Caroline nodded and headed back to the kitchen.
Ben threw the tennis ball down the field again and watched as Hudson bolted after it. He turned to his brother and was surprised to feel a pang of sadness when he looked at him. Despite everything, he’d miss Ted. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment.
—
Ben helped Ted load his bags into the McLaren.
“Are you sure you don’t want the quilt?” Ted asked, gesturing to the Lowell family tree folded on the passenger’s seat.
“You hold on to it,” Ben said. Caroline would be annoyed when she found out that Ben had given up this provenance of his local roots, but Ben wanted Ted to have something from the ruined farmhouse.
“Okay. You know, if you ever need a change of scenery, you can stay at my place,” Ted said. He popped the trunk. “Even if I’m traveling, you have the keys. It’s yours if you need it. If you need a break. A place to write or something.”
“Thanks.”
“And you should call. Me or your other friends. Sometimes you need to talk to an adult that you’re not married to.”
“Father Cal’s a nice guy.”
“I knew you’d like him when I met him. From your books, it’s clear you have a weakness for old men who speak in aphorisms.” He swung himself into the car, pulled the gull-wing door down, and stuck his hand out.
“A couple days ago you couldn’t even tell me the title of one of my books. I thought you hadn’t read them.” Ben grabbed his hand.
“Of course I have, Benj.” Ted squeezed his hand. “Every word.”
18
You got everything you ever wanted, didn’t you, Benj?
They’d parted on good terms, but Ted’s words sat inside Ben like a shard of ice. He’d gotten everything he wanted, and look where that had left him.
It would be easy to dwell on the burdens he’d saddled himself with, but they’d bought the Crofts to avoid exactly this kind of introspection. They’d come here for unsullied horizons, new challenges, and fresh tasks. And Ben had more than just the house to occupy him. There was some time before the village meeting, and he decided to spend it doing research for his book.
In his attic nook, he clicked through pages of Google search results, but most that mentioned Swannhaven referred only to its dairy farms or budgetary shortfalls.
Eventually he came to a site with something, a link from the archives of the Belleford Weekly. Ben knew Belleford only as an exit off the interstate, about twenty miles south of Swannhaven. The article was entitled “Suspicious Fire Alarms Residents,” and part of its final paragraph most interested Ben.
…but there was speculation at the scene that an accelerant had been used to start the blaze. If evidence is found to support this claim, this will be the first act of arson in the county since the fatal fire at the historic Crofts estate in Swannhaven in 1982. According to the Swannhaven Dispatch, that fire—which resulted in several deaths—was set by a troubled teenager “looking for attention.” With the surprise defeat of the Belleford Sergeants in Saturday’s football game against the Stoughton Minutemen, many wonder if teens are also responsible for this week’s fire.
Ben found himself irritated that the reporter had referred to his home as the Crofts estate instead of the Crofts. Then it occurred to him that he’d never heard of the Swannhaven Dispatch. Google produced only a handful of links. Like the piece in the Belleford Weekly, these were mostly articles from other regional newspapers that referenced something that had once appeared in the Dispatch.
When it came time to leave for the meeting in the village, Ben closed his computer and went to find Caroline. He’d succeeded in distracting himself for a while, but now that restless anxiety had returned. He entered the second floor through one of the tower’s ornate doors. The hallway on this floor had been sanded, stained, and varnished. Each wide plank had been restored to its intended depth and iridescence. The floor was beautiful, but something in the way the dark muscles of wood meandered along the primed walls made Ben think of a great serpent. He hesitated to step onto it for a moment, seized with the sudden thought that its planks would wrap themselves around his foot and pull him down through their gleaming surface.
Caroline usually worked to music, but the second floor was oddly silent. Headphones, Ben guessed. He did his best to ignore the weighty quiet of the rooms, but when she wasn’t in the room she was supposed to be in, a worry began to grow in his gut.
“Caroline?” he called.
He quickened his pace as he headed down the hallway toward the rest of the rooms.
“Caroline?” Louder this time.
There were usually any number of noises in the house. The song of birds through an open window, the creak of old planks, the squeeze of water moving through pipes. This quiet was oppressive, as if something had gathered these sounds and crushed them.
His heart was pounding by the time he got to their bedroom. Then he saw her silhouetted against one of the windows.
“Why didn’t you answer me?” he asked her.
“Bub’s asleep. I didn’t want to wake him,” she said without turning around.
“Will you answer me the next time I call you?” As with the time he’d followed the sounds into the forest, he found himself suddenly afraid. In his voice, fear sounded like anger.
She turned around and he saw her face. She could have sliced through a tree with the expression she wore, but her eyes were red and swollen.
“Are you crying?” He moved toward her. He noticed that the bed was covered in papers: bills, bank statements, and forms from their investment-management firm.
“What happened?”
“Things don’t always need to happen, Ben. And you don’t get to yell at me, then look at me like I’m a lunatic. I don’t always need your help.”