Chapter Seven: Jules

CHAPTER SEVENJules

I was right, just so you know.

About drinking coffee on that back veranda and never being capable of unhappiness again.

As I sit in an Adirondack chair on my first morning at Ashby House, hands curled around a steaming mug, the mountain sloping down into treetops in front of me, I feel a kind of contentment I hadn’t known existed.

The quiet wraps itself around me like a cozy quilt, the soft gray of the sky giving way to a hazy blue as the sun begins to burn off the mist, and I want to start every day of my life like this, serenely gazing out at this view, knowing it belongs to me.

I’m not going to lie: last night, I was a little worried. The house was everything I dreamed, and while Libby was a bitch, she wasn’t all that bad. Neither was Ben, honestly, but Cam had seemed distant all evening. We’d eaten maybe the most delicious casserole I’d ever had, something with chicken, cheese, buttery crackers … comforting, homemade food that I couldn’t imagine anyone else in this house eating, let alone cooking. Cam had said it was the work of Cecilia, the housekeeper, and that the dish had been one of his favorites growing up.

It was a thoughtful gesture, and it should’ve made him happy, but he’d barely touched his plate, and we’d ended up going to bed before nine o’clock, like we were grandparents or something.

I’d been surprised by Cam’s room, which felt more like a very pretty guest room at a stuffy bed-and-breakfast than a place where a teenage boy had once slept. It was filled with heavy oak furniture, a big canopy bed dominating the space. But it felt like it had its own center of gravity––like if you moved a piece of art or a throw pillow out of place, the room would right itself, put everything back where it belonged.

Given that we’d gone to bed so early, I had joked about us finding some way to pass the time until we were sleepy, walking my fingers along Cam’s chest just in case he wasn’t getting the message. But once again, he’d kissed me and told me he was beat, and then lay awake next to me for hours.

It bothered me, and the hurt lingered this morning. I woke with the sunrise and went into the massive bathroom to take a shower. But after a few minutes, I heard the shower door open, felt a rush of cool air on my back, and then Cam was there, his hands smoothing down my sides, his lips finding the place where my neck met my shoulder, and we fell back together just like we always do.

So yes, life was good this morning. Comfy chair, gorgeous views, excellent coffee, and two orgasms before 8:00 A.M. What more did a girl need?

From behind me, I hear the door to the veranda open, and I turn, hoping it’s Cam. He’d promised to join me for coffee once he’d finished getting dressed and checking email. Instead, I’m greeted by an older woman, her red hair faded to a sort of apricot color, a pair of glasses hanging around her neck from a sparkly chain.

I wonder if this is Nelle—if so, she looks amazing for seventy-nine—but then she smiles and gives me a little wave. “You must be Jules. I’m Cecilia, the housekeeper.”

Rising to my feet, I cross the veranda, offering her my free hand. She waves it away and opens one arm, so I let myself be pulled into a hug as she pats my back hard enough to almost spill my coffee.

“I am so happy to meet you!” Cecilia says, and I actually believe it. “And I’m so happy Camden has finally come home where he belongs.”

Ah. An ally, then.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I tell her, and she beams at me as she pulls back.

“You’ll have to get Cam to give you the full tour,” she says. “That boy knew every nook and cranny of this place. I swear, sometimes I’d go looking for him, and find him in a room even I didn’t know existed.”

I picture Cam, a serious little boy finding hiding places and secret alcoves, sneakers scuffing the hardwood, and I can see it so clearly that I know we’ve done the right thing coming back here. He loved this place once, and I can make him love it again.

“I see you’ve found coffee, but let me get you something to eat,” Cecilia says, turning back into the house, and I find myself following her even though I hadn’t planned on leaving this perfect spot.

“You don’t have to feed me,” I say as we step back into the den, ceilings soaring high overhead, a stone fireplace big enough to roast an ox along one wall, sofas deep enough to sink into for days angled to get the best views out the windows.

“That’s her job,” a voice says from the doorway.

Ah. So this is Nelle.

