Twice Shy

THUNK.

It’s a quarter to midnight, so either that was one of my tired synapses misfiring or there’s a possum in the newly fixed dumbwaiter. I crack it open veerrry slowly and am both relieved and puzzled to be wrong. An ordinary spiral notebook sits inside—snapped up at a back-to-school sale by Violet, surely, the bottom-right corners curled up, pages crinkling when I flip them. A message from civilization! I’d almost forgotten I’m not the last person on Earth. Scrubbing tubs with bleach for hours will do that to you.

The first line of the first page is dominated by a cumulonimbus scar of ink trying and failing to conceal the original header: Hey Maybell,

He’s opted to cross out the poor, harmless greeting, cutting right to: What station is that

I snort.

Clicking the pen he lodged in the metal spiral, I make my greeting extra large: HEY WESLEY, I’m listening to WKCE. Also, you should know that I’ve got the entire east wing spotless, including the library. Beat that.

I send the notebook back up, then get cracking on the west wing, which isn’t quite as scary as the east wing was. Over here, Violet stacked storage tubs in the hallways rather than inside the rooms, blocking them off before they could fall prey to the hoard. Opening each door reveals a pocket of cold air that smells about two hundred years old. I’m burning through Glade PlugIns and Febreze like nobody’s business, but it’s a crypt in here. The smell has seeped into fabrics—curtains, wall hangings, carpets. I love these fabrics because of their historical value, but if I get them adequately cleaned I think they’ll disintegrate. They have to go.

The notebook is back in the dumbwaiter when I pass by again, with a response from Wesley.

I’ve got both my wings spotless, except for two bathrooms and one last bedroom I’m trying to get unlocked. Don’t worry, you’ll catch up in a month or two.

This spurs me to up my game. I grab my mop and run into a bedroom, ready to work through the night if it means I’ll beat him. The door sticks initially, frame warped from all the shrinking and expanding over the years, the fluctuating temperatures. Having the heat shut off for so long has given some of the doors funhouse-grade leans.

The carpet in here is thick, soft, frosted in gray dust that compresses white in footprints I leave behind. Dust coats the heavy, bulbous television set and twin bed, the duvet cover I once thought was patterned with half-moons but now see are peach slices.

I spin 180 degrees, watching a younger version of myself sit down on the ottoman next to the bed. I’m showing Uncle Victor my comic strip. You’re so talented, he says. He’s got a grave, serious voice that acts like a gavel, pronouncing everything he says to be the word of law. It also acts like truth serum. When Victor turns his solemn brown eyes on you, all your secrets come tumbling out. Aunt Violet hovers behind me. She’ll wait until I leave before trying to cajole him into eating more, but I’ll catch wheezy bits and pieces from down the hall: Stomach’s bothering me. Please, sweetheart, I can’t.

He died not long after I left Falling Stars. Judging by Violet’s magazine stockpile that dates back twenty years, that’s when she started accumulating so much stuff.

The oxygen machine is gone. When I was a kid I didn’t think about why Violet and Victor had separate bedrooms, but my guess is she couldn’t sleep with the sound of that machine. I pop open the VCR to look at what he last had in there: a home-recorded Casablanca. Recent tapes in the stack next to the TV are all home-recorded, too, inscriptions written in green permanent marker: Moonstruck. Quigley Down Under. Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Everything is as he left it on his last day here. His sweaters are folded in their drawers, photo albums still on the lower shelf of his nightstand—the top one, avocado green, filled with Polaroids of their numerous yearly trips. They loved visiting new countries, trying the local cuisine, staying in family-owned inns instead of chain hotels to absorb more of the culture.

The wristwatch in his catchall dish is no longer ticking, its battery having quit at 5:12. I’m about to leave, closing the door behind me, when I notice the three large rectangles on the wall above his bed. I’m sure I’ve noticed them at another point, but they’re interesting in a way that only an adult who’s foraged between couch cushions for pennies to buy something off the dollar menu can appreciate.

They’re framed collections. Coins on beds of red velvet. Vintage stamps. Signed baseball cards in mint condition. I take a step forward, studying them. Holy crap.

“Maybell!”

I jump, spinning, almost running face-first into the wall. “What?” He’s upstairs. He can’t hear me. “What?” I call, louder.

No response. This is one of Wesley’s signature moves: he’ll call my name when he needs something, but when I yell back What? he goes radio silent, forcing me to go to him to see what he wants. Or I don’t have to go to him, I suppose, but I do anyway. One of these days I’m going to yell and make him come to me instead.

