Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 107352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
The house with its gray-shingled gabled roof had a large front yard, and the cluster of snowball hydrangeas on both sides of the wide, covered front porch were lovely, even though they had faded to brown by this time of the year. Still pretty, very autumn. I was also a fan of the black flagstone walkway, and more than anything, the pale olive-green walls with red trim. Looking at it from the outside, it was warm and inviting, as most two-story Craftsman homes were. Glancing around, I realized it was one of the most beautiful homes on the street.
I might have stood out there longer and squinted at the place, but suddenly an alarm went off inside the house. It sounded, as I took the six steps to the porch, like one for smoke.
Two things bothered me right away. First, the front door was unlocked. I tried it before I even knocked—because, again, alarm—and was surprised it opened. Second, the open-plan living room I stepped into was not just clean, it was immaculate. Everything in its place. The built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, painted white, sitting on the left side of the space belonged in a magazine. Along with hardback books, there were small gilded frames, decorative lighting, and various knickknacks—too-small-to-hold-anything-in-them bud vases, Japanese teacups, and porcelain animals. To the right was a gas fireplace with a stone seat in front of it, flanked by trees in enormous pots, and then farther away, more bookcases. The room was beautiful, but almost like a shrine. I was not expecting it in a house with three kids.
This must’ve been Caitlyn’s touch. It was the first impression of her home, and it was perfect. I suspected nothing had been altered in over eighteen months, which was disconcerting. I wondered who insisted that everything stayed exactly as she’d left it. Was Mr. Duchesne unable to let go of the past, needing a visual reminder of the woman he probably still loved, or did it remain on the insistence of the children? Did they need everything to remain exactly as it was? Perhaps it was comforting? Either way, it wasn’t healthy. Even if she’d died, it would be a concern. To freeze time, leaving people moored in the past, was a recipe for stagnancy. Life didn’t work that way. Whether you liked it or not, forward was the only way to go. Living had to be done with momentum and purpose, and having seen many, many friends through therapy for everything from PTSD to drugs, having been responsible for the lives of the people under my command as a master sergeant in the Army, and more importantly, having walked into many such homes as a fixer over the years, I knew static when I saw it. The house, at least this front room, was a monument to a life that was over.
The alarm was still blaring, and I smelled something burning. I had to find the kitchen—always the first place to check.
Dropping my Army duffel and my laptop bag, I charged from the living room into the dining area, which held a large picnic-style table, but with a bench on one side, chairs on the other. On the left, running the length of the long wall, was the kitchen. There was a large island that broke up the space, and once I could see what was happening on the stove, the problem became obvious. Pancakes. Now charcoal briquettes, which was not surprising, given the height of the fire under and inside the pan.
Darting around the island, I found a girl sitting by the dishwasher on the floor, hands covering her ears, shaking like a leaf, and chanting the word no. Grabbing the dish towel hanging on the double-oven door, I wrapped the metal handle of the pan, lifted it off the burner, and seeing the lid near the sink, covered the flaming mess. Once the stove was off and the pan moved, I shifted my focus to the shrieking coming from the ceiling.
Of course, simply the absence of fire or smoke now didn’t appease the alarm. I retrieved a chair from the living room, having not seen a stepladder at first glance, and used it to reach the sensor. And yes, these were awesome warning-and-detection systems, but they were also annoying as hell. My favorite was when the batteries ran low and they chirped at you at one in the morning. Finding which one it was could take some time, and meanwhile, you were losing your mind.
Once the racket stopped, I left the alarm casing dangling and started opening the double-hung windows. There were many in the kitchen/dining area that faced the back deck and large backyard. I then returned to the living room, opened all of those, and in moments, I had a nice cross breeze going, the smoke replaced by the scent of rain, wet earth, and crisp lake air. When I reached the kitchen again, I crouched down beside the little girl, and she scrambled up off the hardwood floor and hurled herself into my arms.