listen to them. She closed the mirrored front, leaving it fogged from her shower, and maneuvered down the narrow steps and then the equally small hallway that led from the base of the stairs to the kitchen, careful to keep her knee from straining.
Here it was a week into their occupation of Spite House, and none of the women had made any move to leave. The first few days had been rough, but instead of decamping to a hotel, they hooked a generator to the circuit box, turned the water on with the curb key, and claimed rooms. The guy at the hardware store warned them against the generator as a permanent solution, but he’d sold them an inverter that gave them enough juice to power the refrigerator, a few lights, and when it got really cold a space heater. Using a permanent marker, Isobel scrawled lists of what each room needed on yellowed wallpaper. She called contractors and talked about electrical updates and plumbing issues of homes built in the Jazz Age. In the mornings, Lizzie often found Elyse making her way through the house with a pad of sticky notes, tagging every item of potential value to check it against similar antiques online. Nothing about these actions appeared temporary to Lizzie.
Her body ached from the rehab and conditioning she’d put herself through that morning. She eased into a chair next to Elyse, who wore three shirts and was paging through one of Lizzie’s grandmother’s ancient cookbooks.
“Found these for you,” Elyse said, pushing over several dusty shoe boxes. “They were in the wardrobe in my bedroom.”
“Grandma always did like to hide stuff. You can’t open a closet or a drawer or even dust under the bed without unearthing some container stuffed with bits of her life.”
The back door opened, letting the chill of the January air into the sun-warmed kitchen. “We’ve got to get the power back on. That generator is ridiculous. I have to drive to the gas station every day to fill the damn thing.” Isobel dusted her hands against her jeans. She had dried leaves in her hair. “You get in touch with code enforcement yet?”
“Can’t find my phone,” Lizzie lied. She opened a tan box marked “Halloween.”
“So, you haven’t talked to your mother? Or code enforcement?”
“I will.” Lizzie tried not to be defensive, to expect Isobel of all people to understand how hard it was to call her mother and have a conversation—about money, expectations and failures.
Isobel looked as if she were about to say more, but instead she mentioned cleaning up and disappeared upstairs.
“She’s not going to let you slide much longer,” Elyse said.
Lizzie let her fingers sift through the contents of the box, which contained dozens of letters and handfuls of photographs from three or four different decades. “What about you?”
“I’m a free spirit,” Elyse said, dog-earing a page in the cookbook. “Nobody cares if I disappear for weeks, or even months. Besides, it’s a place I could see myself staying.”
“Honestly?” Before Lizzie could push her cousin further on the idea, she glimpsed several Polaroids of her mother with feathered hair. Lizzie turned the box upside down and let its contents spill onto the floor. She’d seen a photograph like that once before—it was from the year her mother was pregnant with her.
Isobel reappeared with a towel wrapped around her. “I found your phone. Forty-two text messages and seventeen missed calls.”
Lizzie ignored her. Among the pictures she clutched was one of her mother taken when she must have been six or seven months pregnant.
“What are we going to do about this?” Isobel asked, putting an emphasis on the word “we” that made Lizzie think there was about to be an intervention.
“Why do we have to do anything?” Lizzie moved her thumb over her mother’s face and studied the photograph for clues about what had been happening in her life that year. Who had she spent time with? What had she been like?
“What if we
Here it was a week into their occupation of Spite House, and none of the women had made any move to leave. The first few days had been rough, but instead of decamping to a hotel, they hooked a generator to the circuit box, turned the water on with the curb key, and claimed rooms. The guy at the hardware store warned them against the generator as a permanent solution, but he’d sold them an inverter that gave them enough juice to power the refrigerator, a few lights, and when it got really cold a space heater. Using a permanent marker, Isobel scrawled lists of what each room needed on yellowed wallpaper. She called contractors and talked about electrical updates and plumbing issues of homes built in the Jazz Age. In the mornings, Lizzie often found Elyse making her way through the house with a pad of sticky notes, tagging every item of potential value to check it against similar antiques online. Nothing about these actions appeared temporary to Lizzie.
Her body ached from the rehab and conditioning she’d put herself through that morning. She eased into a chair next to Elyse, who wore three shirts and was paging through one of Lizzie’s grandmother’s ancient cookbooks.
“Found these for you,” Elyse said, pushing over several dusty shoe boxes. “They were in the wardrobe in my bedroom.”
“Grandma always did like to hide stuff. You can’t open a closet or a drawer or even dust under the bed without unearthing some container stuffed with bits of her life.”
The back door opened, letting the chill of the January air into the sun-warmed kitchen. “We’ve got to get the power back on. That generator is ridiculous. I have to drive to the gas station every day to fill the damn thing.” Isobel dusted her hands against her jeans. She had dried leaves in her hair. “You get in touch with code enforcement yet?”
“Can’t find my phone,” Lizzie lied. She opened a tan box marked “Halloween.”
“So, you haven’t talked to your mother? Or code enforcement?”
“I will.” Lizzie tried not to be defensive, to expect Isobel of all people to understand how hard it was to call her mother and have a conversation—about money, expectations and failures.
Isobel looked as if she were about to say more, but instead she mentioned cleaning up and disappeared upstairs.
“She’s not going to let you slide much longer,” Elyse said.
Lizzie let her fingers sift through the contents of the box, which contained dozens of letters and handfuls of photographs from three or four different decades. “What about you?”
“I’m a free spirit,” Elyse said, dog-earing a page in the cookbook. “Nobody cares if I disappear for weeks, or even months. Besides, it’s a place I could see myself staying.”
“Honestly?” Before Lizzie could push her cousin further on the idea, she glimpsed several Polaroids of her mother with feathered hair. Lizzie turned the box upside down and let its contents spill onto the floor. She’d seen a photograph like that once before—it was from the year her mother was pregnant with her.
Isobel reappeared with a towel wrapped around her. “I found your phone. Forty-two text messages and seventeen missed calls.”
Lizzie ignored her. Among the pictures she clutched was one of her mother taken when she must have been six or seven months pregnant.
“What are we going to do about this?” Isobel asked, putting an emphasis on the word “we” that made Lizzie think there was about to be an intervention.
“Why do we have to do anything?” Lizzie moved her thumb over her mother’s face and studied the photograph for clues about what had been happening in her life that year. Who had she spent time with? What had she been like?
“What if we
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