“Up here.”
Cursing softly, she climbs the narrow staircase. The rudimentary treads are rough beneath her bare feet; a splinter stabs into her toe. She ignores the twinge of pain and the prickle of goose bumps on her legs as she ascends into the cold, cavernous space beneath the sloping Victorian roofline.
Irregularly shaped, draped in cobwebs, and crisscrossed by rough--hewn beams, the space stretches in every direction to low knee walls and paired dormers. Its dusty floor, slatted walls, and towering ceiling are made of aged wood that seems even darker at night or on a gloomy winter day, as the only lighting is a bare bulb perched high in the rafters. While she shudders at the thought of the bats that undoubtedly lurk up there and occasionally swoop their way downstairs in warmer months, Rowan has always found that the attic holds a certain appeal.
Its corners have yielded interesting relics of bygone eras: a child’s tin toy, coins, buttons, even a stash of empty Prohibition era liquor bottles. There’s a partial view of the Hudson River through the west--facing windows at this time of year, when the leaves are off the trees. She doesn’t even mind the smell that wafts in the air: it reminds her of library books and sawdust and the archive room at the historical museum.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, she can hear rain pattering on the roof and a strong wind swaying the ancient trees that surround the house. She hugs herself, shivering, looking for Jake. “Babe? Where are you?”
“Here,” he calls from the shadows in a corner opposite the one where she hid the box. Thank goodness.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a break. I spent the whole morning getting ready for the meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“The regional sales meeting.”
“When is it?”
“Wednesday,” he says in a tone that tells her she should have known that. “In Saratoga Springs.”
“Oh—-that’s right. My field trip is Wednesday, too. There’s a lot going on these days.”
“When isn’t there a lot going on?”
Oh, Jake. You have no idea.
Unless he does have an idea and he lured her up here to prove a point? The point being . . .
That he’s a terrific husband, and she doesn’t deserve him?
With a grunt, he drags a carton across the floor as a gust of wind rattles the windows, sending a draft over her bare legs.
“What’s in there?” she asks.
“Light strings. I already carried down the other stuff.”
Her heart skips a beat. “What other stuff?”
“You know. Decorations. The ones that go inside—-not for the tree.”
She wonders, fleetingly, if he stumbled across her secret and is covering up.
No. They’ve kept the holiday decorations in the same spot—-the spot where he is—-ever since they moved into the house years ago. He’d have no reason to go rummaging anywhere else up here. Not today, anyway.
She pushes her doubts away just as she did last night at the restaurant, when she got it into her head that there was hidden meaning in everything Jake said and did.
If he had found any reason to be suspicious of her, he’d bring it up directly. That’s how he rolls.
“Do you need a hand?” she asks as he backs out of the corner carrying a large box.
“Nope, got it.” He ducks his head to avoid bumping it on a low beam. He’s wearing exactly what he had on yesterday and left in a heap on the bedroom floor when he dressed for dinner: a faded pair of jeans and his old bleach--stained New York Knicks sweatshirt.
“Hey, guess what I found?” he asks, and her heart stops.
“What?”