Season of Change(16)

                And they moved like ninjas over the normally creaky floorboards.

                The house was used to the quiet. Slade was used to the quiet. But he’d expected the girls to be chatty or fidgety or sighing with boredom, breaking the stillness, not adding to the taciturn hush.

                He took out the kitchen trash, listening to the sounds of the night—crickets, the rustle of leaves in the poplar in back, a distant bullfrog by the river. Some nights he sat in an old chaise longue in the backyard until the stars faded, preferring to be where there was noise than in a stagnant house full of soured memories. He hoped he wouldn’t add the twins’ visit to his the list of disappointing recollections.

                “That you, Jennings?” It was Old Man Takata sitting on his front porch.

                There was just enough light from a streetlamp hidden behind a tree across the street to see smoke rising from Takata’s porch. The man loved his cigars.

                Slade crossed their parallel driveways, stopping on the edge of Takata’s perfectly bladed weed-free lawn, because no one walked across that golf-course-worthy green without risking a tirade. “Enjoying the cool breeze?”

                Takata scoffed and resumed puffing on his cigar.

                Slade waited. He knew his neighbor was building up to something. He’d had enough dealings with the former undertaker to know when the old man had something on his mind.

                Takata didn’t disappoint. “It’s not so bad out here, is it? Inside it’s always too quiet, like I’m waiting for Nancy to say something...” Nancy being his deceased wife. “Only she never does.”

                Air left Slade’s lungs in a rush. The older man nailed it. Slade always felt as if he was listening for his father’s voice, waiting for him to say everything was going to be okay.

                Before he could formulate a response, Takata dismissed him. “Best get inside to your girls. Old houses can be intimidating at night.”

                Later, as Slade lay in the twin bed of his youth, contemplating the ceiling and listening to his daughters’ unintelligible whispers through the shared bedroom wall, he thought about Takata’s words.

                And tried not to listen.





                                      CHAPTER THREE

                SLADE MADE BREAKFAST early the next morning. Turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, whole-wheat toast. After breakfast he planned to update Flynn and Will on their need of a wine cave and recommend a course of action. His palms grew sweaty at the thought of admitting they needed more capital or a larger operating budget. The omission didn’t rest completely on his shoulders, but it felt as if it did.

                He was piling the eggs into a serving bowl when the back of his neck prickled. A glance over his shoulder revealed it was the girls, standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. Evangeline was right. Today the Goth was gone. Matching embroidered turquoise peasant blouses. Matching skinny jeans. Matching black cloth loafers. Their hair fell in single black braids down their backs.

                “I can see your pretty eyes.” Yesterday, he’d been happy to note beneath those blond bangs they were still green—no colored contacts. Today, he was relieved their hair was still black. He’d been afraid they’d hid hot-pink hair under their wigs. “You got your eye color from your grandmother Jennings.”

                They remained mute.

                “What would you like to do after I get a little work done this morning?” He pretended they were as excited to be here as he was to be with them. “Go shopping? See a movie?”