Sweet Water(7)

Once inside, I could make out Vanessa’s perfect face, the shading of her makeup like that of the actresses on the daytime soap operas Dad shouldn’t have let me watch in the summertime but did, because we couldn’t afford summer camp. Vanessa’s wispy hair fell in tailored pieces around her sharp smile, which looked as though it could twist into a scowl at any moment.

“Do you mind if Janie uses the restroom before we take a closer look? I think she’s been holding it since the parkway.”

“Oh my, certainly. Let me walk you through the parlor to the powder room.”

The parlor and the powder room? It sounded like a game of Clue.

Dad raised his dark eyebrows at me with a funny grin, making his fingers dance as if telling me, “Go on, pee on Stonehenge.”

Vanessa ushered me through the wide hallway dressed in dark wainscoting; the inside did not disappoint. “Wow,” I said in a hushed whisper. It reminded me more of a museum than a house.

“Here we are.” Vanessa pointed to a closed door that matched the dark wood of the rest of the home. Without hesitation, I went in and quickly shut the door. I almost cried as I relieved myself.

And now, somehow, I’ve found myself back in the same place, the same room, a nervous wreck, misplaced but in wonder, uncomfortable but in complete awe of my brand-new borrowed life.

Martin knocks on the door. “Sarah? Are you ever coming out of there?”

“Just a minute,” I manage. The party has moved inside, and I’m still hanging out in the bathroom, trying to pull myself together. What Martin did was so amazing and so wrong at the same time. He didn’t even invite my dad to the party, but he probably figured the gesture would be too grand for him, and he’s probably right.

I close the door to the powder room, but my mind is still stuck in 1988.

Martin grabs my hand and pulls me into a gentle hug. “Hi,” he whispers into my hair.

“Hi,” I whisper back.

It’s the one-word phrase he said to me the morning after we’d spent the night together for the very first time, bedsheets tangled around frantic limbs, the day when we knew our relationship was the start of something real. It was hard moving on after Joshua split town, his transition out of my life phantomlike, much like how we came together. I hadn’t told anyone about him, my little secret, and I was angry with myself for letting a few hot summer nights destroy me. My broken heart craved security and a level head, and Martin Ellsworth reeked of those things from the minute I’d met him. Martin was proud to have me by his side, like I was some kind of trophy.

This house is the place where we’ll start our new lives, which feels strange yet appropriate. I’ve always dreamed I might end up here, just not with Martin. I try to make myself feel better because only the outskirts of the house are contaminated with memories of Joshua and me; he was so intent on keeping me hidden. The contrast of the moment isn’t lost on me: that I’m here now with Martin, center stage.

Martin wants to show off me and our house to the world. It’s more confirmation that he’s the man I should be with. Maybe we can make this place ours.

He nods in the direction of the great room, where the others are standing, and I follow him and remember how Dad and I both allowed Vanessa to lead us into this very same room, our eyes traveling up nearly thirty-five feet to the apex of the ornately carved ceiling. The much-lighter maple wood makes it appear even grander in contrast, the focal point of the home.

“That used to be a pulpit for an organ.” I’m pointing to a raised wooden platform on the right side of the room. It’s closed off now with no access point to reach it.

“I told my parents this house was sometimes used for religious celebrations.” Martin smiles, and I can tell he’s expecting brownie points for remembering what I’ve told him about the history of the house, but it’s hard for me to grant them. I should be over-the-moon thankful, gushing like a bashful new bride, but this gift is too much, and he doesn’t know everything there is to know about this house. And I certainly can’t tell him now.

“It’s so lovely, Sarah.” Greta, my sister-in-law, turns around slowly, agape at the biblical stained-glass windows on either side of the walls. One of them has a beautiful angel on it, beaming in whites and hues of sparkly golds and oranges, and I imagine it’s my mother gracing me with her presence for the special occasion.

“Thank you,” I say, but all I can think is that Joshua’s parents bought this house for him because he liked to play the guitar, the maple ceilings made specially for great acoustics.

“There’s an indoor Olympic-size swimming pool on the bottom floor with a dome over it and changing rooms to the right and left, our own Club Med right here on the lower level,” Martin says.

I exhale and fake smile, my mind flashing to the time I skinny-dipped in that same pool with Joshua. Is this how it will always be? Am I doomed to live in a place where I wake up every morning, reminded of my teenage mistakes?

Mr. and Mrs. Ellsworth nod, very pleased, and I hope they haven’t paid for all of this. Martin was blasé about the fact that his parents had paid for his tuition, as if it were something owed to him by birthright. He knew how different my situation was, but he didn’t understand the pain I’d experienced in my early years, so fearful that one misstep would cost me everything my father had worked so hard for.