Pen Pal

2

I knew we should’ve bought something newer.

But Michael didn’t want a new home. He preferred older homes with “character.” When we moved into this Queen Anne Victorian six years ago, we were newlyweds with more energy than money. We spent weekends painting and hammering, pulling up old carpet and patching holes in drywall.

It was fun for about three months. Then it became exhausting. Then it became a battle of wills. Us against a house that seemed determined to remain in a state of decay no matter how much we tried to update it.

We’d replace a broken water pipe, then the heater would go out. We’d upgrade the ancient kitchen appliances, then we’d find toxic mold in the basement. It was a never-ending merry-go-round of repairs and replacements that drained our finances and our patience.

Michael had planned to replace the leaky roof this year.

I sometimes wonder what will be left on my To-Do list when I die.

But then I force myself to think about something else, because I’m sad enough already.

I bring two plastic buckets from the garage into the kitchen and place them on the floor under the places the ceiling is dripping, then get out the mop. It takes almost an hour to get all the water up and the floor dry. Just as I’m finishing, I hear the front door open and shut. I glance up at the clock on the microwave.

Ten o’clock. Right on time.

My housekeeper, Fiona, walks into the kitchen. She takes one look at me, drops the plastic bags of cleaning supplies she’s holding, and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

It’s a testament to how exhausted I am that I don’t even jump at the sound.

“Do I really look that bad? Remind me to put on some makeup before you come next week.”

Breathing hard, her face white, she braces an arm against the doorframe and makes the sign of the cross over her chest. “Christ on a cracker! You gave me a proper fright!”

I frown at her. “Who were you expecting? Santa Claus?”

Unlike the rest of Fiona, her laugh is small and weak.

Of Scottish descent, she’s plump and attractive, with bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and stout legs. Her hands are red and rough from years of work cleaning houses. Though somewhere north of sixty, she’s got the energy of a woman half her age.

Having her help me keep the place up is an expensive luxury, but with two stories, over five thousand square feet, and what seems like a million nooks and crannies that gather dust, the house needs constant cleaning.

She shakes her head, fanning herself. “Hoo! You got the old ticker pumping, my dear!” She chuckles. “It’s been a while.”

Then she turns serious and looks at me closely, peering at me as if she hasn’t seen me in a hundred years.

“How are you, Kayla?”

I glance away. I can’t lie while gazing right into those piercing blue eyes. “I’m okay. Just trying to stay occupied.”

She hesitates, as if unsure of what to say. Then she exhales in a gust and makes a helpless gesture toward the window and the cloudy view of the Puget Sound beyond. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I read about it in the paper. Such a shock. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. But thank you.” I clear my throat. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Pull yourself together. “So don’t bother with the kitchen today, obviously. I’ll find someone to come out and take a look at the leak, but in the meantime, there’s no sense cleaning up in here if it’s only going to get wet all over again. My office doesn’t need to get cleaned this week, and also…”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Also maybe skip Michael’s office. I think I’d like to leave it as is for a while.”

“I understand,” she says softly. “So you’ll be staying?”

“Yes. I’ll be here all day.”

“No, I meant you’ll be staying in the house?”

There’s something odd in her tone, a subtext I’m not getting, but then I understand. She’s worried about her job security.

“Oh, I couldn’t sell now. It’s too soon to make such a major decision. Maybe in a year or two, when things feel more settled. I don’t know. Honestly, I’m just taking it one day at a time.”

She nods. We stand in awkward silence for a moment until she points over her shoulder.

“I’ll get to work now.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She picks up the bags from where she dropped them on the floor, then turns to go. But she turns back suddenly and blurts, “I’ll pray for you, dear.”

I don’t bother telling her not to waste her breath.

I know I’m a lost cause, that no amount of prayer in the universe can help me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be rude about it. I simply bite my lip, nod, and swallow my tears.

When she walks out, my gaze lands on the letter on the table.

I can’t say what compels me to do it, but before I know it, I’m sitting down to write a reply. I scribble it on the back of the letter Dante sent me.

What are you waiting for?

I mail it before I lose my nerve. It takes a week before I get a response, and it’s even shorter than mine. In fact, it’s only one word.

You.

On the bottom right-hand corner of the paper, there’s a smudge of something dried and rust-colored that looks like blood.

2

I

put the letter in the back of my underwear drawer and leave it there, determined to forget about it. If another one comes, I might call the nice detective who interviewed me after the accident and see what he thinks about it. Maybe I’ll get him to look into this Dante character and see what he can find out.

Dante Alighieri, according to the name on the return envelope, which sounds as if it could be entirely made up.

In the meantime, I’ve got other things to worry about.

Aside from the new roof leak, the house has also decided it has electrical problems.

The dining room chandelier flickers. I hear popping and crackling noises when I hit the light switch in the master bedroom. Every once in a while, the doorbell rings when no one is there.

I tried calling three different local roofers, but nobody called me back. So now I’m waiting for a handyman, some guy named Ed. I came across his business card in the bottom of my kitchen junk drawer when I was looking for a pen.