I pull open the door, but my head is full of coins and baseball cards, so I open the wrong one. It’s Victor’s closet. I gasp out a breathless “Ooooohhhhh.”

Bzzz, bzzz.

My phone’s vibrating. I send it to voicemail, then receive a text. This is Wesley.

I’m still staring at my phone in surprise when the number flashes across my screen again, buzzing in my hand. I answer it. “Hey, come up here,” Wesley says into my ear.

“How’d you get my number?”

“Why do you have a picture of me on your phone?” he shoots back.

Ugh, not this again. Cherish the past, Wesley, because the grace period for treating your feelings with kid gloves has expired and you’re not getting away with throwing that picture in my face to avoid answering questions you don’t like.

“Why did you have a picture of me in the attic? Hand-drawn, which is even more questionable than a real photograph taken from your brother’s public Facebook page.”

His mutterings fade; he’s lowered his phone, probably making a face at the ceiling.

“I can’t go upstairs because I just made the most magnificent discovery,” I continue airily, confident that our stalemate has divested him of that particular weapon. “Come down here and take a look.”

“My discovery is better.”

“Sincerely doubt it. I found a Christmas tree.”

Five seconds pass. “. . . So?”

“So, it’s one of those fancy ones! With fake snow! It’s got to be like ten feet tall. I found it in Uncle Victor’s closet.”

“I don’t see what’s special about finding a Christmas tree.”

This man has no soul. I begin heaving the tree out of the closet. The branches have been smoothed down so that it takes up less space in storage, but it still scratches the frame up as I ease it out. And it’s unexpectedly heavy. Fake snow showers my hair and shirt. “My uncle Garrett was right. I did grow up to be a tree-hugger.”

“That’s great. Come upstairs, you’ve gotta take a look at something.”

“Can’t. I’m putting the tree in the ballroom.”

“Right now?”

“Yes!”

“It’s April. Actually, no, it’s technically May now.”

“Christmas is a state of mind, Wesley.”

“Why do you sound so terrifying when you say that?”

This thing weighs about as much as a real tree. I grunt as I drag it down the hall, careful not to bang into any chandeliers. There’s a medieval iron one in the kitchen that’s my favorite, with candlesticks going around the circular rim. “I . . . just . . . want . . . to . . . see,” I bite out. Pine needles jab my hands.

“In May.”

“I’ll put it right back.” I’ve reached the ballroom. It’s in a state of chaos because whenever I find something cool, I bring it in here. It’s going to be my favorite part of the house after I’m finished making it magnificent and less like the set of The Nanny. So far I’ve got a hodgepodge of candlesticks, clocks (all kinds: grandfather, cuckoo, carriage), old books, sculptures, wall hangings, fancy pillboxes, a barrel I might try to convert into a table, and a tangled heap of silk wisteria. I don’t know what I’m going to do with everything, but somehow I will cram it all in here and make it fabulous.

I was right; the tree looks amazing in the ballroom. I plug it in and voilà—soft white lights glow to life, casting a small golden halo onto raised plaster roses on the rococo-style ceiling.

My high-pitched “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, I love it!” earns me three thumps of a broomstick rapping from above.

“Your problem is that you love everything,” Wesley complains.

“My one flaw.”

“I’ve seen the furniture you’re trying to repurpose for your hotel. None of it matches.”

“The beauty of themed rooms,” I reply. “I’ll never get bored, because every room will be different.”

“Are you coming now?”

“Patience. I think I saw a tree skirt in the closet . . .” I rummage in Victor’s closet, which looks like a snow globe from all the white fluff. I find the tree skirt, along with a large silver box that makes me squeal with delight.

“Oh, no. What is it now?”

“Nothing! I’ll be there in a minute. Ten minutes, tops.”

He sighs.

“It’s an emergency.”

His voice goes low, suspicious. “You found ornaments.”

“I did! They’re wonderful. Wesley, come look at these ornaments. Ohh, here’s a little drummer boy. Ohh, here’s Rudolph. Ohh, it’s the whole set from Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town! Ahhhh!”

“Please. My ears.”

I grab a chair from where I’ve got it positioned by the wall, next to Wesley’s tub of paints and my three-quarters-finished mural. My attention’s temporarily waylaid by a new development in the waterfall-lagoon world, thrashing on stormy waves. “You painted a pirate ship.” Thick, sinewy tentacles, pearlescent as abalone shells, lunge out of the water to grip the Felled Star’s stern, ready to devour.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Is that the kraken? That is awesome.”

