The Invited(41)

Helen, she’d been great. Olive heard her snap at Nate, “Christ, Nate, what’s next—are you gonna strip-search the poor kid?” when she thought Olive was out of earshot. Helen had been a history teacher back in Connecticut, but Olive could tell she hadn’t been the boring kind of teacher at all. Olive wished Helen was one of her teachers. The way she talked about history, about how people used to live back before there was electricity, before cars, it made Olive feel like she was right there, like she could really imagine what it must have been like.

And she did it so naturally, just working all these cool facts into everyday conversation. Like now, they were driving through town in Helen’s pickup, passing by one old house after another, Helen pointing out the different architectural styles in a typical New England village like Hartsboro.

“That house on the left, it’s a classic colonial. See how it’s a simple two-story box—no eaves, shutters, porches? Such a clean design. The saltbox, what we’re building, is a variation on the style. And see that one across the street?” Helen asked, slowing as she pointed at a huge white house with peeling paint. “Greek revival. Look at the columns, the way the peak of the roof faces the street. All the cornice detailing. It’s really a work of art.”

A car behind her blew its horn and Helen sped up.

    “It’s amazing that all these old houses were built in the days before electricity,” Helen said as they drove. “Just think of it—no power tools. Everything was cut with a handsaw. And they used axes to hew the lumber. Chisels to do all that finely detailed carving on the columns and trim.”

“Building a house must have taken for-ev-er,” Olive said.

“Sure, things might have taken longer, but there was more of a level of craftsmanship. There was real skill involved in shaping posts and beams and joining them, in doing all the delicate trim work by hand. Builders were artists.”

Olive liked this. She doubted folks back then would be so quick to tear down a wall and put up another the way she and her dad did constantly. Part of her kind of wished to go back to a time without power tools and plywood and drywall.

Along with all the cool stories she told, Olive also loved that Helen was really interested in Hattie. Not just in all the creepy ghost stories, but in the real woman behind them. Helen had been doing research—looking online and asking around in town—but was frustrated that she hadn’t yet learned any real facts. Olive had told her that her aunt Riley might be able to help—she volunteered at the historical society and could get Helen in. Today, they were on their way to the salvage yard where Riley worked.

“You’re gonna love this place!” Olive promised as they pulled up in front of the Fox Hill Salvage Yard. “And you’re also gonna love my aunt Riley.”

Olive led Helen into the big salvage warehouse, past the old hand-hewn beams and milled lumber, the rows of old bathtubs, racks of plumbing fixtures and copper pipes. Helen stopped to look at sinks and tubs.

“You were right,” Helen said as she walked up to a deep soapstone sink like she was being pulled by a magnet. “This place is amazing! Oh my god, look at this sink!”

“I’m gonna go find my aunt,” Olive said. “You look around.”

Olive found Riley behind a big desk on a raised platform in the middle of the store.

“Hey, Ollie!” Riley called out. She came around the desk, jumped down, and enveloped Olive in one of her bone-crushing hugs. “This is a nice surprise! What are you doing here? Where’s your dad?” She looked around.

    “He’s working. I came with my neighbor Helen, you know, the lady I’ve been telling you about?”

“Cool! Can’t wait to meet her.”

“She’s over by the sinks, I think. She kinda has a thing for old stuff.”

Riley smiled. “Well, she’s in the right place! Hey, I’ve got something for you,” Riley said. She went back up to the desk, pulled her messenger bag out from underneath it, and rummaged around for a minute. “Here it is!” she chirped, coming back down and presenting her gift to Olive.

It was a small brass compass, tarnished and scratched.

“I picked it up at a yard sale.”

“It’s amazing,” Olive said.

“It’s for helping you find your way,” Riley told her, and Olive had a feeling she meant a whole lot more than just getting in and out of the woods.

“Thank you,” Olive said. Olive looked down at the compass in her hands, the needle spinning, wavering, until it settled on north. She told herself to be brave, to just ask—it was now or never. “Hey, Aunt Riley, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”

“It’s about my mom.”

This seemed to catch Aunt Riley off guard. She smiled a worried smile. “What about her, Ollie?”

“I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about those last couple of weeks. If you knew what she was up to. Who she was seeing.”

Riley let out a long, deep sigh. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”

Olive shook her head. “No way! We don’t talk about that. Only about how things will be when Mama gets home.”

“That’s for the best, maybe.”

“I know. Dad can’t handle it. He just…can’t. But if you know anything, if there’s something you’ve been keeping from me, I want to know. Please. I can handle it, whatever it is. I’m not a little kid anymore.”