Setting her hands on her hips, she says, “AFontaineset it on fire.”
“Pfff,” I laugh. “They did not.”
“Did too.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Am not.” She doesn’t seem to care that much, just stating the facts.
Some old stories resurface in my memory. “My Gramps’ used to say that the Callaways stole our land.” It looks like each family had their own reasons to dislike the other. Aunt Angela never mentioned any of these stories, but they could explain Mom’s hangups with the Callaways.
She shrugs. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Ancient history,” she says as we take two steps up and turn at an angle, which places us in the white aisle of the mansion. “This part was added in the 1850s or ’60s.”
The rooms are larger, airier, and a wide wraparound porch offers stunning views of the river. White columns still give this aisle a stately feel, but it’s so much brighter and relaxed than the older aisle, with its smaller windows and dark wood paneling.
“What’s your plan now?” I ask Lane as she shows me bedrooms that once were probably cute with their paisley bedspreads and maple furniture, but now are in dire need of TLC.
“I’m sending my resume to newspapers, online outlets, magazines.” She pushes the door to a music room, revealing the baby grand covered by a sheet. “Twenty a day.”
“You always had a knack with words. You’ll find something.” Lane majored in journalism, and when we chatted at Kiara’s wedding, she was hoping to find a job in New York.
“Used to have the best parties in here,” she murmurs to herself with a little melancholy as she shows me a game room at garden level. “Yeah, journalism isn’t dead. I just need to keep trying.”
“Maybe expand beyond New York?” I suggest as we circle back to the main aisle through the third-floor hallway, peeking into another set of adorable yet dusty bedrooms under the eaves.
She shrugs. “I always dreamed of the big city. Cliché for a small-town girl, I know.”
I can see that. We always dream of what we think we can’t have.
I go back into the bedroom I’ll be sharing with Noah for the next few months and pause at its entrance, the conflicting feelings of excitement, dread, familiarity, and newness heightening. The room is large enough to have three windows facing the village, with heavy drapes providing darkness against those four a.m. sunrises in the summer. Two navy blue couches are at an angle, one a loveseat against the hallway wall, the longer one—where Noah slept last night and with its back to the bed—facing a small fireplace. Leaning down, I verify that it’s not a pull-out couch and feel guilty that he feels he’s the one who needs to pretzel-fit onto it at night.
Maybe we should swap nights? I’m not giving up the fight.
His scent floats in the room, discreet but very present, sending butterflies in my stomach as I walk around.
He must have tucked his pillow under the bedspread at some point, because it’s no longer on the couch. Yep. It’s right there. No pajamas under it, though.
Hmm.
I open his nightstand’s drawer (mine was empty last night). A notebook, a pen, a flashlight, batteries, a phone charger, another phone charger, a Swiss army knife.
Boring.
I flip the notebook open, expecting to find random to-do lists. Or maybe doodles. Possibly phone numbers?
Instead, there’s a recent date, then some neatly written text that ends with,
I didn’t expect this from being married.
Shit. I shut the notebook. Is this… is this a diary? I open it halfway, taking a brief peek.
It’s totally a diary.
Ohmygod.
Noah has a diary and I almost read it.
Heartbeat significantly higher, I set the notebook back where it was and swiftly retreat from the now-forbidden nightstand.