“Are you about done down there? You’re going to want to see this, I’m telling you.”

“Just a sec.” I climb onto the chair and stretch, hanging a particularly handsome ornament as high up as I can manage. It’s a glass sphere the size of a softball, splotched with gold shimmer. A plaid bow rests inside, the same ribbon that Violet used to bind her stacks of letters—

“Wait a minute.”

“I’ve been waiting for seventeen of them.”

“There’s a paper in this ornament.” I jump down, wriggle the top off, and shake it until a rolled-up piece of paper slides out. “Like a message in a bottle.” The ribbon’s stiff, permanently crimped after I loosen the tie, smooth the paper against my knee. “I think it’s a map.”

“Of what?”

“Not sure.”

I’ve got to show him this. Hard to believe I was tired earlier—I’m wired now, thundering up the staircase two steps at a time, crashing into a brick wall that’s been unexpectedly erected on the second floor.

The bricks are softer than they look, absorbing my muffled “Oof.” And an “Mmpphhhhh,” which might or might not be caused by how good it smells.

“Sorry.” The brick wall grows arms, gingerly tipping me back with the tips of its fingers. Has Wesley always been this tall? From down here, the top of his head is in the stars. I’d have to break my vertebrae to see his face.

He takes a blundering step away, raking a hand through his hair. “Can I . . . see it?”

Instead of handing the map over, I scoot next to him so that we pore over it side by side. “I’m pretty sure these are trees.” I point at a jumble of broccoli florets drawn in blue pen.

Wesley analyzes the map closely, raising it higher. Our height difference means that the half of the paper I’m still clutching is bending significantly downward. “This is the manor here,” he murmurs, pointing at a blue square. I’m distracted by his large hands with short, square nails as he skims a finger to a second, much smaller blue square next to the manor. I’ve seen these hands halve an apple without a knife, and they’re the same ones that paint miniature pirate ships. “This is labeled ‘shed,’ but that doesn’t make sense. The shed should be over here.” His finger dances an inch to the left.

“The cabin used to be Victor’s work shed,” I reply. “Maybe that’s the cabin, not the garden shed.”

He nods. “That has to be it. All this over here, I don’t recognize.” He circles an area that says prairie smoke field.

“That used to be a field, yeah. Back before Aunt Violet was anti-lawn.”

“Pro–natural habitats,” he replies with emphasis. “Everyone with a yard should designate a natural growth area, to be honest. Put up a small fence around it and just let—”

“Yep, sure,” I interrupt. “Look at those X’s! It’s like a traditional pirate treasure map.” There are five of them, scattered wildly all over the property. It would be an exhaustive trek to get to all of them, any potential treasure buried under the X’s hidden by more than shallow mounds of dirt by now. This map is at least two decades old. There could be whole adult trees growing over the tops of those X’s.

“Violet’s second wish,” we say at the same time, meeting each other’s gaze. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—so is Wesley, and we spring apart.

“Violet said Victor thought there was buried treasure,” I explain unnecessarily. “Maybe these are a few of the spots where they thought treasure might be located. Being older, and Victor’s health being the way it was, I guess they’d gotten to the point in their treasure hunt where they were theorizing instead of doing any physical digging.”

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” he replies quickly. “Makes sense. I’ll just pocket this map, then . . .” He starts to slide it into his pocket, but I snatch it up.

“Not so fast.”

“Finders Keepers rules apply,” he says with a teasing half grin. “That’s part of Violet’s dying wish. I don’t know about you, but I’m morally obligated to honor her terms.”

“I’m the one who found the map.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll find that all the shovels have been hidden. Somewhere you’ll never be able to reach, like the top of the fridge. What are you going to use to dig up treasure, a spoon?”

“Maybe. I’m a Maybell Parrish. It’s tradition to do everything the hard way.”

His eyes flicker with amusement in the shadowy corridor. “Are there a lot of Maybell Parrishes running around out there?”

“Maybe.” I bite my lip, trying not to dwell on that tonal shift in him, where it feels like he isn’t merely tolerating me anymore. This is . . . friendly. It’s nice. I’m dreading him taking this budding niceness away, putting that out of reach. “Here, I’ll make a deal with you. If you do all the digging, I’ll bring you along and we’ll split the treasure fifty-fifty.”

