I’d made some structural improvements, and when Steph moved in, she spent every spare moment making it beautiful—paint and pillows and pictures in frames. Our little hideaway from the world, she called it. Not that she ever wanted to hide away, social butterfly that she was, but she knew I sometimes needed to, and that was OK with her. She never tried to make me into someone I wasn’t, unlike the rest of my family.
As soon as I let myself into the cabin, Steph’s cat leaped down from the windowsill and twined around my feet. “Hi, Bridget. You happy to see me?” The moment I knelt down and pet her, I felt my anger abate somewhat. I’d always been a dog person, but Steph had been allergic to them. When she came home with a kitten a few months after we were married, I’d groaned, but damn if that cat hadn’t grown on me. Whenever I had nightmares, she’d jump up on the bed and crawl over me, purring softly. It reminded me of the way Steph used to whisper to me during those long, arduous, sweat-soaked nights, her hands rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back.
When Bridget had gotten enough attention, she wandered into the kitchen, and I looked around, hoping to see something left undone, some task to distract me from going to bed.
But there was nothing. I always did the dishes right after I ate, and I never let laundry pile up. I’d just cleaned the bathroom two days ago, and I’d washed the kitchen floor over the weekend. The shelves were organized, the furniture dusted, the windowpanes clear. Georgia was always amazed at how clean I kept the cabin. “Your brother could take some lessons from you,” she’d say. “He’s such a slob.”
There was only one chore I refused to do, and that was cleaning Steph’s clothing out of the closet. Georgia had offered to do it. Steph’s sister Suzanne had offered to do it. Even my mother had said she’d be glad to fly up if I wanted someone else to take care of her things.
But I always said no. What would be the point? To make it easier on myself to live there without her? I didn’t want it to be easier. And if my family couldn’t understand that, well fuck them.
It was my pain. I’d earned it.
I guarded it closely.
Six
Margot
I knocked on the wooden screen door of Pete and Georgia Valentini’s picturesque white farmhouse at one in the afternoon for our business lunch. While I waited on the porch, I looked around. The house sat about a hundred feet back from the highway, on the west side but facing east toward the lake, and although I’d driven, I could easily have walked. The house itself appeared old but well-maintained—fresh white paint on the exterior, hanging baskets of flowers on the porch, comfy chairs on both sides of the center entrance.
To the left of the house were some birch trees, a baby swing, and some other toys scattered on the lawn. A giant red barn sat just beyond the trees, and another white one behind that. To the right of the house was a garage, and on the other side of that were smaller trees planted in neat rows. Apple, maybe? Beyond those was a dirt road, and just across it sat a massive old Victorian, abandoned by the looks of the peeling paint and overgrown gardens.
I was about to knock again when the blond woman I’d seen in the picture answered the door, a pudgy little boy on her hip. Her hair was much shorter, about chin-length, and her body much slimmer. “Hi. Georgia?”
She greeted me with a smile. “You must be Margot. Come on in.”
I entered the front hall and held out my hand. “Margot Lewiston.”
After giving it a firm shake, she shut the door and switched her son to her other hip. “Georgia Valentini. And this is Cooper. I’m just about to put him down for a nap.”
I smiled at the chubby-cheeked boy. “Sweet dreams, Cooper.”
“Go on back to the kitchen,” Georgia said, gesturing down the hall. “Pete’s just making us some lunch. Have you eaten?”
“No, actually. Not even breakfast.”
“Perfect. I’ll join you in five minutes.” She headed up the creaky stairs behind her and I walked back to the kitchen, where Pete stood at the counter, wearing an apron and slicing tomatoes at an alarming speed.
“Hi there.” I smiled when he looked up. “I’m Margot. Your wife said to come on back.”
“Of course. Welcome.” He set down the knife, wiped his hands on a towel, and came around the counter to shake my hand. “Pete Valentini, nice to meet you. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” I slid onto one of the stools at the counter and looked around. “Nice big kitchen. Was this original to the house?”
Pete shook his head and returned to his vegetable platter. “No, my parents added this part about twenty years ago. And as you can see, it hasn’t been touched since.”
I laughed. “It’s not so bad.” The decor was a little dated, but I was used to houses where nothing changed for long periods of time. “When was the house built?”
“It’s about a hundred years old. How was your drive up?”
“Not bad at all. Less than two hours.”
“And you’re staying nearby?”
“Right across the street and down a couple blocks toward the lake. I got lucky. Someone had booked the cottage for the entire month of August and ended up canceling at the last minute.”
“That is lucky. This is our high season up here.”
I admired the confident way he moved around the kitchen. “Did I hear that both you and Georgia were chefs?”
“We were when we met in New York, but right now Georgia is managing a restaurant in town and I’m only cooking there two days a week because of the work here at the farm, plus taking care of Cooper. When we moved here three years ago, we were hoping to start a farm-to-table restaurant, but…” He sighed as Georgia came into the kitchen. “We haven’t gotten there yet.”