Page 69 of Unpacking Secrets
Twenty-Eight
Juliet
WhenIawoke,Ipawed half-heartedly through the bin of clothes from Libby, moved nearly to tears once again by the sweetness of the gesture. I pulled on a plain green shirt and leggings, then combed through my hair with my fingers and shoved it up into a bun.
Before going downstairs, I leaned against the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink and sucked in several deep, rasping breaths as I fought back a fresh wave of grief.
“It’s going to be okay,” I told my reflection, flinching at the hoarseness of my own voice.
I found Henry in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes. Numbness had set in, turning my insides as dry and dusty as they'd been before I set out for Spruce Hill. For a moment, I just stared at the back of his head, but he must've sensed my presence and turned toward me.
“Hey,” he said gently, setting aside the knife and wiping his hands on a towel. “Did you sleep?”
As soon as he dropped the dishcloth, I moved into him, burying my face against his chest. His arms went around me, so steady and comfortable that something settled deep inside me. I breathed in the scent of his soap, letting it soothe my nerves as much as his embrace did, but it was another few minutes until I trusted myself to speak.
“Yes,” I said. “A bit. Is it lunchtime already?”
Henry pressed his lips to the top of my head, then guided me to the table and brought over a tray of sandwich fixings.
“Just about. We’re meeting Lewis Zoratti at two, if you’re still up for it.”
My head jerked up in surprise. “We are?”
“If anyone can tell us who the hell that other guy was, it’s him,” he said.
“You don’t think the fire was an accident.”
It didn’t come out as a question, nor had I meant it as one. We were the only two people who’d been in that cottage recently and neither of us had left any appliances running that could have started a fire. Somehow I didn’t think Nan had been the type to overlook outdated electrical wiring, either.
I watched the conscious effort he made to unclench his fists, then I wrapped my hand around his, rubbing my thumb absently across his palm. After a second, he rotated his wrist to twine his fingers through mine.
“I think,” he began, “that there are too many unknowns for my comfort. This stuff doesn’t happen in Spruce Hill.”
“Until I came to town,” I replied, horrified by the thought.
“Oh no,” Henry said swiftly. “This is not your fault, not by a long shot. But something is going on, and we’re going to figure it out.”
His certainty reassured me to some small extent, enough that I was able to force myself to eat a sandwich, at least. Libby dropped by with one gift bag filled with toiletries, including my own bar of soap from Mark, and another bag containing a sketchbook and set of drawing pencils.
I burst into tears at her thoughtfulness. Henry looked on helplessly while Libby held me tight.
“You’re not alone around here,” Libby said when I finally drew back from the hug. “We look out for each other in this town, and you’re one of us now. If you want to ditch this clown to go shop for underwear later, you just let me know.” She shot Henry a look and added, “We’ll keep Blue at our house until you’re ready for her.”
I gave a weak smile and thanked her again, then turned immediately into Henry’s chest as she left, taking Blue home with her. Though my shoulders shuddered under his steady hands, no more tears came.
“When do we need to leave?” I asked. “I’d like to shower before we go, if there’s time.”
Henry kissed me gently and said, “Take all the time you need. The house isn’t far.”
I stood beneath the stream of hot water for several long minutes before finally shampooing my hair. When I lathered my body with Henry’s soap, I realized the scent was different on its own.
Maybe he did have something to do with it.
Libby’s bag of toiletries included a wide-tooth comb and a pack of hair elastics, so I sent a silent stream of thanks across the short distance between the houses. The shower had calmed me, washed away the lingering traces of smoke, and cleared my mind of the haunting image of flames leaping through the shattered windows at the cottage.
Instead of sorrow, I was filled with a rising surge of fury at the senselessness of it all.
There was probably nothing more to discover from any of the boxes we'd hauled down from storage, no answers to any of my questions about the past, but what a waste, destroying all those memories—photos and artwork and decades of handwritten journals, along with my painting for Henry.
