Page 87 of Rent: Paid in Full
“Yeah, well, his new PA better fucking hope not,” I reply. “If your dad’s anything like you, that guy’s ass is in for a world of hurt.”
“Guy?”
“Yeah. I know, right? Can you believe it?”
“A male PA for my dad? No way.Jesus, talk about a case of Mom one, Dad zero.”
I extricate myself from Miller’s arms and take in the property we’ve come to view.
It’s a big, beautiful shithole. Two, maybe three years from being torn down. A double story with an imposing façade. A bygone air of grandness laid into its very foundation.
We take the steps up to the front door, and Miller yanks off a board nailed across it and tosses it onto the porch.
“Maybe we should wait for Sandy?” I suggest hopefully.
Over the years, Miller’s long-suffering realtor, Sandy, has made her opinion on breaking and entering abundantly clear. She’s against it. Doesn’t like it at all. Just the thought of it makes her break out in hives.
“Nah, it’s fine. She’ll be here soon. She won’t mind.” I follow Miller in against my better judgment, drawn in by a sweeping staircase and a double-volume entrance that leaves you nochoice but to stand still and look up as reflections from lead pane windows dance on the walls.
“Wow,” I whisper.
It’s one of those rare places. A place with magic imbued into the walls. A place with memory and life. Recollections from a long time ago live here. I feel them. I can’t shake the sense that even though we’re alone in the house, we should tread lightly and speak softly while we’re here.
Miller puts his flashlight on and shines a broad beam up the staircase. “There are five bedrooms upstairs, but I’m thinking one will have to go to gain an en suite and a dressing room.”
I nod in agreement. Kitchens and main bedrooms sell houses. Everyone knows that. “Can we go up?”
“No. I took the stairs the first time I came. Leaned on the balustrade while I was talking to Sandy and that whole piece fell down. Barely even touched it.” He shines the light on the gaping hole in the railing and shows me the section that landed on the floor. We step around it and head down the hall. There’s a drawing room, a sitting room, and a separate dining room. The kitchen is hidden in the back of the house.
“Check this out.” His voice lilts up, and I know that this is it, the thing he loves about this house. The thing that makes it unique. It’s the W + A he showed me back in our dorm room. The reason he does projects like these. Projects that take time and cost him blood, sweat, and tears. Projects that are about building things rather than breaking them down.
His eyes sparkle as he opens the pantry door and shines the light on the doorframe. There are fine horizontal markings all the way up it. A ballpoint pen carved into gloss paint. From two feet to just over six. A marking for each year that passed.
It’s a map of the children who lived here and the route they took growing up.
Colin, Graham, and Sarah.
I love it.
“Can you keep it?”
It’s a silly question, as I know there’s nothing on Earth that could make him erase this part of the house’s history. Nothing at all. Nothing ever. I only ask him to hear the soft, smooth purr in his voice when he says it.
“Yeah, I’ll keep it.”
“Do you think you’ll tear down this wall?” I tap on the plaster that separates the kitchen and dining room.
“Yeah, and this one too. It’ll open the space and brighten it up, plus, it will let the outdoors in.”
He opens a rickety stable door just off the kitchen, persuading it with a shoulder and, when that doesn’t work, a sturdy kick. I flinch and step back as splinters of wood fly.
Sandy won’t like that.
She won’t like it a bit.
The back veranda is deep, wrapping all the way around the south side of the house. It’s covered in cobwebs, and when we step onto it, the scuttle of tiny claws on timber lets me know we’re nowhere near as alone as I thought we were.
The light has changed since we’ve been here. Late afternoon has given way to evening. Dusky pinks and oranges streak the sky, breathing life into a garden forgotten by time.