“I finished a coat of paint in one of the rooms. How do you think we should keep the rooms straight? Numbering them seems a little sterile, don’t you think?”
“We could name them after plants or flowers—no, that’s lame,” Ben said. “We should try to bring in something local. Nearby mountain peaks?”
“Or name them after something special about the house—like the Gable Room or the Tower Room?” Caroline asked.
“That’s a good idea.” Ben nodded. “Yes, sir, the Ceiling May Cave in on You as You Sleep Room is available next weekend. Oh, of course we can accommodate your children nearby. The Absolutely No Insulation Anywhere Room is just across the hall.”
“Thank you, Ben. That’s really constructive.” She shook her head, but Ben saw that one side of her mouth had curved into a smile.
“Or maybe we could name them after some of our favorite slack-jawed yokels. Post their pretty profiles on each door. We can furnish the Deputy Simms Room with empty Milwaukee’s Best cans and Skoal containers.”
“Did things not go well at the general store?”
“Oh, no, it went great. We’re actually getting together later tonight. Going to knock back a few and watch the game.”
“Can you please try to make more of an effort?” she said.
“I met the owner of the Lancelight, actually,” Ben said. He’d chosen the cherry pie. “She was friendly and told me a little about Grams’s family. She also invited me to a meeting of the town’s Preservation Society.”
“Well, that’s good. Showing an interest in the town would be a good way to integrate with the locals. We’re going to need their support if the inn’s going to work. There could be a real synergic benefit in pitching the restoration of the Crofts as a manifestation of their civic pride.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ben said. He’d learned long ago that it was best to simply smile and agree when Caroline drifted into industry jargon.
“Speaking of community integration, one of the Catholic schools returned your call. Did you ever get back to the prep school in Northbridge?”
Ben sighed. “They’re still holding his spot.”
They had been all set to send Charlie to Northbridge Day until their last visit, when Charlie sat in on a class while Ben and Caroline spoke to the headmistress. The headmistress had had a lot of questions for them: about the problems in the last school, about why they had moved up here, and then about Ben’s books. Their meeting had gone on longer than they’d expected, and when they went to the class to get Charlie, they found that the teacher had left and the room was empty except for three boys who’d blocked Charlie into a corner, pushing him and pulling at the collar of his shirt. Charlie had stood there, letting the boys shove him, wearing an uncomprehending look that had made Ben want to reach across the room and shake him.
“Was St. Michael’s the name of the Catholic school?” Ben asked. There were more options for private schooling up here than he’d expected, but because he was a stranger to the region, it’d been hard for Ben to keep them straight. From what he’d been able to find out, St. Michael’s had a good reputation.
“I wrote it down.” She found the notepad. “The Priory of St. Michael’s.” The oven dinged and Caroline scurried over to scrutinize its contents. A wave of succulence wafted through the open door. Ben was about to ask her what she was cooking when an explosive noise came from the hall.
Caroline shut the oven and stood up. Charlie put down his book and cocked his ear. Hudson sprang up from where he had been lying, his nose probing the air. Bub paused his bouncing in his exersaucer. They stayed poised like that for a few seconds.
“Must have left a door open,” Ben said. He turned away from where he’d been watching the door to the hallway. “The wind probably slammed it shut.” He rubbed Hudson on the head. “That a pork roast, Cee?”
The sound came again, louder than the first time, loud enough to make them all flinch. It was a deep sound that reverberated throughout the house, like the bolting of a huge lock at the building’s heart. Hudson trotted across the room and began to pace in front of the door, a growl gathering in his throat.
“Ben?” Caroline asked.
“It’s just a door getting blown by the wind,” Ben said. “The deadlatch must have jammed.” He opened the utensil drawer and pulled out a knife. “It’s only to pry it loose, if I need to,” he told her.
He kissed Caroline lightly on the neck on his way past her. “Relax, Hud.” He grabbed the beagle by his collar and pulled him over to Caroline. “Smells good,” he told her before closing the hall door behind him.
The lights were out in the hall. The sun had fallen behind the mountains at the west end of the valley, and the day’s last light littered the rooms in the geometry cast by the immense windows.
The hall seemed even more cavernous in the dark. It had been designed to be wide enough for two women in hoop skirts to pass each other with ease, but now it could have been twice as broad.
The sound came again, sending him back a step. It was a slamming door, he was sure, but the impact against the house’s wooden bones was such that it seemed almost to have a physical presence.
Ben picked up the pace, his footsteps keeping time between the crashing sounds. He counted the number of rooms he passed, but he couldn’t remember how many there were supposed to be.
The hall was a straight shot except for the last leg, which took a hard right turn. There was a cold draft in the air when he turned the corner, and he was just in time to see the door slam into its frame again.
He grabbed the handle to prevent the door from swinging open and saw that the deadlatch had indeed become jammed. The wind must have been knocking the door open, then a draft from another room would slam it shut.
He heard Caroline’s distant call.