put her hand on his arm. “Well, actually, there is something else I noticed after lunch that same day, while I was trimming the hedge....”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR later, Hank was climbing the steps to the Goodfellows’ house when he had a flash of déjà vu. The porch light was shaped like a lantern, a popular design, and the screen door was plain, white-enameled aluminum, variations of which he’d already seen in this neighborhood. The inside door was varnished wood and had been left open to allow the evening breeze to help cool the interior, which wasn’t unusual since most people around here would prefer to save the cost of running an air conditioner and let nature do the work. Yet the feeling of familiarity he was experiencing didn’t arise from what he saw, it came from what he felt.
He’d undergone the same swooping sensation in his stomach when he’d been a teenager and had called on Amelia at her parents’ house. Their front door had been painted forest-green, and the screen door had been a relic from the sixties, decorated with the silhouette of a flamingo. Rather than a square, cement stoop like the one he stood on here, their house had had a veranda along the front that had been large enough for a swing. Their porch light had been a high-wattage bulb in a glass globe, which had illuminated that swing—and anyone on it—like a spotlight, much to the disappointment of a teenage boy hoping to steal a few extra good-night kisses.
That place had been several miles from here, on the east side of the Ganaraska River that bisected the town. The neighborhood was much older than this one and had developed naturally, with no subdivision master plan. As a result, modest clapboard houses like the one where Amelia’s family had lived were mixed in haphazardly with stately, three-story, brick century homes like his father’s. It had taken Hank less than ten minutes to walk to Amelia’s. Sometimes he would take the junker he’d fixed up in shop class. Amelia had claimed she’d been able to hear it coming a block away, so she’d often be halfway down the walk by the time he’d pulled up. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to hide her eagerness to see him any more than he would have tried to hide his own.
But that was then, and this was now. He took a few deep breaths to calm his pulse, then pressed the doorbell.
Chimes sounded inside the house, followed by high-pitched yapping and the scrabbling of nails on hardwood. A small black mop of a dog skidded to a halt at the screen door. Barred from going farther, it spun in place and yapped faster.
Amelia appeared behind it, carrying a toddler on one hip. The boy was dressed in short pajamas and clutched a tattered yellow rabbit. The dog immediately lost interest in Hank and jumped at the stuffed toy.
“Toto, cut that out!” Amelia ordered, swiveling to turn the boy and rabbit away from the dog. She unlatched the door and moved back so Hank could enter. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Hank pulled the screen door shut behind him, enjoying the picture she presented. Amelia wore cutoff jean shorts that showed off her legs and a flowered blouse that was similar to the one she’d worn to his office, only this one had a smear of what could have been spaghetti sauce on the collar. Most of her hair was caught back by a scrunchie into a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup, so her freckles stood out vividly against her cheeks, like sprinkles of melted cinnamon on warm pudding.
She had always managed to look beautiful to him, regardless of the circumstances. It used to leave him tongue-tied, or wishing he was so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by making clumsy compliments. Cinnamon? He tightened his lips.
She grasped his arm suddenly. “Did you find it?”
The touch set off another stomach swoop. He reminded himself that her eagerness wasn’t for him, it was for the painting. “Sorry, no. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d give you an update.”
The dog backed up, took a running leap and latched on to the rabbit, yanking it out of the boy’s grasp.
“Mine!” the child yelled. He squirmed violently until Amelia shifted him to her shoulder. He arched his back and screamed. “No! My bunny!”
“Is this a bad time?” Hank asked.
“No worse than usual.” She led him the few steps to the living room. Toys were scattered on the floor. On a corner table sat a computer that appeared even older than his. Bulky, brown leather furniture huddled around an oval coffee table, which was covered with stacks of neatly folded children’s clothes. A wicker basket with more laundry sat on the floor beside it. The Goodfellows weren’t well-off, as Hank had already learned when he’d done the credit check for his father. Nothing appeared to be new here, but the mess was from disorder, not dirt. The sofa set looked comfortable, and the wooden pieces were skillfully crafted from solid oak. The overall effect was inviting and homey.
“Will and Jenny went to the movies so I’m in charge of the circus tonight.” Amelia nodded Hank toward the couch as she jiggled the boy in her arms. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you in two minutes. I just need to get Timmy settled.”
The two minutes stretched into ten. Hank used the time to observe what was visible from the living room doorway. Like the other houses of the same design on the block, this one had a kitchen and bathroom to the left of the hall that ran through to the back door. The staircase Amelia had carried Timmy up was in the center. Hank deduced the older boys were playing video games in the basement, since he heard phrases of the distinctive music from Super Mario emanating from the depths of the house.
Hank turned his attention to the room to the right of the stairs, which had to be the one where Amelia was staying. Through the open door he saw a table with a sewing machine and shelves crammed with folded lengths of fabric and small, plastic storage containers. Beneath the window was a toy box shaped like a treasure chest that stood next to a pine futon with a blue-and-white striped cover. The walls were bare, apart from an empty picture hook and smudged arcs on the paint where the lower corners of the painting would have rested.
He tried to imagine Amelia living here. It was difficult. She’d moved in months ago, yet he could see no trace of her personality in this room. Everything appeared to belong to her sister-in-law or her nephews. This was the room of someone who was passing through, who was marking time, getting from one day to the next. The look was familiar to him, since he’d lived that way himself during the years that had followed Amelia’s departure.
His gaze returned to the empty picture hook. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her, because she would hate that, but how could he help it? This cramped room was a giant step down from the luxury condo in Toronto where she used to live. Not that he had any firsthand knowledge of it—he would be the last person Amelia would have invited to visit. He’d seen pictures of the outside of the building on a newscast last year. None of the camera crews had been allowed past the lobby, but from what the reporters had described, the square footage of her apartment had been greater than this entire house. Amelia would have had closets that were bigger than this bedroom. She wouldn’t have had spaghetti stains on her collar or needed to contend with screaming toddlers or yapping mop-dogs. She would have worn designer outfits and gone to operas or art galleries or wherever it was rich people hung out in the city. That had been the life she’d chosen, after all.
And she hadn’t lived that life alone. She’d had her husband, the man she had chosen over Hank.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Timmy wanted another story.”
Hank started at Amelia’s voice. He hadn’t heard her approach, likely because she was barefoot. She had loved going barefoot during the summer when they were kids. She used to be self-conscious about the size of her feet, but he’d thought they were
