Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(85)

Standing in this entry with him, looking around as he summoned the strength to walk down that hallway, Shannon realized that there wasn’t much of Show in this house, either, even though he’d owned it before he married Holly. With the exception of those few remaining photos on the wall, and that ugly recliner in the living room, there was no trace of the man she loved in these rooms. The red plaid loveseat?

The dried flower arrangements? The gingham, with its little bows? The curios? Cross stitch? Uh, no. Not Show.

With the realization that his memories were about the only things in this house that were his, Shannon thought that, perhaps, there was a way for them both to remake it into a home. She’d need to think that through—and not now, not when she was awash with love and sympathy for him, but when she could think more objectively.

He released her from his hold and said, “Okay.” Then he strode down the hallway, not stopping until he’d pushed open the swinging door at the end and crossed into the kitchen. Shannon followed, and stopped right behind him, where he stood just inside the doorway, his hand holding the door open.

“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit. Oh, shit.”

She put her hand on his back again, and this time she could feel the tremor of tension in his muscles.

At her touch he took another step, and she came into the room. It was a bright country kitchen, decorated with an aggressive good cheer, like the rest of the house. The walls were covered with wallpaper with an apple pattern, and the greens and reds in the paper, not to mention the apples, carried over everywhere. The wall décor here was inspirational sayings about cooking, family, and the heart of the home. Holly must have been a singularly unhappy woman to have had to surround herself in every room with so many reminders about why she should be happy. It was interesting that she apparently had not wanted (or needed) all these reminders when she’d moved away.

Shannon could not see any signs that anything had gone wrong in this room. Show had told her that Daisy had been hurt here, and how she had been hurt. A horrible hurt that had killed her. But it just looked like a kitchen. There was a plain, well-used but attractive, heavy wood table, maybe maple, surrounded by six sturdy chairs. The cupboards and countertop ran along the length of the longest wall. The countertops were old-fashioned Formica, white with gold flecks. The cabinetry was wood and, again, well-used but in good shape. Aside from the dust, everything was clean.

Show was staring at an empty space on the beige linoleum floor, just in front of the kitchen sink. He walked over and squatted down, laying his hands on the floor. He bowed his head, and Shannon stayed where she was, just inside the door. His hands spread wide over the floor. She waited.

“There used to be a rug here. One of the braided things that Holly made. I guess—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. He’d told her that the Horde had cleaned everything up right afterward. They must have taken that rug away, and by its absence, Show was filling in the scene in his head. Shannon thought that was a very bad idea, but she didn’t know what to do to save him from it.

“Show…” She just didn’t know what to say or do.

“Holly sews and does all kinds of crap. You can see it everywhere if you look around. There’s a little shed outside I built her so she could do all that. She also cooks and bakes and, well, all of it. Anything that she thought made her a good mother and wife—she’s good at it all. Daisy hated all that, but Holly tried to make her do it. She had this pretty idea of her and the girls doing all that stuff together, made ‘em matching aprons and everything. When Holly gets an idea, well, you’re done for. One thing Daze liked, though, was bread. She loved to punch the dough. Holly used to yell at her for making the dough tough—I guess messing with it too much does that.”

He stopped, still staring at the floor, his hands flat on it. Shannon waited. The house was roasting hot, and sweat was running in streams down her back and sides, but she would wait as long as he needed.

“Fuck, Daze. I’m sorry, girlie.” He said it so low, Shannon barely heard it. But she did. Her heart ached for him. She took a step toward him but stopped, unsure whether she would be intruding.

Then he whispered, “Happy birthday,” and she couldn’t take it anymore. She went to him, dropping to her knees. She laid a hand on one of his.

He looked up at her. For a few moments, they simply looked into each other’s eyes. Finally, he smiled sadly. “Okay. Okay.” He turned his hand and wrapped it around hers, and then he stood, pulling her up with him. “Let’s get to work.”

oOo

They worked all day. First they opened all the windows, and Show put box fans on strategic sills, blowing fresh air through. But it was a hot, muggy day, and the house had been closed up a long time. The heat was entrenched.

Once Show had the air conditioner on, and once the dust had blown through the ducts, the air in the house became bearable, almost pleasant. Show cleaned windows, and Shannon dusted furniture. She pulled down curtains and stripped linens, and he pulled rugs out and beat them on the clothesline. Show worked with a grim determination that Shannon tried to steer clear of. She let him work through the things he needed to work through.

Late in the afternoon, while she was pulling everything off the walls, packing up the samplers and sayings, the curios and knickknacks, Show went upstairs and didn’t come back down. She didn’t think much of it, assuming he was cleaning one of the rooms up there—though the beds were stripped and the curtains down, and two of the rooms were basically empty, anyway.