Maybe I’ve gone about it all wrong.
Maybe I should’ve lain in the rain.
FIVE
ANNELIESE
pluviophile (n.) a lover of rain, someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days
“Oh, honey, I’ve got this.” Florence places her hand over the dinner bill Tuesday night. “My treat.”
It’s always her treat.
I look forward to the day when I can return the favor.
“You don’t have to do that . . . ,” I say, like I always do, knowing full well she’ll insist until she’s blue in the face. Florence is too good to me. We’ve only become friends in the past few months, but I get the sense that she’s taken pity upon my situation and enjoys looking out for me. A couple of years ago, she lost her husband of fifty years, moved here on a whim because she thought it was a charming little town, and then bought a quaint cottage in the historical district and poured her life savings into Arcadia Used Books.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, rolling her eyes. On a handful of occasions, she’s made small comments about having never had children or the fact that her closest niece and nephew live in California and she rarely hears from them except on her birthday. “I’m the one who invited you out. You know I adore your company.”
Flo is also well aware of my financial situation.
She slips two large bills into the black leather envelope and slides it to the end of the table. The restaurant has been packed tonight, and our waitress is spread thin. It’s going to be a while before we get out of here, not that I’m in a hurry. I’m going home to a big, empty house.
In a way, finishing the house is my equivalent of Flo’s bookshop. We both needed to pour our energies into something to distract us from our bleak realities.
“You know the other day at the shop?” I ask Florence. “When I thought I saw someone I knew?”
Her eyes crinkle at the sides, and she toys with her white Lucite necklace. “Ah yes. I do.”
“He looked exactly like Donovan,” I say.
Her mauve lips press firm. “That must’ve been upsetting for you.”
It was a lot of things.
“He . . . that man actually showed up at my house on Sunday.” I crumple my napkin in my lap.
“What? What do you mean, he showed up at your house?” Florence leans closer, angling her left ear my way.
“He says his name is Lachlan . . . and that he’s Donovan’s brother . . . but Donovan never mentioned he had a brother.”
Florence frowns, straightening her posture. She doesn’t like what she’s hearing.
But to be fair, I don’t like what I’m saying.
“Are you one hundred percent sure that’s his brother?” she asks.
“No. Of course not. But he looks like him. Nearly identical. And he knows his name. Claims the house is legally his . . .” I exhale. “And he’s not wrong. I mean, if he is Donovan’s brother . . . there was no will and no heirs. At least none that I know of. He’d be the next of kin.”
“Oh my, my, my.” She fusses with the wedding band she still wears. “What did you tell him?”
“I asked him to leave,” I say. “And he did. But he wants the house. I don’t think he’s just going to walk away—especially if it’s legally his.”
“Are you absolutely certain Donovan didn’t leave a will?” she asks. “If he forgot to mention his brother, perhaps he forgot to mention that as well?”
She’s giving him the benefit of the doubt—which I’d love to do, but Donovan was an impeccable person. Slightly type A. Organized and meticulous. If he’d had a will, he’d have surely mentioned it. But being thirty, perhaps he felt he was young and invincible and had more time to worry about those things. That and who knows what other secrets he was hiding—someone capable of ripping off an honest, trustworthy woman isn’t going to put all their dirty dealings on paper.
“He wouldn’t have forgotten something like that,” I say. “He purposely didn’t tell me.”
“In all fairness, sweetheart, the two of you had a bit of a whirlwind courtship. It is likely there are certain things about him you’d yet to learn,” she says. “I was with my Lou over fifty years, and there were still things I didn’t know about him. Little things, of course. Nothing as major as what you’re dealing with, but I think it’s human nature to never fully show our hand to everyone we know. We’re all entitled to keep a little bit of something for ourselves.”
Swindling my life savings and pretending to be an only child aren’t exactly “a little bit of something,” but I digress.
I can’t stop thinking about the photo albums and how Donovan must have painstakingly edited and removed every trace of his brother.
“Maybe he was trying to protect you?” Florence lifts a brow.
“Couldn’t he have just said, Hey, I have a brother, and he’s not a nice guy, so we don’t talk anymore, and if you ever see him, just stay away?”
“Million-dollar question, my dear.” Her lips mold into a sympathetic slight curl.
Our waitress grabs our check.
“No change, lovely,” Florence tells her. “Thank you.”
I grab my bag. She grabs her clutch. We slide out of the booth.
“Any plans tonight?” I ask.
“Why, yes, actually,” she says. “I have a date with my television set. You know I never miss an episode of The Manor in the Mountains.”
“That’s right. It’s Tuesday night.” I walk her to the door. “We shouldn’t keep your lumberjack and his society girl waiting.”
“Guinevere and Johnny.”
“Yes, Guinevere and Johnny,” I echo as I walk her to her parked Buick. A burst of carefree laughter trails from down the street, where a group of women dressed in business casual sashay into a local bar.
I’d always assumed I’d find a friend group once Donovan and I were more settled in here. But the second we arrived, we poured all our time into that house, and any spare moments we had we poured into each other. I’m kicking myself now for not trying to get out of my bubble, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.
At least I have Florence. But it wouldn’t hurt to put myself out more and try to meet a few new friendly faces. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be here. Before Lachlan waltzed into my life, I thought maybe a year at the most—assuming everything went smoothly with the reno and legal side of things. Now it’s anyone’s guess.
Flo sends me off with a hug and an air-kiss, and I eye the bar once more.
It’s only eight o’clock. If I go home now, I’ll waste away the rest of the evening doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that until I wear myself out enough to fall asleep. For someone as busy as I am, there are days and nights I feel like I do a whole lot of nothing. It’s a strange paradox.
Thunder rumbles through the dark sky, and lightning crackles above the trees. Donovan always loved stormy weather. In fact, it inspired him so much he’d stand on the front porch and watch it roll through, ignoring the chilly raindrops that pelted his skin and the warning flashes of lightning illuminating the sky. But having grown up in the Midwest, I’ve only ever associated it with tornado season. I’d take cover in the basement while he was delighting in nature’s visual performance outside, earbuds in his ears playing some melodramatic playlist, lost in his own world.