Housewarming

The trees around the meadow sway lightly in the breeze. Beneath them, the tall grass is brighter than usual, cast in artificial light for the first time in a year. Cassie sinks back into the cushions, watching the last of the day evaporate. Her phone is lost in the maze. She sent Kate ahead to turn on the water heaters, change the sheets, bring groceries. But she’s gone, taking a lengthy paid vacation on Cassie’s orders.

Cassie imagines the next moments of her life. Sees herself in the living room, candle lit, wine glass in hand, book in the other. Something from the library, something old and dusty, something — The room doesn’t smell stale. The bedside table doesn’t appear dusty, either. Either Kate was here longer than she was supposed to, or someone came in after her.

Cassie clambers out of bed, silk against linen, planting her feet on the cool wood floor. There’s nothing strange in the hallway, stairway, or kitchen, but all of them are dust-free. Only entering the living room for the first time since arriving confirms her suspicions. There are flowers on the coffee table. Purple tulips in crystal, still mostly closed. Is it tulip season? 

A decision is made. She picks up the tulips, fumbles with the locks of the doors to the garden, and ventures out towards the stream. Once there, she feels a bit conflicted, worried about the symbolism of throwing flowers into running water. She sets the vase down on the old fountain, out of eyeshot of the living room windows, instead. But the plan is only half done, now. She finds a second vase in a kitchen cabinet and spends the next minutes picking daisies and daffodils, and grasses for herself in the dark, finally setting the arrangement in the living room.

Next, Cassie moves through the living room French doors to the library. Notices that it has not been cleaned. She begins scanning the dark wood shelves, but stops when she hears a ringing sound. The one assigned only to Laura. She follows the buzz buzz into the bathroom, flicking on fluorescent lights that make her blink. She finds the phone on the sink.

“Hello, Lor.”

“What the fuck.” The line is crackly.

“I know. I’m in the country house. Arrived a few hours ago.” Flicking the lights off, Cassie heads back to the kitchen, sitting down on the counter by the window.

“We wrapped two days ago, I could come to you.” Laura is soft-voiced. Cassie hates it when she does that.

“No, you have enough on your plate right now. You can visit when you’re back.”

“Cassie-”

“Laura, please listen to me this time. I will tell you if I change my mind. But I think this is good for me. And Matt isn’t returning from Switzerland for another month, so there is little rush.”

There’s a long silence. Cassie rests her head on a lifted knee, staring out of the window, visualising Laura. She must be buzzing, inflating her cheeks to stop herself from arguing. Cassie waits for her to burst. But Laura changes tactics instead.

“Will you tell me about it, at least? I’m already thinking the worst. Your message was quite cryptic.”

“Sorry, I wanted to make sure you found out from me, not Sam. But it’s nothing serious, just the final disagreement in a long line of bickering. I’ll have more to say about it when it’s not so fresh.”

“Fine. But I will be there in two weeks.”

A little later, Cassie has settled down. She sits on the sofa in the centre of the room, surrounded by the tall walls. A barely opened bottle of wine, a bowl of cherries, and the wildflower vase rest on the wood coffee table. Low lights surround the room, casting shadows that are slightly too large for her frame. From an outsider’s perspective, nothing is amiss in this picture. Well, perhaps the walls seem a little empty, the cushions too unruffled. But Cassie looks happy enough, feet a bit dirty from walking outside, her wide, long silk dress draped across her body like a blanket, Anna Karenina in hand, a relaxed look on her face.

***

The next morning, the man at the market tells Cassie that the eggs are fresh from this morning. Intellectually, she knows that eggs are warm at some point, but cannot quite imagine what it’s really like, holding a fresh, warm egg. Those farm eggs are sizzling now. Cassie keeps close to them, watching the yellow solidify, the luminosity disappear. She takes a brown egg from the carton, holds it against the sun streaming in from the open window. Thinks of the red of a flashlight against an index finger.

Once lunch is eaten and all of the doors are wide open, Cassie moves to the library and opens her laptop. The screen is brighter than expected, the room darker. She needs to start sorting everything out. Listing what will go where, which car she wants to keep.

But she has an email reminding her to update her payment information for a lit mag she subscribed to on a whim. She cannot remember ever holding an edition of this magazine in her hands. Still, she makes the update and changes the address. A few minutes later, she has subscribed to a few more magazines, and there are a few more bugs in the room.

