The Dwelling: A Novel by Susie Moloney Page B

and Kate arrived. It was logical.
    And (for god’s sake) it was her money, wasn’t it?
    The front door was closed against the sun, making the hallway dark after the brightness of the upstairs and Becca paused, slowing down on the stairs, blinking to let her eyes adjust to the light. Through the wide doorway into the living room, she could see that light flooded the room. The front window spanned almost the whole wall, and was at least six feet tall; she’d added a rider to their house insurance to cover it against breakage. That had been another twenty-five dollars. Of course, Dan had still had his job then.
    She took the cup into the kitchen to put it in the sink, only half registering the open door to Dan’s studio. As she passed it she called back, “Will I need gloves for this?” noting that the leather gloves were in the toolbox, which was open on the kitchen floor.
    Dan answered something back, but Becca hadn’t heard him. Deciding she did (wood splinters, hard edges), she picked up the pair and walked back through the kitchen, to the studio. She could see Dan, bent over in front of the shelves with the tape measure.
    She heard the snake of the measuring tape running back into the metal casing (a sound like nails on a blackboard) as she approached the small door to the studio. It was wide open.
    A cold breeze hit her from the front, swirling around her, cooling the sweat on her back and freezing her. Gooseflesh broke out on her arms. She crossed them over her breasts, feeling her nipples harden. She opened her mouth— it’s so cold in —taking a single step into the room.
    BANG! The door slammed shut just as her foot crossed the threshold, smashing hard on her big toe.
    “Oh!” She took a reactive jump backward, staggering, cursing inwardly. She bent over and grabbed her foot, rubbing her toe. (Shit.)
    Dan said something on the other side, alarmed, but it was too muffled to make out.
    “The goddamn door slammed in my face!” she called out angrily, at least as much at the door as to Dan inside.
    Becca straightened up, face screwed up in a pout— felt like the nail cracked…that’s going to hurt in heels on Monday —and grabbed the knob, turning it and pushing, stumbling again when her weight did not open the door. She turned and pushed again.
    It did not open. She rattled it gently, coaxing, turned it and pushed again, but it was stuck. “Dan,” she called, leaning over to feel around her toe again, checking for the cracked nail, “let me in. The door’s stuck.”
    From inside he called, “What?” She pictured him looking up, not even having noticed or heard the slamming door, he can just ignore everything completely oblivious to the world must be nice, color rose in her cheeks, annoyance made her voice rise shrilly, hating the sound of it when it came out of her mouth. She hated yelling. Dan yelled from wherever he was, regularly. Like a fishwife. It was unattractive.
    “The door is stuck! Let me in.” She said the last part through gritted teeth and then banged hard on the wood twice, not knocking, but smacking it, angry; she tried turning it again, but it wouldn’t budge.
    Then it swung open easily, the knob tugged gently out of her hand. Dan stood behind it. “You have to be gentle with it, Bec. It’s an old knob,” he said, pushing it open, all the way to the wall.
    “It was stuck.”
    “You have to go easy,” he said firmly.
    “Well, it wouldn’t open. You should change the knobs.”
    “I don’t want to. They’re funky. They’re cool.” The knobs were white porcelain and they were attractive; it was a look, as they say, that matched the interior of the room. It was a part of the house untouched by time or renovators. For whatever reason.
    “It’s probably not safe,” she said, not willing to let it go, feeling the tension rise in her, the wanting to pick a fight. Lately she felt that way whenever they were in close quarters. Picking a fight seemed better than the