Cass used to tease me that I’m a lesbian magnet because of the frequency I’m hit on by women. I used to tell him that’s because lesbians have good taste. Then he’d wonder aloud if I could find a lesbian who might also find him cute, and I’d wonder aloud what was the best way to get rid of a dead body.
As it turned out, cremation.
The list of things I’ll never joke about again is almost as long as the trail of tears I’ve left behind me.
“It’s getting blustery out there! You can really feel the end of summer!” Suzanne sweeps into the room on a gust of cold wind, pushing her hair out of her eyes and laughing. She’s about my age, attractive in a brassy way, one of those women who wears perfume that inhabits a room long after she’s gone. I close the doors behind her and gesture toward the grocery bag in her arms.
“You need help with that?”
“It’s not heavy. It’s just a bottle of wine and a little something I made for you.” She looks around the empty living room. “Did the movers not make it yet?”
“They came this morning, but as you can see, I didn’t bring much with me. Mostly just my clothes and books, some bedroom stuff.”
When she looks confused, I feel forced to explain. “My place in Phoenix was very Southwest, lots of cowhide and leather. None of it would fit here. I’m planning on getting an interior designer to create a modern-meets-Victorian vibe, keeping all the cool character of the Victorian era but updating it with contemporary touches.”
Suzanne looks impressed. “That sounds amazing, Megan. I have several great designers I can put you in touch with if you need recommendations.”
“Yeah, that would be great. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? At least there’s a flat surface in there.”
I lead the way as Suzanne follows, her heels clicking hollowly over the wood floor.
The house is built around a central rotunda which rises up two stories and highlights an elaborate curved staircase. We walk past the empty drawing room, music room, parlor, and guest bedrooms, and arrive at the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it’s big and airy. Unlike the rest of the house, the windows are all boarded up and covered with a tarp on the outside to protect from weather damage. Evidence of the fire still remains: soot clings to the ceiling, scorch marks mar the black-and-white checkered floor.
“Oh Lord!” exclaims Megan, surveying the damage. “My cleaning crew was supposed to come out here before you arrived!”
“Someone must’ve come out, because the floors have been swept and the banisters have been dusted. And there are no cobwebs anywhere.”
She shudders dramatically, wriggling her shoulders. “Ugh, don’t talk to me about cobwebs. Spiders scare the bejeezus out of me.”
I have to smile. I used to be afraid of spiders too, until I had bigger things to worry about. PTSD tends to put things like arachnophobia into perspective. “I promise I’ll kill any that might jump out at you.”
Looking around warily for any critters preparing to pounce, Suzanne heads over to the large marble island in the center of the kitchen. She sets down the bag, pulls out a bottle of wine, and puts it aside, then withdraws a plate covered in aluminum foil.
“I baked you a key lime pie. You said it was your favorite.”
I’m touched. I can’t believe she remembered that detail. We must’ve spoken about it months ago during one of our many phone conversations before the house went into escrow.
“That’s so sweet of you. And here I was expecting a half-dead plant.”
She props a hand on her hip, all sass and sarcasm. “I’ll have you know I never do the half-dead plant thing. I’m a classy girl. Usually it’s a half-dead flower arrangement.”
We share a smile until I notice the label on the wine and almost have a heart attack. “Suzanne, that’s a very good bottle of Burgundy.”
She’s pleased I recognized it. Her grin goes from ear to ear. “Thank God you know your wine, because I had to go into Portland for something nice. When I told the guy at the wine store how much you paid for this place, he steered me right into the back where the good stuff was all kept behind a locked door.”
I pick up the bottle, running my thumb over the label of the Château Corton Grancey, blinking hard because water has begun to pool in my eyes.
“This was the wine my husband and I used to have on our anniversary every year,” I murmur, swamped with memories of Cass. “We went to France on our honeymoon and discovered this old man on the side of a country road one afternoon. He’d fallen off his bicycle and hurt his knee, so we gave him a ride back to his house. Which turned out to be this incredible wine estate—he was the patriarch of a family that had been making wine in Burgundy for more than two hundred years. He made us stay for dinner with his family and served us this.”