Her hair is white, a puff of snowy curls that I bet she gets “done” in town once a week and never touches otherwise. She’s wearing a tartan skirt that hangs to mid-shin and sensible shoes, a beige cardigan over a white blouse, and if a prune could talk, it would probably look like her.

There’s just something … pinched about her entire being. Her lips, puckered in distaste, her eyes narrow, her knobby fingers clenched together. As she moves closer, her shoes squeak on the parquet.

“You must be Camden’s wife. Julia?”

“Jules,” I correct, and her mouth somehow, impossibly, gets even tighter.

“Is that not short for Julia?”

“It’s short for Julianne, actually, but only my mom called me that.”

Nelle sniffs. “Well, I’m Eleanor, Nelle for short, but you may call me Mrs. McTavish.”

Oh-kay, then.

“I was just telling Cecilia what a lovely home you have, Mrs. McTavish,” I say, sugar and sunshine, but that only makes the old bitch glare even harder.

“I suppose I should be saying that to you,” she says. “Given that this is Camden’s house. Built by my grandfather in 1904, named after my mother, but since I had the misfortune of being born second and my sister loved nothing more than hurting me, all of it now belongs to some boy from the streets who might as well be a stranger.”

“Morning to you, too, Nelle.”

Cam appears behind her, his hair still damp, wearing a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, hands in his pockets. It’s an outfit I’ve seen him wear a thousand times, it’s practically his uniform, but he looks different this morning, standing in the halls of Ashby House.

It’s a weird sensation, looking at your own husband and not quite recognizing him.

Nelle turns around, not even a little embarrassed. “You know my feelings on all this. Why bother to pretend?”

“Why indeed,” he murmurs, moving past her. He gives me a quick, warm look, then smiles at Cecilia, hugging her tightly.

“Thank you for the casserole last night. Can’t believe you remembered.”

“Can’t believe you think I’d forget,” she says, and there’s a sheen of tears in her eyes as she pulls back and looks at him.

“How long are you staying?” she asks, and he shrugs.

“Depends how long it takes to see all that needs to be done. A few weeks, maybe?”

Longer,I think. Forever.

“Well, it’s good to have you back,” Cecilia says, and I hear Nelle give another one of those sniffs.

“Speaking of, where’s Ben?” Cam asks, looking around. “I figured he’d want to show me where to spend my money.”

He throws a look at Nelle as he says that, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes when the barb lands.

Another side of Camden I don’t fully recognize.

But then Ben comes in, all bright smile and too-white teeth, and there’s talk about flooding damage and wainscoting and contractors, and I tune it out, already feeling the pull of the veranda, the desire to sink back into that chair and dream of the day when it’s just me and Cam here.

We have a good life in Colorado, I know that. Cam likes his job, and while I don’t love being Mrs. Burch over at Homestead Park five days a week, I could probably find something else. I may not have finished college, but I’m a quick learner. We have friends there, other teachers from Cam’s school, a few of the other women who work out at Homestead, some neighbors. We go for margaritas on Fridays at this cute Mexican place downtown, and we know that that one Safeway is always packed on Saturday, so it’s better to drive a few miles out of town to hit that other Safeway, and one of the baristas at the coffee shop closest to our house has figured out what we always order (me, hazelnut latte with oat milk; Cam, a plain black coffee that always smells, and I assume tastes, like burnt sadness).

All those little things that make up a life.

We have them, but at the same time we don’t.

Because we’re still renting a tiny little house that neither of us even likes that much. Because those friends of ours? I think we’ve only had them over to said house twice in the last few years. Because when my job wanted me to list a second emergency contact after my husband, I just left it blank. When I mentioned it to Cam, I learned that he had done the same thing on his forms at work.

We have been floating in Colorado, bobbing happily enough on the surface, but never going any deeper, and I’ve believed—or at least, I’ve told myself—that it’s because we always knew we’d end up here eventually.

And so we have. Finally.

