Lineage(47)

A shining Chevy Tahoe and a Ford Ranger so rust-coated its original color was indiscernible were parked near the front door. As Lance approached and stopped the Land Rover a few paces behind the Ranger, he caught sight of a man sitting on a stone bench just outside the entryway. Lance could only make out white hair protruding in every direction from beneath a dark baseball hat that had been jammed on, it seemed, as an afterthought. The man also wore a black T-shirt and baggy gray painter’s pants. The bill of the hat obscured his features, but if he had to guess, Lance would have placed him near seventy-five, if not more.

When Lance cut his engine, the man seated on the bench looked up and stared from beneath the brim of his hat, his hands resting flat by his sides. He looked like someone on the edge of a deep pool contemplating a dunk into waters that he no longer trusted. Lance opened his door and shut it, making his way between the vehicles to the front porch. The man did not move as he approached, and it was only when Lance was a few feet away that the man betrayed the illusion of a statue.

“Afternoon,” the elderly man said, his dark eyes running uneasily up and down Lance.

“Hi, I’m Lance. I’m here to see the house,” he said as he stepped forward and extended his hand. The man hesitated only a moment before reaching out and shaking Lance’s outstretched palm. The man’s hand felt like iron wrapped in paper.

“John Hanrahan. I’m the caretaker here, although I haven’t been able to fulfill my duties as of late, and for that I apologize.”

“I think the place is beautiful, just needs someone to live here, I’m guessing.” John pursed his lips and nodded in agreement. A moment later the front door opened and a tall blond woman dressed in a white business suit and black high heels stepped out onto the concrete apron before the entry.

“Lance?” she said as she strode over to him, her hand held out before her.

“Yes, and you must be Carrie?”

“The one and only,” she said, beaming at him through what must have been an inch of makeup. “Well, what did you think of the drive? Very scenic up here, but just wait until fall. You said you live near Minneapolis, right?” Without giving pause to let Lance answer, she hurtled on through what must have been a customary greeting and sales pitch combined. “I lived there in college, couldn’t really get the hang of city life though. I grew up a few miles south of Duluth, so this has always been my home, so to speak. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Come inside and I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Lance followed Carrie as she spun on one polished black heel and disappeared back into the house. As he mounted the steps, Lance looked over his shoulder at the old man, who still sat on the bench, not looking in his direction but staring at something across the yard, seemingly in deep thought. Lance was about to ask him if he was coming with them when Carrie’s high voice called out from inside.

“Coming, Lance?”

He turned away from the motionless figure on the bench and stepped into the coolness of the house.

The foyer that met him was wide with tall ceilings. Smooth oak planking made up the floor he stood on, and the walls were covered in surprisingly light, neutral colors. Beyond the foyer, the home opened up with vertical support beams made of stained logs that ran from the floor to the ceiling nearly fifteen feet overhead. A large bathroom was positioned to the right with bright track lighting already glowing within. Lance assumed Carrie had gone throughout the house before he arrived, throwing on lights and perhaps tidying up a bit to further entice her potential buyer.

“The last owners really wanted to modernize the old place. They sheetrocked over all of the stone walls, which to me wasn’t the best idea, but it turned out really well nonetheless. The house was built in the late forties just as Stony Bay was being fully established. Actually, the bay out front is the town’s namesake and I’m guessing you’ll be able to see why.”

Lance followed the realtor farther into the house, glancing up every so often at the large chandeliers hanging from ornate chains. Suddenly he imagined he could see the blond man sitting in an overstuffed chair covered by a white sheet. Lance stopped and stared. The man blinked and Lance could see a tear running down the right side of his face. Absently, the man wiped it away and kept looking forward blankly, then dissolved to leave only an empty dust-covered chair behind. He’s here, Lance thought. Why’s he here? What is he waiting for? Lance’s mind was so consumed with the story dancing at the edges of his imagination that he barely heard Carrie speak to him.