The cool evening breeze has caught the drapes around the windows and doors, making a little dance out of them. Cassie feels a headache coming on. Not tonight, then. Cassie takes a bath, risking the book. The fluorescent light in the upstairs bathroom doesn’t flicker, a constant white cylinder above the cabinet. Cassie wonders about it, its strong, utilitarian curve. Its sister in the downstairs bathroom. Thinks about replacing it.

***

Cassie is surprised on her second visit to the market. The usual is present, green and shaded and smelling of earth. But so is the unusual. Tables are everywhere, in the direct sunlight, lining the space between the stalls. There are all sorts of small things on them. Pins and cameras and cups and pots, and other things she doesn’t recognise. Large things too, on the outskirts. Chairs and armoires, and rolled up rugs. She notices how crowded it is, people in shorts and linens and silks like her, leaning over tables.

There’s yellowed paper in plastic wallets, out here in the blinding sun. Cassie goes to inspect them, but is blocked by a tall man dressed in a black suit. She’s in the line of vision of the woman behind the counter, so she greets her in the meantime. The woman smiles a proper smile in response and introduces herself as Sandra.

The man has moved on to the next stall. The papers are ads. Armies, cigarettes, pin-ups. They don’t cost much. Still, they feel quite precious in their casing. Cassie arranges some, a few small, a few big, and pays for them.

“You bought the house by the old bridge, right?”

That gives her pause, but probably shouldn’t. Sandra looks kindly, with her sweet crow’s feet. 

“Pardon?”

“The old house by the, er, even older bridge? Up that way?” She points in the direction of the right mountain.

“I – yes, I believe you’re referring to my house. There might be others like it, of course.”

“Ah. You bought it off Yann, right? Theresa’s kid?”

“Yes.”

Unfortunately, now that Cassie is becoming less suspicious, Sandra has picked up on her hesitance, and there is a small moment where nothing happens at all. But Cassie is curious now.

“Why do you ask?”

“I promise it’s nothing weird. I used to visit that house sometimes with Yann, his grandfather liked to bake these amazing cookies. He had all sorts of cool stuff, and I know the family took a few things, but I always wondered what happened to the rest. Did you find anything fun?”

Cassie has no idea if the house has been gutted or if the previous owner’s things are stored away somewhere. But the question sparks something. She wants to find out.

“I haven’t had a proper look, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

***

Cassie returns with flowers, strawberries, veggies, bread, and the leaflets. She doesn’t start her search immediately, instead making herself a sandwich and sitting outside, nestling into a corner of the meadow atop a tablecloth, not quite finding a comfortable position. She’s still reading Anna Karenina. She doesn’t find it all that difficult, but finds that she needs to squint against the sun even with sunglasses on.

When her back starts hurting, she leaves things as they are outside and starts at the bottom of the house. The small cellar is mostly wine and dust and stone. There are no secret doors apparent to the eye. Cupboards in the kitchen and living room, and foyer all come up semi-empty, too, with some things left by her and Sam for hikes and dinner parties. No hidden doors in the library or office, either. The second floor has a similar outcome, but for the second-floor sitting room. This room has red curtains and settees. And there is a clear way to the attic from here, she just has to pull down the ladder.

The attic is an even brown with no windows. The boxes look newer than she expected. In them, thick fabrics that smell of moth, candleholders, ceramic plates, stacks of paintings under a tarp in the corner. No books. No, these have remained in the library, living a visual existence. And not much personal - no letters or receipts. These are things picked off walls and taken out of drawers once the final guests have left. Still, Cassie decides to carry everything down and sort it properly.

Carrying the large paintings might get dangerous, though, so she starts by flicking through them. The fourth in the stack catches her eye. About a meter high, a painting of a man dressed in black sits by a window. A monk, perhaps. His head is held high, his eyes closed. Whether he feels at ease is not as obvious. He’s contemplative, and might be anguished, might not. Cassie notices the floor, checkered red and white like the kitchen. You cannot see through the window next to him. It’s filled with a soft, bluish grey. He has a perfectly round halo around his head. It’s not quite white. More of an eggshell. It makes him almost glow in the darkness of the attic. Cassie likes him, but worries that she is missing something.

