Chapter 14: More Than a Heartbeat

The sign took three days.

Theo found paint in the shed—two cans, one white and one a faded blue that had gone thick at the top. He stirred it with a stick until his arm ached. He found a brush with half its bristles missing. He dragged the sign out to the porch and set it across two sawhorses and stood there looking at it for twenty minutes before he touched the brush to the wood.

Caspian watched from the doorway. "You're going to ruin it."

"It's already ruined. That's the point." Theo dipped the brush and made a line. It wobbled. He made another line. "It's called character."

"It's called vandalism."

"Same thing."

Mathilde sat on the porch swing—the one with the crooked chain—and watched. The swing creaked when she moved. Creaked when she didn't. She'd learned to live with it. James came out with a mug of tea and sat on the step. The dog that had shown up two days ago—a brown mutt with one ear that didn't work—lay down beside him and put its head on his foot.

They'd named the dog Gerald. After the frog. Theo's idea.

Gerald the dog didn't seem to mind.

Theo painted for an hour. When he was done, he stepped back. The sign said, in shaky white letters:

The Ashfords. Est. whenever.

Caspian looked at it. "That's not a year."

"It's a feeling."

"It's not a year."

"Feelings don't have years."

James laughed. It was a short sound, almost surprised, like he'd forgotten he could do it. Mathilde looked at him. He looked back. Neither of them said anything.

They hung the sign above the porch. It was crooked. Theo said it added character. Caspian said it was an eyesore. James said nothing and went inside to make more tea.

That night, Mathilde couldn't sleep.

Not because of the couch. She'd gotten used to the couch. Her back had stopped aching. Her feet still hung over the edge but she'd stopped noticing.

It was the quiet. Not the absence of sound—the house had plenty of that. The creaking. The wind. The dog snoring on the floor by the stove. It was the absence of the other kind of noise. The kind that lived inside her head. The calculations. The what-ifs. The running list of things that could go wrong.

It had gone quiet. That was the problem.

She got up. Pulled on her shoes. Stepped outside.

The air was cold. It smelled like grass and woodsmoke and something else—something green and wet, like the trees were breathing. The moon was up. Almost full. The yard was silver and black.

She walked to the fence at the back. The half-fallen one. She leaned on a post and looked at the trees.

Footsteps behind her. She didn't turn.

"Couldn't sleep?" Caspian.

"No."

He came up beside her. He was wearing a jacket over his shirt. His hands were in his pockets. He didn't look at her. He looked at the trees.

"Me neither," he said.

They stood there. The wind moved through the grass. Something small rustled in the brush. A fox, maybe. Or a rabbit. Or nothing.

"I keep thinking about the journal," he said.

"Which part?"

"All of it. But mostly the part about Claire's family. 'Your mother's people.' He wrote it like we should know who they were. Like it was obvious." He pulled his hand out of his pocket and rubbed his face. "We don't know anything about her. We don't even know her last name."

"Can you find out?"

"I've been trying. The lawyer's looking. But Julien buried everything. Changed names. Moved records. It could take months." He paused. "Or it could be impossible."

Mathilde looked at him. The moonlight made his face look different. Softer. Younger. He looked like the boy in the photograph—the one who fell out of the apple tree and didn't cry.

"You'll figure it out," she said.

"How do you know?"

"I don't." She turned back to the trees. "But you're the smartest person I've ever met. And you don't give up."

"I give up all the time. I just don't tell anyone."

She laughed. It surprised her. The sound came out before she could stop it. She pressed her hand to her mouth.

Caspian looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing. Just—" She lowered her hand. "You're not as scary as you think you are."

"I'm not trying to be scary."

"You are. A little. You have this way of looking at people like you're calculating how much they're worth."

He was quiet for a minute. Then, "I know. I've been told."

"By who?"

"Vivienne. Once. She said I looked at her like she was a line item." He paused. "She wasn't wrong."

Mathilde didn't say anything. The wind moved. The trees shifted.

"I don't look at you like that," he said.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She turned. He was looking at her now. Not calculating. Not weighing. Just looking.

"Yes," she said.

He reached out. Not fast. Not certain. His hand found hers. His fingers were cold. Hers were too. They stood there, holding hands, two cold people in a cold yard, and neither of them pulled away.

"I don't know what we're doing," he said. "Any of us. We're living in a dead man's house. We don't have money. We don't have a plan. We don't even know if we're going to keep the house or lose it or—"

"Caspian."

He stopped.

"We're okay," she said. "Right now. In this minute. We're okay."

He looked at her. The moonlight. The trees. The house behind them, dark except for one window—the kitchen, where James was probably still reading. The dog barked once, somewhere inside. Gerald. He'd barked at his own reflection earlier.

"Okay," Caspian said.

They went inside.

The kitchen was warm. James was at the table with the journal open. He looked up when they came in. He didn't say anything about their hands. Just nodded.

"Tea's still hot," he said.

Caspian poured two cups. Mathilde sat down. The dog put his head on her knee. She scratched behind his working ear.

James turned a page. "There's more in here. About the house. Richard wrote about fixing the roof. The chimney. The steps." He paused. "He was planning to live here. For real. He was going to leave the company and move out here."

"With us?" Caspian asked.

"With all of us. Claire. The three of us. He wanted a different life."

"Why didn't he?"

James looked at the page. "Julien. The threats. The family. He was trapped. He thought if he stayed, he could protect us. He thought if he did what Julien wanted, we'd be safe." He closed the journal. "He was wrong."

Nobody spoke.

The fire popped. The dog sighed. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Theo, probably. Asleep.

"I keep thinking about what he wrote," James said. "'Be good to each other.' That's all he asked. That's the only thing he wanted."

"We can do that," Mathilde said.

"Can we?"

She looked at him. At Caspian. At the dog. At the house. At the journal on the table.

"Yeah," she said. "We can do that."

James closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wet. He didn't wipe them. He just let them be.

"I'm going to bed," he said.

He stood up. Put the journal back in the box. Pushed the box under the table with his foot. Walked to the stairs.

At the bottom step, he stopped.

"Mathilde."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For staying."

He went upstairs. His footsteps moved across the ceiling. Then stopped. The house settled.

Caspian looked at her. "You should sleep too."

"In a minute."

He nodded. He finished his tea. Set the cup in the sink. Walked to the stairs. Stopped where James had stopped.

"Mathilde."

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow. I'm going to call the lawyer. And I'm going to find out about Claire's family. And I'm going to figure out how to keep this house." He paused. "I don't know if I can. But I'm going to try."

"I know."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he went upstairs.

Mathilde sat alone in the kitchen. The dog was still there. The fire was low. She listened to the house. The wind. The creaks. The dog's breathing.

She wasn't thinking about Julien. She wasn't thinking about the press. She wasn't thinking about the lawyers or the money or the media or any of the things that were still waiting for them outside this house.

She was thinking about the sign on the porch. The Ashfords. Est. whenever. Crooked. Wrong. Real.

She finished her tea. Washed the cup. Set it on the rack.

Then she went to the couch. Pulled the blanket up. Closed her eyes.

The dog jumped up and settled at her feet. He was warm. He smelled like dirt and rain. She didn't push him off.

She slept.

In the morning, the rooster got the time right.