? Paint it black? I choked back a giggle. Mick would’ve been so proud. “Maybe a nice velvety—”
Her eyebrows went up at the same time as her hands found her hips.
Uh oh, this can’t be good.
“Ava Flynn, I know what you’re thinking, and you are not painting the attic black. That’s just…” She threw her hands into the air. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“Cool? Modern? In keeping with my dark teenage moods brought on by fluctuating hormones and a deep-seated need to stand out from the crowd? In case you hadn’t heard, I’m supposed to rebel against society—specifically my parents. I’ve managed to make it eighteen years with barely an outburst. You should be proud that I’m finally taking a stand.” I pulled myself to my full height and gave her a triumphant grin. Let her push pink on me after that.
She didn’t look proud. But she did look like she might want to laugh. “The answer is still no.”
My shoulders deflated. “Come on. When will I ever get the chance to paint my room black again?”
