Where the Blame Lies(8)

She’d spent the last six months cleaning the house to within an inch of its life, painting every room, and adding what she hoped were charming touches to the décor. Some of the furnishings were beautiful antique pieces that added to the historic feel of the home, but other pieces were simply outdated, ugly, and falling apart. But she’d gotten creative and found ways to use what was available to her for free, rather than spending money she didn’t have. She’d found beautiful old scrolled, wrought iron fencing behind the house, scrubbed it free of rust, spray-painted it, and used it to mount on the walls over a few of the beds to create rustic headboards. In that sense, it was a boon that her aunt Mavis had been somewhat of a hoarder. Her aunt had kept the old fencing, aged whiskey barrels, which Josie had cleaned and re-sealed to use as side tables on the porch surrounding the house, and an attic and basement full of items Josie was still cataloging. She’d found a gorgeous set of cornflower blue and white china that she’d brought down that morning and began washing. She’d stood at the sink, one of the lovely, delicate plates in her hands, looking out the window, mesmerized at how the sun caught the raindrops on the rosebuds outside. She’d opened the window and the spicy scent of the roses mixed with the clean smell of a rain-washed morning had wafted in, filling her spirit. It’d felt like a gift meant just for her. She’d closed her eyes, feeling thankful, living right in that moment. Yes, it had started out as a good day, but then the roof and the leaks and then— She froze as a car door slammed outside. Peeking through the curtains, she let out a groan.

And then . . . Archie.

She hadn’t realized her day was going to take an even steeper downturn.

She considered ignoring the knock that came at the door, but her car was parked right outside, the windows were open, and if she was going to assert herself with her obnoxious, mean-spirited cousin, she couldn’t run and hide under one of the beds. She took a deep breath, letting it sweep through her before walking slowly to the door. She pulled it open and Archie, who’d been looking behind him at the large expanse of yard where Josie had treated the grass for weeds, mowed, and planted spring flowers, turned suddenly, spearing her with his cold eyes. Eyes as blue as his mother’s and yet with none of the warmth.

“Josie.”

“Hi, Archie.” She waited.

He looked past her, into the house. “Can I come in?”

She hesitated. Boundaries, Josie. Boundaries are very important. You must know your own, and respect your own. If you don’t, no one else will. The words of the social worker who’d been assigned her case came back to her. It was funny how they’d barely penetrated her trauma-saturated mind eight years ago, but they must have lodged somewhere in her brain, because they whispered back all the time recently. “Why don’t we sit on the porch? It’s a nice morning.”

He thinned his lips and hesitated, but finally nodded, walking to one of the wicker chairs and sitting down.

Josie took a seat across from him. “What brings you out here, Archie?”

“I’m here to make you another offer on the house. I can up it by five grand.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I told you I’m not interested in selling. Your mother left this house to me because she knew I had the same vision for it that she did. She knew I’d work hard to get it up and running again, back to its former—"

“My mother left you this house because she felt sorry for you. She pitied you like everyone else does.”

Josie swallowed, lowering her eyes. How quickly she could still be emotionally stripped. She was working on that. “Your mother was extremely kind to me when I needed it. She helped me after . . .” She sat taller. “This house is giving me purpose I didn’t even know I needed, Archie,” she said in an attempt to appeal to any speck of kindness or empathy he might have inside his hulkish, overbearing body. “I believe your mother knew that.”

“My mother was practically a vegetable at the end. She didn’t know anything, including her own name.”

Josie took a deep breath. “Before the dementia . . . took her. Before that, she had moments of extreme lucidity.” You’d have known that had you ever bothered to visit.

He pointed at her. “Listen, Josie, I didn’t want to resort to this, but if you don’t sell to me, I’ll be forced to sue you. My mother was not of sound mind to change her will and give this property to you or anyone else. Whatever you did to manipulate her into it should be looked at by a judge. I was offering you money out of the kindness of my heart because I know you barely have a cent to your name, but if you force my hand, I’ll have no choice but to get the courts involved. Make this right.”

Make this right. Anxiety sparked inside Josie as she regarded him, recalling what Aunt Mavis had said about her own son. After his father died, Archie grew bitter, distant. I should have worked harder to draw him out, but I was suddenly a single mother, trying to support us both, trying to run a business . . . I lost his father, and I lost Archie then too. I didn’t realize that I’d never get him back. Her voice had been laced with sadness. Regret.

Oh, Aunt Mavis.

Perhaps she had lost her son, or perhaps some people were just born with a mean streak wider than others. A few were born evil . . . and she knew that well too. Despite the mild temperature, Josie shivered, rubbing her bare arms. But Aunt Mavis had had a part in saving Josie—her battered soul—and for that, she’d be forever grateful. And Josie understood what it was like to let your past, all the missing parts of yourself, rule your choices. She’d done it once too. Before.