Mrs. Miller remembers that moment differently.
“He looked like a drowned rat, and I thought it was no wonder he was an artist. He had that sort of tragic air about him.”
Miller laughs again at that, raising her hand to kiss the back of it. “And then the fair maiden rescued me and swept me away to her own castle,” he says. “Tragedy averted.”
And looking at them there, gazing fondly at one another as the sun sets over the mountain, Ashby House rising behind us, I do indeed feel as though I’ve stepped into a fairy tale.
A happy ending to believe in.
—“At Home with Andrew Miller,” by Ethan Lorimer,
Painter’s Quarterly, Autumn 1976
CHAPTER TEN
Camden
It’s unreal how quickly I slide back into place here.
A decade of not thinking about Ashby House or the McTavishes, a decade of building a whole new life for myself, and within three days, it’s like I’ve never left.
I’m eating Cecilia’s cooking, avoiding Nelle, walking the woods surrounding the house, driving into town for groceries …
It’s like there was always a Camden-shaped hole here, just waiting for me to slip back into.
Jules loves it.
I can see it in her face every day, the way she grins when she gets out of bed, how eager she is to curl up in that one chair on the veranda she likes so much and watch the world wake up around her. She’s content to do that for hours, to just take in the views, or wander the rooms.
I’d been worried about letting her go off with Ben, remembering other hikes through the woods with him, my feet skidding on pebbles, his laugh in my ear.
But Jules had come back with rosy cheeks and a bright smile, proclaiming the hike “exactly what I needed.”
If anything, Ben had been the one looking a little spooked, and I’d reminded myself yet again that I had an invaluable ally in my wife.
Today when I go looking for her, I find her in what used to be Ruby’s office, sitting on the floor and going through an old photo album.
“I’m snooping,” she says, unrepentant, not even looking up, and I laugh, crouching down next to her.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying a tour of Dead White People because I’m pretty sure that’s all that’s in these albums.”
“Au contraire,” she objects, flipping to a page near the back. “One very alive Camden McTavish, aged fifteen!”
And there I am, standing next to Ruby in the den. It’s Christmas, clearly, the tree stretching up behind us, too tall to fit into the picture. Stockings and tinsel, a crystal glass of eggnog in Ruby’s hand, and I look …
Happy.
No tight smile, no faking it for the camera. It’s a real, goofy smile as I look lovingly at Ruby—I’d grown taller than her by then, and my arm is slung around her shoulders, her head just reaching my collarbone.
I don’t remember that picture. Don’t remember taking it––hell, I don’t even remember being that kid. But there I am, and there’s Ruby’s neat handwriting on the little card next to the photo with my name and age, just like Jules said.
“I bet Christmas here is something else,” she says, her voice gone slightly dreamy.
She’s picturing it, no doubt. That same huge tree, the twinkling lights. The snow that falls gently outside, locking the house into its own winter wonderland.
And in that moment, I want so badly to give her the fairy tale. I want to take back every horrible thing that happened here, take back what I did, just so she can have that.
Which is why I almost tell her the truth.
If she knew—if she understood—the real reason why I left, then she would see that it was impossible for us to stay. That there was no Christmas at Ashby House in our future, and that was for the best.
The words are right there, so close I can almost hear myself saying them.
But in the end, I just cuff a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her in to kiss her temple before rising to my feet and saying, “I’ll leave you to it. But hey. Any embarrassing pictures of me in there, it’s your wifely duty to burn them.”
“Gonna blow ’em up life-size and hang them all over our room,” she singsongs, still flipping through albums, and I laugh as I close the door behind me.
And walk almost straight into Nelle.
She’s dressed in green today, another tartan skirt and sweater set, and for the briefest second, I see her expression soften, the hint of a smile turning up her lips.
“Oh,” she says, and that near-smile becomes a scowl. “It’s you.”
She must’ve thought I was Ben. That had happened when I was a kid, too, and I’d get a glimpse of the Nelle who was actually human. But once she realized I wasn’t her own flesh and blood, the persona of the devoted grandmother would promptly disappear.
“It’s me,” I confirm, and go to step around her, but she plants herself in my path.
“We need to talk about your wife,” she says, and I glance over my shoulder at the door I just closed.
“I don’t think that we do,” I reply, keeping my voice light, though I know she hears the warning underneath, that she sees it in my eyes.
But Nelle is a McTavish, and she doesn’t back down. “She’s been in every room of this house other than my bedroom, and honestly, I think she’d go in there if she thought she could get away with it. I’m not sure what it is she’s looking for, but kindly remind her that she is a guest in this house.”
Anger sparks, my pulse picking up, and I shove my hands into my pockets. “I own this house, Nelle,” I remind her. “Which means that it’s Jules’s house, too. She’s allowed in any room, in any closet, in any tiny corner of this place she wants.”
I wait for Nelle to draw herself up so tightly she squeaks, but instead, she actually smiles a little. Not the warm, indulgent smile she’d let slip when she thought I was Ben, but an ugly, sardonic one. “You sound like my sister,” she says, and my anger fades, replaced with a wariness that has me stepping back.
“When she died, I thought I’d never actually be rid of her because I’d always have to deal with you, her little … project. The child she molded into her own image. But then you left, too, and finally, I was free. Finally, this house was my own.”
Nelle steps closer, her feet silent on the thick carpet. Howell’s email may have said she wasn’t doing well, health-wise, but there’s no sign of that in this moment. Right now, Nelle looks like she’s made of solid steel.
“I thought you might come back when Howell died, and I was so relieved when you didn’t. Bad enough that I’d lost my only son. The last thing I needed was Ruby’s ghost swanning around the place again.” She pauses, her face hardening even further. “You should have stayed away, Camden. I think you’ll be sorry that you didn’t.”
As she walks away, I give a long, shaky exhale. “Your threats are improving, Nelle, I’ll give you that,” I call after her. “Bonus points for being cryptic.”
But Nelle continues shuffling down the hallway, ignoring me, and I try to shake off her words as I make my way to the stairs. She was always saying shit like that, glaring darkly across the dining-room table, catching me alone to remind me that I was nothing but trash, an “experiment” of Ruby’s. I’d learned to tune it out over the years, but something about this most recent exchange slides between my ribs like a knife, lodging there.
I reach the landing, and without thinking, I lift my eyes to Ruby’s portrait.
They’re going to hate you. I won’t sugarcoat that. Her voice sweet as syrup, that old-fashioned drawl that you’d think people have only in bad movies softening and rounding every vowel. I was sixteen, and we were sitting in the parlor upstairs, the one with the striped sofa, and she had a folder open on her lap, filled with printouts, so many numbers on the pages.
So many zeros.
I don’t want it.