That evening, they worked on the kitchen. Matthew took measurements for some new cabinetry while Hillary scrubbed the tiled surfaces of the workspaces. Hillary was, oddly, almost hyper-aware of her husband’s physical presence. Without looking at him, she could feel him moving around the kitchen. She kept looking at him, at his hands, and hips. The breadth of his back. She wanted him. She wanted him to take her right here, in the kitchen. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so…randy.
“It’s cooling off,” Matthew said. “I am going to get some wood.” He picked up a flashlight. “Back in a bit.”
Hillary finished up in the kitchen and walked down the hall to the foyer. She was digging around for some trash bags in the several bags of purchases, and heard Matthew come in the kitchen, clomping about doing God knew what. “Hey,” she called out to him, “will you bring the rest of the wine?”
Matthew didn’t answer. Hillary stood up and looked in the direction of the kitchen. A strange sensation washed over her, making her feel slightly off balance, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. She started for the kitchen, but the front door suddenly opened. Startled, she whirled around with a shriek as Matthew walked in with his arms full of wood.
“What?” he said.
“What are you doing?”
“Wood, remember?” he said, nodding at his arms.
“No—I heard you in the kitchen,” she said, pointing away from them. Matthew looked at her curiously. Hillary’s heart began to pound. “Someone is in the kitchen, Matthew.” As if to prove it, there was the sound again, of someone walking around.
Matthew frowned. He put the wood on the chair and strode for the kitchen with Hillary at his back.
Matthew paused at the threshold and flipped on the light. They both saw the cat jump off the counter and disappear behind the stove. Matthew dove after it, leaning up over the stove, peering behind it. “A huge hole,” he said. He turned around and smiled at Hillary. “That’s what you heard, baby. Just a cat.”
“Right.” But Hillary was shivering. The kitchen was ice cold and she couldn’t believe a cat could make the sounds she’d heard. Someone had been in here.
“Come on, let’s go light a fire,” Matthew said, and took her hand in his.
Hillary debated saying anything. Was she crazy? Or was something going on in this house?
After he’d built a fire in their room, Matthew sat cross-legged on their new bed and went through the file box. Hillary crawled into bed beside him and nestled closely to him. Matthew put his arm around her, but he did not put the file down. He kept reading Agnes’s note to her parents.
Somewhere in the night, Matthew put his arm across her and pulled her to him. It was as close as they had been in weeks.
***
For the next two days, nothing happened at the Whitstone House, and Hillary decided her imagination had gotten the best of her. The strange incidents of the first couple of days were all but forgotten, and she focused on renewing a relationship with her husband. She felt remarkably free without her Blackberry constantly chirping at her, and she felt remarkably attracted to her husband. The man was hot. Had she forgotten that? It was strange; it was as if she’d only just met him and was drawn to him, craving his attention.
She wondered if Matthew felt the same way. She caught him looking at her, his expression different than what she’d grown used to in these last few months. He looked at her with interest, with desire. But he did not act on it. It felt almost as if he was intentionally holding himself back.
The next day, a crew arrived to repair any plumbing or electrical issues they found. Another crew arrived to buff and shine the wood floors. And yet another pair of elderly gentleman began work on the yard. Hillary realized she hadn’t thought of her work in over a week. Honestly, she didn’t even know where her Blackberry was.
One afternoon, Mrs. Browning came to the house to have a look at the progress. She and Hillary walked through the rooms together, Mrs. Browning exclaiming at the moldings and the crystal doorknobs, the original wood floors and the carved mantles. “It’s a beautiful old house. It will be brilliant when you’ve finished, won’t it?”
“I hope so,” Hillary said. They were standing in the room at the end of the hall where Matthew and Hillary had been sleeping. Hillary walked to the window on the east wall. “Come see this huge old tree,” she said. “How old do you suppose that is?”
Mrs. Browning joined her at the window and looked out. The oak tree had long, twisting limbs, but it looked as if it had been harshly pruned away from the house. “I’d wager it is three hundred years old,” Mrs. Browning said sagely.
“Really?”
“Certainly!” she said with much authority. “Such a wonderful setting for this old house!” She turned away from the window and moved toward the door. “Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly.
Hillary glanced at her. “Is something wrong?”