Ah, Liv. My good girl never had a typical rebellious phase. Neither did I really, though I got into some scrapes in high school and had some rowdy nights out with friends that involved seeking out deserted places to party.
Liv was different. She rebelled against her mother when she was thirteen years old. There’s no way in hell Crystal Winter can manipulate her anymore. And I know I need to let Liv deal with her mother alone, even if not shielding my wife goes against every instinct I possess.
I watch Liv take a few more pictures of the house. I approach the side door and pull on a loose board nailed into the doorjamb.
“Dean, what are you doing?”
“Getting into the house. Don’t you want to see what’s inside?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not our property.”
I pry the board away from the nails. “This wood is so rotted it’s about to fall off anyway.”
“Dean.” Her voice is worried as she approaches me. “Really. This is breaking and entering.”
“You have a right to be here, don’t you?” I pull harder on the board, and it yields with a screech of rusty nails. “You’re doing research for the Historical Society.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to break in.”
“You’re not.” I shoot her a grin. “I am.”
I’m gratified when a faint smile appears on her face. I push the board aside to reveal a narrow hole in the door, edged with splintered wood.
“Come on, beauty.” I peer through the hole into the darkness. “Let’s live dangerously.”
“Well, for us, I suppose this is about as dangerous as it gets,” she mutters. “Dean, please be careful.”
I push my way through the door, then extend a hand to help Liv through. We find ourselves in what was once the kitchen—now a mess of broken chairs, a rusted sink, and shattered tiles. A layer of dirt covers everything. Dust motes swim in the faint light.
Liv tightens her hand around mine as we walk into the other rooms. A musty smell clings to the air. The front rooms are no better than the kitchen—torn, filthy rugs, peeling wallpaper, pockets of mildew. Drop cloths cover some pieces of furniture. The fireplace is coated with soot. But even through the grime, the historic beauty of the place is evident in the decorative trim, the ceiling medallions, and paneled wainscot.
“Can you imagine how beautiful it once was?” Liv says.
“It’s a shame no one took care of it.” I let go of her hand to take the camera from her, then angle the lens and take a picture of the room.
We explore the other rooms on the lower floor, all in disrepair with broken plaster, scarred wooden floors, and a million cobwebs. I snap a few more pictures of cool, architectural details—crown molding, the arch of a door, a carved newel post—before we go upstairs.
There are five rooms on the second story, with windows overlooking each side of the house and half-filled with broken furniture. The walls are patched with slats of wood, the ceilings discolored with water damage.
“I can see why the Historical Society needs a huge fundraising effort for this,” Liv says as she peers at a rusted light fixture. “It’ll cost a fortune to renovate.”
“It would be well worth it, though, if it were done right.” I pause beside a door leading to a narrow staircase. “Let’s see what’s up here.”
Liv follows me up to the tower that rises above the front porch. She stops and sucks in a breath when we reach the top. It’s an octagonal tower with windows on each side, cluttered with a few old chairs. Most of the windows are boarded up, but the one facing the lake is clear and unbroken.
“Wow.” Liv crosses to look out the window. “This must have been amazing, once upon a time. You can see all the way past the lake to the other part of town. What a view.”
I pause to take a picture of the cathedral ceiling. I examine the furniture, brushing the dust off a parlor chair that has a detailed engraving on the back.
“I can understand why medieval towers were used for defense,” Liv continues. “You can see so far away.”
“Sometimes they were used for other things too.” I angle the camera for a picture of the chair. “Chapels, prisons, libraries.”
“Cool place for a library.”
I lower the camera just as Liv turns to face me. My heart slams against my chest. For a second, I can’t speak. Can hardly breathe.
She blinks. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t… don’t move.”
Sweet mother of God, my wife is beautiful.
At that exact moment, a reddish sunbeam shines through the window, painting Liv’s skin with a rosy blush. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and light weaves through all the thick strands. Behind her, the window glows and town lights sparkle against the expanse of the lake.
I may not be all that great at the romantic stuff, but sometimes the world sure gets it right.
I lift the camera again and focus the lens on Liv before snapping the shutter.
“Dean, I don’t even have any lipstick on.”