***

Time passes, a little. Cassie starts receiving her magazines and reads, a little. She finishes Anna Karenina, calls her son a few times, texts Laura, her parents. Travels to the market and the supermarket. But above all, Cassie sorts. She was right — there is no rhyme or reason and probably no grand secret to these things. But some can be reintroduced to the house, others given away. Unbalanced silver candlesticks and porcelain plates line the coffee tables and settees in the room. A few rugs are outside to be hit and scrubbed amateurishly.

***

Cassie hangs her limited laundry on a string she pulls across the metal awning in the garden. There is a small grass stain on the silk dress she wore the day she arrived. It blends well into the pattern. After her chores, Cassie tries settling outside again, this time close to the clothesline, at the bench table on the patio. She’s reading her magazines, thinking about getting more. Fetches her laptop to figure out what next edition will arrive soonest.

The phone starts buzzing. She considers checking it, but then the email notifications start rolling in. She freezes completely when she sees the headline. Unideal, to say the least.

Once the initial shock fades, Cassie starts pacing. The phone is still buzzing. Why do they care so much? What is the appeal of actually revealing such things? Is it Sam’s fault, was he not careful? How was he spotted this easily? Actually, how is any of this even incriminating? It’s just a blurry image at a restaurant.

Her life has become a complete cliché. She knew this already, of course, but it’s not pretty to have it plastered in the papers. She can barely find space around it, the web of typicality. The way everything has been unravelled with a few choice words, a trip to the countryside, and a headline. And she knows this reporter, too. Never liked her.

She stays outside, trying to push away how uninspired this all feels. She doesn’t pick up the phone, just continues reading poems and short fiction, articles about up-and-coming architects and light artists and furniture designers. Stands up in between and paces. She looks up at some point, noticing her dry eyes, and watches the sun go down. The sun disappears too fast here, falling beneath the tall mountains and trees. It’s also softer than in the city, the red subdued by fresh air. Still, Cassie stands up, goes to the purple tulips on the fountain, and throws them in the stream while the sky is darkening. For a moment after that, everything looks sickeningly perfect, and soon after, it isn’t sickening at all. The ground feels real, the terracotta tiles more subdued. Cassie looks into the forest, decides to start taking walks. The pacing really helped.

***

The final box is self-contained, thematic, almost suspicious. There are maps, some tools she doesn’t recognise, and two globes. One classic, one small. The small one is wrapped in tissue paper like a Christmas bauble. It has a leathery case, with the night’s sky printed on its interior. It’s the most beautiful thing Cassie has ever held.

This means that Cassie can finally decide where things will go. The angel monk will go downstairs to the library. The ceramics will go in the glass cabinets. The small globe will stay up here in the red room. Rugs, paintings, and candlesticks will go all over.

Cassie has found a hammer and nails, but the ladder in the shed isn’t sturdy. There’s no laser level, no wire, and definitely no perfectly shaped stands for small globes. Does she need a pressure washer for the rugs? It might short-circuit the house. She stares at the piles she’s made. Can almost feel the rain that patters away outside in her soles. It’s not possible to avoid going out in public forever. If it’s really bad, she can dye her hair.

A few hours later, Cassie returns without incident, running back and forth with bags of new frames, a sturdier ladder, and small miscellaneous machines, the hem of her jeans brushing drops off the unkempt grass.

***

One of these days, Cassie wakes up uncharacteristically early. She’s not refreshed, but still tries to make the most of it. She calls Laura, who usually comes back from a run around now. Makes more eggs. Eats them standing in front of the window in the living room, watching the blueish mist over the meadow, vowing never to mow it.

She takes a walk that morning in the stiff walking shoes from the cupboard in the hallway. She’s going to follow the stream until it falls too steep. Close to the house, she’s distracted by a message. Matt has decided to go to his dad’s for the summer. It’s closer to the airport, closer to his friends. But he’d like to visit, if that’s all right. Cassie wonders how he turned out so polite. Hates that he knows.

She’s already planted herself down on a rock, her joggers instantly soaked through with moss-dew. The house is visible through the thicket, standing sturdy, boxy, and grey, just there in the cloud light. There are no more boxes in the attic, but she hasn’t finished decorating. Still, there is no time like the present.

Not allowing herself time to think, she taps on Sam’s contact. He picks up almost immediately.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She snorts in response.

After, Cassie continues cleaning the rugs, takes a shower, puts on a fresh striped dress. Goes back outside and collects more wildflowers.