Now I just have to convince Cam to stay. Because I haven’t come this far—I haven’t done the things I’ve done—to pack it up after a week or two. But I also know that until Nelle, Ben, and Libby are out of this house, there is no chance of making that dream a reality.

So, what’s my grand plan? To be honest, I can’t say I have one yet. But don’t worry.

I’ve always been good on my feet.

---

IDON’T SEE much of Cam for the rest of the day. I spend the morning on the veranda, then help Cecilia in the kitchen with lunch. Cam and Ben come back in to grab a bite, but then they’re gone again, and I decide to go up to our room for a nap.

But when I get there, the bed is made up, and there’s no trace of our things anywhere. Frowning, I look in the closets, in the bathroom, even under the bed, but our bags are gone, our toothbrushes aren’t by the sink. Even my shampoo is gone from the shower.

Confused, I start to head downstairs to ask Cecilia if she just got a little overenthusiastic with the cleaning this morning, but as I do, I see an open door at the end of the hall, and there, sitting on a blood-red bedspread, is my bag.

I walk down the hall, pushing the door open, and it’s a fucking sea of red. Red curtains, red carpet, red fabric hanging from the bedposts. Cam’s bag sits on an armchair, and my toiletries are arranged in the bathroom.

When Camden finally comes in for dinner, looking sweaty and more than a little worn out, I ask him about it.

“I decided we should change rooms,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

And it isn’t—one opulent bedroom is as good as the other—but it’s still weird. Why doesn’t he want to sleep in his old bedroom? And why would he prefer that room?

Dinner is another scattered affair, with Nelle taking a tray upstairs, Ben retreating to his office, and Libby god knows where. We eat roast chicken that Cecilia left, drink a few glasses of a gorgeous sauvignon blanc, then head up to our new room, once again much earlier than we usually turn in.

“Well,” Cam says with a sigh as he reaches for one of the throw pillows on the bed, catching it by its lacy trim and tossing it aside. “First full day at Ashby House. Impressions?”

I grab a pillow as well—there appear to be roughly eight thousand of them, arranged from the headboard all the way to the middle of the paisley bedspread—and throw it onto an armchair.

“The house is incredible,” I say. “And Cecilia is the best.”

Cam nods as another pillow hits the hardwood. “She is.”

He lifts his mismatched gaze to mine. “And my family?”

I pause, fingers still curled around the edge of a throw pillow, and study Cam. “You know, the whole time we’ve been together, I kind of thought it was an act.”

Now it’s Cam’s turn to pause, his arms folded across his chest, his expression a little closed off. “What was?”

I shrug and continue to pull pillows from the bed. Behind Cam, a giant bay window reflects my movements, the lawn and forest beyond completely dark now.

“It’s just kind of a cliché, you know? The rich kid who turned his back on his shitty family. I thought … well, I believed you, but man, Nelle is indeed a real piece of work. Libby, too. And Ben seems decent enough, but I don’t trust a man whose teeth glow in the dark.”

Cam’s face relaxes a little, one corner of his mouth lifting in that smile that’s not quite a smirk. He smiled like that the first night we met, and I was a goner.

“I don’t know whether I should be smug or apologize to you,” he says now, the bed finally clear of pillows, and I move onto the mattress on my knees, holding out my hands to Cam.

He takes them, both of us kneeling as we face each other.

“I’m still glad we came,” I tell him, and his fingers flex against mine. “Are you?”

“Hard to say,” he replies. “I needed to come. The sheer amount of shit they all let slide…”

He trails off, thinking. “She would’ve hated it,” he finally says, his voice soft, and I don’t have to ask who he means.

I lean in and kiss him, gently, almost chastely, and assume that’s as far as it’ll go, especially after this morning, but he surprises me by pulling me in closer, his mouth hungry on mine, and I let him pull me down onto that red, red bed.

Afterward, he sleeps peacefully, none of that tension I’ve sensed the past few nights vibrating through his body. Instead, it’s my turn to lie awake in the darkness, thoughts churning.

One full day in Ashby House down.

A lifetime to go.