Kate

KATE

11 YEARS BEFORE

May

The next morning when I wake up, Bea is already gone. It was nearly one o’clock by the time I went to bed. I only got five hours of sleep, and even that was intermittent at best, because I kept thinking of Meredith and Delilah, hoping that by morning there’d be good news. Hoping that by morning they’d be found.

Now I take the servant stairs down to the kitchen and find that Bea is in her studio, working again because the back door is open. There are two staircases in our house, one in the front, and this one, which is narrow, curved and tucked away in back, a passageway from the second floor to the kitchen, dating back to times when servants weren’t meant to be seen. It’s one of the reasons I first fell in love with the old home, for its history.

Bea must have taken her own breakfast out to the studio to eat while she works. She’s left me a plate. The cool, humid morning air comes in through the open door.

Bea had the detached garage converted into a music studio when she moved in with me. It’s a charming place, though one I rarely go inside because it’s Bea’s workplace, much in the same way that she doesn’t ever show up at my office. Boundaries are important in a relationship.

Bea writes her own music in the garage. She records it. I know I shouldn’t, but still I try and listen in sometimes because Bea has a sexy voice. It’s husky and rich and thick. You’d think she smoked a pack a day by the sound of her voice, but she doesn’t. But unless she leaves the door open by mistake I can’t hear inside.

I met Bea six years ago at a bar in the city where she was performing. It was the summer before vet school. I was working as a cocktail waitress to earn extra cash for school. We fell in love. Two months later, I left for school. We kept in touch; Bea came to visit me. After graduation, I came back, got a job, bought a house.

When Bea moved in with me, she didn’t want to piss the neighbors off with her music. It’s the reason we had the garage converted, making it soundproof. She figured the neighbors would already be pissed off enough with two gay women living on the street. The idea of a house in suburbia made Bea’s skin crawl; she wasn’t that type. But she did it for me. The house was close and convenient to my work. Bea could work anywhere.

The house is a yellow 1904 Italianate in our town’s historic district. It sits just a stone’s throw away from a college campus, in an area more liberal than conservative. It’s romantic, with brick walkways and hundred-year-old trees. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t the occasional hatred and bigotry. Because no matter where you go, you can’t get away from that.

Bea no longer performs in bars. These days, the only time I hear her sing is in the shower. For someone who loves to perform for a crowd, she’s strictly against private performances.

When Bea is writing music, she disconnects from the rest of the world. She tunes it completely out. It’s when she’s gone the longest that I know she’s lost herself in her music and I’m happy for her because of it. Bea is a born musician. She taught voice and guitar lessons for years, performed in bars and nightclubs. But that didn’t satisfy her. It wasn’t what she saw herself doing for the rest of her life. Now she’s working on an album.

That said, Bea isn’t some freeloader. She carries her weight financially. She’s sold some of the songs that she’s written and has a nice inheritance from a dead grandma who was apparently rich. I never met her. She was dead before I met Bea. Not only did Bea get her money from her; she also got her name, Beatrice, which is one of those vintage names someone else might hate, but not Bea. She adored her grandmother. A picture of them together sits on Bea’s nightstand.

When my back is turned, Bea steps inside. She closes the door and comes to me, wrapping her arms around me from behind. I turn to her, let her envelop me. Bea is in her pajamas still, the cotton shorts and Kurt Cobain shirt she wore to sleep. Her dark hair hangs long and straight because somehow, inexplicably, Bea never gets bedhead.

“I want to jump in the shower before they get here,” she says, they meaning the subcontractors who are working on our home. The house is old and we’re in the midst of a messy renovation. The house is full of historic elements, which we love: the ceiling medallions; the original, oversize windows; the library with its built-ins; the servant stairs. They tell a story. But the bathrooms and the kitchen are seventies-era, thanks to some previous owner who did a hack job on them. They lack the charm the rest of the house still has. We’re getting those redone, brought back to a modern version of their original state, to restore the history and authenticity of the home.

There’s a combination lockbox on our front door. The workers come and go whenever they want. Their workday starts as early as seven a.m. If we aren’t quick to shower in the morning, they catch us in our pajamas. These men know their way around our house because they’re here even when Bea and I aren’t. It had never bothered me before, but now, in light of what’s happened over the last twelve hours, it does.

The contractor came recommended from Josh, who had work done on his own home, a 1890s Queen Anne. Apparently they’re whizzes at keeping the integrity of historic homes. Meredith, though pleased with the final result, hated the invasion of privacy. She couldn’t wait for their renovation to be through, she’d told us, saying how glad she was to have that lockbox removed from her door, to regain sole possession of her home afterward. I’m thinking now that Bea and I should take it a step further than that and have the locks replaced, because who’s to say one of the subcontractors couldn’t have duplicated the key? It makes my stomach hurt to think about someone besides Bea and me having a key to our home.

“Any news from Josh?” I ask. It’s early. I don’t expect Bea to have heard from him, but as it turns out, she has.

“I just saw him,” she says, telling me that he was in the backyard, letting his dog out.

“What did he say?” I ask Bea, measuring out the coffee and pouring it into the filter. I hope for good news, but it’s not.

“Meredith still isn’t home,” she says.

“He hasn’t heard from her?”

“No,” she says. “Not a word. The police came last night.”

“I know. I saw them. What did they say? What are they doing to find her and Delilah?”

“Not enough, according to Josh. He’s trying to organize a search party himself,” Bea says. “He was outside, making calls this morning, appealing to family and friends to help. I told him we’d help,” she says.

I nod and say, “Yes, of course. Anything. Whatever he needs.”

I have the day off work. But even if I didn’t, I would stay home and help search. Meredith and Delilah need me now. Finding them is all that matters.