“This mythical treasure,” he adds, in a way that tries to be skeptical but wants to believe.

“This treasure that could be real. There’s no reason to think it shouldn’t be.”

He frowns, thinking. “Okay. But not for another week, all right? Are you willing to wait until Saturday? I’ve got a landscaping job in Gatlinburg that’ll take up most of my time from the third through the seventh.”

I stick out my hand for him to shake. “Deal.”

“And now.” He keeps my hand encased in his for a few seconds longer than necessary, then squeezes lightly before letting go. “Come on.” He jerks his head, already walking off without me.

“Ah, yes. The monumentally important discovery of yours, which you incorrectly believe is more impressive than a Christmas tree.”

“A Christmas tree in May.”

“You seem to be stuck on that.”

But then I shut up, because he leads me toward an open door that is essentially a portal to the past. A ruffled white and pink blanket on a canopy bed, pillows smaller than I remember. Everything smaller than I remember, in fact. A white dresser. A pink vanity table. A shelf of my old favorites: The American Girl series, with Molly’s books taking the special number one spot. Dear America books. The Princess Diaries. A Series of Unfortunate Events. And hanging on the wall across the room from my bed, a very old postcard in a wooden frame with no glass.

Season’s Greetings from the Top of the World!

Two red-cheeked, bundled-up kids play on an old-fashioned sled in front of Falling Stars Hotel, snow covering the ground, roof, and distant timberline. The hand-painted postcard is bordered with holly. Victorian lamps flank a wrought-iron archway dressed in red and green garland, cardinals perched atop.

The house is pink.

Not because it truly was, but because the artist painted Falling Stars at sunset, taking creative liberties with pigments. In 1934, somebody made Falling Stars look just as magical on the outside as it felt to me on the inside, embedding that magic in my brain, literally shining a rose-colored light on all my recollections of this place. I can see now, from an aged and experienced perspective, that gray stonework lies beneath the wash of sunrise.

“Oh,” I say softly.

“I know. Memory is a strange thing.” He steps closer, sliding his hands into his pockets. “This used to be your room, I take it?”

“Yeah.” I barely hear myself, taking the picture down off the wall. It leaves behind a small imprint untouched by dust. “I can’t believe none of this has changed.”

We lock eyes and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Violet kept my room this way in case I ever needed it again.

“There were a couple others that I think used to hang up, too, but fell off the wall.” He takes two more postcards from the dresser, handing them to me. Their condition isn’t as good—one’s half missing, advertising the biggest victory garden in the state of Tennessee! The other’s severely water-damaged: buy war bonds.

I can’t stop staring at the postcard, filling all the way up with emotion. My throat is raw, eyes burning. He nudges it. “You know, I think I like it better like that.”

“Pink?” I sit down on the bed, laugh hoarsely.

“The house does need a paint job anyway.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You’d let me paint the house pink?”

My mind is a fanciful storybook that loves symbolism and parallels. It invents romantic notions, where there often aren’t any, in everyday life situations. It has led me to perceive many a man in a nobler light than he deserved, and it’s told me bad situations were meant to be as a coping mechanism to make them bearable. Wesley is watching me with a glint in his eyes that draws an imaginary parallel line into the misty past, X marking the spot on Victor. I think of how Victor used to look at Violet with a similar expression, like he knew an extraordinary secret and she was the only other person in the world in on the secret with him. I think of the incredible, million-to-one odds that out of all the pictures Gemma could have used to catfish me, she used his.

Wesley smiles, which sends the warning sirens blaring. I’m reading into coincidences. The universe is chaos and coincidence. If it were operating with any intention, it would be cruelty.

“Not by yourself,” he says. “I’d help you paint it. We’ll put some gold touches around the windows and doors, too, like the way the light hits it here.” He taps the postcard, but I don’t tear my gaze from him. My heart is thumping fast, fast, racing right toward a cliff. A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.

I nod mutely.

“As someone who likes paint,” he says sheepishly, refusing to simply say As an artist, “I think the project will be kinda cool. Trying to make the house look like it’s sitting in a perpetual sunset.”

“Yeah,” I force myself to say. “That would be wonderful.”

I thank him for the discovery, clutching it as I depart. I am nearly in the clear when my Achilles’ heel is attacked—he’s turned on Christmas music at top volume, sleigh bells riiiiing following me down the stairs.