Girls of Brackenhill(14)

Huck stood and kissed her forehead, and she leaned against him, for a moment absorbing his calm, his heft. Sometimes she felt like they were diametrically opposed, and she didn’t know if that balanced them or set them off kilter. He, so measured and governed by routine, careful and sure, offset by Hannah, her insides in a perpetual swirl.

Huck left to walk the woods, take Rink outside to run. The dog had been cooped up first in the car, then in the castle because he’d refused to leave Hannah’s side once they’d let him in. Huck had adopted Rink before Hannah, from a friend—one of the financial men from the bar the night they’d met—who’d married a man with an allergy. Rink was an Irish setter but mixed with something—golden, maybe? His snout was shorter, his coat a shimmery gold instead of deep copper, but long. Rink had the energy of a puppy, even now at eight years old.

Hannah watched them walk away, Huck’s long-legged lope across the flat expanse of green, past the pool, still covered in August, the black plastic collecting debris and leaves. Rink broke into a run, and Huck jogged after him; Hannah could hear his laugh echoing back to her, and she felt swollen with something, puffed up and weepy. His goodness permeated everything around her and always left Hannah feeling guilty, bereft, as though she were undeserving.

She straightened up the kitchen and thought about what to do next. She had to wait for Aunt Fae’s body to be released to the funeral home, and then she could schedule services. Autopsy might take a few days, she’d been told. She’d have to call Fae and Stuart’s lawyer, see about getting access to money to pay for everything. Fae and Stuart weren’t religious, so Hannah assumed she’d want to be cremated, but she wanted to be sure. The business of death was consuming, but it kept her from questioning her mourning. She couldn’t focus on her emotions, or lack thereof, because she had so much to do. It was convenient.

The front bell chimed—a deep, tonal echo throughout the house. Hannah stood to answer the door right as Alice appeared in the kitchen doorway, hesitant and on the verge of tears.

“Alice! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing!” She wiped her eyes. “I just . . . it’s so strange now. I miss her. Stuart knows something’s amiss. He’s out of sorts.”

“Why? What is he doing?” Hannah couldn’t imagine what “out of sorts” meant for a semiconscious man.

“He’s moaning. I upped his morphine drip, but I don’t think it’s pain. I . . . I know what pain looks like on him. He’s trying to talk. He’s upset.”

Hannah was at a loss. The door chimed again. She held her finger up to Alice. “Please don’t leave. Let me just see who this is, okay?”

Alice nodded, and Hannah walked quickly across the living room, through the sitting room, down the hall, and into the foyer. The foyer was grand, stretching all the way to the peak of the roof. Sconces dotted the walls, and an imposing crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. The room was all deep-colored woods, forest greens, and blues, and it looked as regal as anything Hannah had ever seen. She’d forgotten about the foyer; it was so rarely used.

She opened heavy double doors that moaned under their own weight.

She felt, in an instant, light headed and breathless. Standing on the stone steps was a man she hadn’t seen since he was a boy. Since the night, seventeen years ago, that had altered both their lives. She knew her face registered the same shock she saw in his. He wore jeans and a blazer, his reddish-brown hair curling into his eyes, which widened at the unexpected sight of her.

“Hannah.” His voice was the same as it had been when he was eighteen: throaty but kind. Hannah closed her eyes and, for a moment, could hear him all over again: Please, don’t leave. When she opened them, he hadn’t moved. In his hand, he held a badge.

Wyatt McCarran.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Then

June 2001

When Julia first suggested they ride their new bikes down Valley Road, Hannah had to admit she was skeptical. The road down was treacherous, and what could be so great about the small, dumpy street that was Rockwell? They’d been there with Aunt Fae, food shopping or running errands (or once visiting Aunt Fae’s kooky friend Jinny Fekete, who smelled like smoke and oil). But they’d never gone alone. They hadn’t needed to! They had each other, the forest, the river, the gardens, the castle. Why did they need to now?

Julia packed a backpack with sunscreen and towels, a book and sunglasses, and declared she was going with or without her sister.

“There’s a pool here.” Hannah wanted her sister all to herself. She wanted last summer all over again. She wanted to find the little door in the side of the hill. There had been a small winding creek that had a mouth at the Beaverkill a half mile through the woods. They were going to look at maps and figure it out.

A trip to the public pool wasn’t in the plans.

Julia laughed. “When it’s not turning blood red?” She hadn’t gone swimming since that day, despite Hannah’s pestering.

“It was a rust reaction, Jules. It’s not gross. Stuart had it cleaned up in a day.” Hannah tried to remember what Uncle Stuart had told them. “It was from copper, I think? He treated the pool that morning. Vacuumed out the sediment. It was an easy fix.”

“I don’t care. It looked like a crime scene. He has an excuse for everything that happens around here. They both do, and it’s not right. I’m going a little nuts at the thought of another summer. Okay?” Julia stopped throwing stuff into her bag and faced Hannah. “This place is just freaking me out.”