***

Cassie is relieved she didn’t wear a dress when the wind hits her face the second she leaves her car behind in the village. She spots Sandra quickly at the market, who’s also dressed a bit warmly for the summer, receiving cash in the relative dark of the sunshade. Cassie tells her about her finds, invites her to come take a look. 

Sandra appears in the doorway around teatime, a few days later. Cassie has stocked the house with an extra-wide selection of teas. She considered getting nice boxes for Sandra to carry her things, but decided against it.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

They go to the second-floor sitting room. It quickly becomes clear that Sandra is a hard learned saleswoman. She prefers dealing in antiques but works and sells for the family farm on the daily. She likes green tea with no sugar and isn’t picky about the biscuits.

Cassie watches and listens while Sandra picks out some things, tapping for sounds and inspecting inscriptions with steady hands. Some decorations and utensils and paintings, and candlesticks. She shows little interest in the clothes. She tells Cassie what she thinks things are worth. Cassie believes her.

“Are you keeping a lot of things?” Sandra is looking around the room from her spot on the carpet.

“A decent amount. Shall I give you a tour?”

They talk and walk and look. Cassie shows Sandra the rest of the house and its small treasures - things kept from move-in, things bought, things from the attic. When the sun starts skirting the tree line, Sandra says she has to start going, so they return upstairs and Cassie starts packing Sandra’s chosen items back into boxes.

“Alright, I’m just going to be honest.”

Cassie continues to pack things up, shooting a quick smile in approval.

“I know you’re a bit clueless about these things, and I hope you trust me not to take advantage of you here. Most of these things are low to medium range, but I’m prepared to pay a bit over to account for the few pieces that might be worth more.”

“Wait — these are a gift.”

Sandra has slowed all movement.

“That’s very kind, but I can’t do that.”

It’s Cassie’s turn to be honest

“Sandra, I do not need the money.”

“That’s not the point. Look, you have an eye. You’ve already picked out a lot of what would have been my first choices. These are your things. Let me pay for them.”

“They don’t belong to me, not really. They came with the house.”

Cassie hasn’t stopped packing, intending to carry the boxes and set them on top of Sandra’s car if she has to. But she can recognise an immovable force when she sees one.

“I really do not need the money. Pay me a percentage on sales if you insist. I can do the math. I will not take your money in any other way.”

Cassie looks down as she speaks, but dares a glance at Sandra after finishing. Sandra looks satisfied enough. So they carry everything outside, exchange numbers, promise to stay in touch, and keep track. Finally, Cassie asks her to come back sometime. Sandra lights up, and they promise to make plans soon.

***

Soon after arriving, Laura laughed Cassie out of the house and all the way to the supermarket, insisting they needed to cook something proper after her diet of eggs, bread, and fruit. Still, she sits on the patio now, cutting up lemons and limes and picking at the strawberries on the cutting board while Cassie calls Sandra. She looks radiant, her long hair loosely tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, feet on the chair next to her.

Sandra comes after work, tired and with dirty hands. Still, there is a smile on her face. Laura, never shy, offers her a shower, which Sandra accepts. In the kitchen, Cassie’s potato peeling is occasionally interrupted by Laura’s casual physical affection. A hand on her shoulder, a pinch of her cheek. She missed it. Their hollandaise separates twice before going through on the third try.

Sandra returns just in time for dinner. She looks fresher and refuses a hair dryer. They eat their asparagus and drink spiked lemonade on the porch, filling the space in the sunshade perfectly. They make plans for Cassie to observe the next antique market in a nearby town, and decide who will sleep where when Matt and Cassie’s mum come to visit next week.

The sun goes down. From the forest, all that can be heard is Laura’s occasional low chuckle, a rustle of the grass in the meadow. Sandra asks Cassie how it’s going with the house. Cassie responds that there is still much to do, much to clean. And much to experience — she hasn’t even dipped her toes in the stream yet. So they do that, to start the unspoken list. Both Laura and Sandra go in without much preamble, but Cassie struggles with the cold, slowly submerging one foot at a time in the clear water while the others converse a little ways away, knee deep in the water. Sandra holds her dress up, while Laura lets hers submerge. Their faces are turned towards the water. They’re talking about the chances of finding fish.

Cassie takes a moment to ground herself. She looks around, finds the moon in the sky. Follows its edge with her fingertips, frames it in her hands. Imagines falling into it. Decides she wouldn’t if she could.