Little Secrets, Page 2

  What had woken her? The heartburn, yes, but before that she’d been happily dreaming. Perhaps not so happily, considering the content of her dreams—they’d been full of running and searching. Lots of losing, but not so much finding. Sometimes Ginny clung to dreams, but tonight she was more than happy to have been pulled from them.

  But there. There it was again, the faint scritch-scratch of something in the ceiling. She strained, listening, but didn’t hear it again. Shit. Mice. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. They lived in an old house in an old neighborhood that backed up onto a farmer’s field. There could easily be mice in the house.

  This sounded much bigger than a mouse.

  There were squirrels in the backyard, she’d seen them. They made a weird chittering sound she’d thought at first was birds. The scritch-scratch came again, softer and farther away.

  The home inspector hadn’t turned up any evidence of rodent infestation, but as she’d discovered when she tried to shower before bed, the guy had also completely somehow missed that the hot-water heater wasn’t capable of providing enough water for a quick shower, much less a luxurious one. Forget about filling the old clawfoot tub in the master bathroom. He’d also passed the fuse box, which was obviously not operating up to standards since the power had gone out once more during the move. Ginny supposed she wouldn’t be surprised if the entire house turned out to be overrun with Mickey and his buddies.

  The noise didn’t come again, but between it and the heartburn and the lingering dreams, Ginny was in no way going to return to slumberland. She stuck a tentative bare toe off the bed and felt for the edge of the vent in the floor, hoping for a tickle of hot air. Nothing. The house had been empty long enough that the heat had probably been set at a minimum, and because the temperature had been fine during the day, Ginny hadn’t touched the thermostat before coming to bed. Sean probably hadn’t either. It would’ve been fine if she were still snuggled up under the comforter, but not wide awake with the pizza sitting like a stone in her gut and reflux climbing her throat.

  Ginny got out of the bed, which was placed much closer to the wall in this house. Their old bedroom had been bigger, laid out differently, though it lacked the attached master bath and dressing room that had sold her on this house. This room had more windows, one of them a cute dormer she intended to somehow transform into a reading nook or something equally as interesting, if only she could figure out how. Now her hand tapped along the wall and hit open space—the dormer. She peeked into it but saw only darkness and felt an even cooler puff of air on her cheeks. Maybe the window at the end of the narrow space was open or needed some better insulation. She eased past the opening until her hand found the wall on the other side and oriented herself toward the door to the hall, blinking rapidly as though that would make her see better in the blackness.

  She hadn’t slept with a night-light since childhood, but wished for one now. All the small details of this house that she hadn’t yet learned threatened to trip her worse than the slippery throw rug. She moved blindly, hands outstretched and feet shuffling along the wooden floor. The hardwood had seemed so appealing in the light of day, easy to keep clean and giving the house such a classic feeling. In the middle of the night, with cold bare feet, all she could think of was putting a rug big enough for the bedroom at the top of her mental “gotta get” list.

  She bumped into a tall cardboard box, hitting with both her hand and foot at the same time. It moved when she hit it, lightweight. The wardrobe box, then, one of the few she’d managed to completely empty since the closet here was bigger than their old one and far better equipped with built-in shelving and rods. Sean let out a series of snuffling snorts and shifted, making the bed creak, but didn’t wake. If she remembered correctly, the box was in front of the still-open closet door, which was between the bathroom door and the bedroom door, both of which should also be open.

  She’d remembered wrong, obviously, because though she took a couple cautious steps, hands out, she found nothing but air. One more step and her fingertips grazed the wall, found the doorframe. She oriented herself again and discovered she’d also been wrong about the bedroom door being open, when she rammed into it with her face. She’d reached with both her hands, so the muffled thud of her nose hitting the wood wasn’t loud, and she managed to bite back her cry of pain so neither noise woke Sean.

  With her palms flat on the wood, Ginny pressed her forehead to the door, eyes watering. Cautiously, she felt her nose, but there was no blood and the pain faded rapidly. Her hand slid down the cool wood to the knob—this one, like the one on the front door, was elaborately constructed of an ornate metal plate, a crystal knob and a real keyhole the realtor had promised was for show, since the door actually locked with a small button on the inside of the handle. Her fingers toyed with it as she twisted the knob, the hinges stuttering.

  Sean muttered and snorted again, rolling around and probably tearing all the blankets up from the foot of the bed. Ginny froze, waiting to see if he’d woken. She really didn’t want to wake him. Sean had to work in the morning, which felt like it could be a million or only a few hours in the future, she had no idea since she hadn’t looked at the clock. And more than that, if she woke him, he’d want to make sure she was all right. He’d want her to stay in bed while he went downstairs and checked the thermostat, or brought her some water, or rubbed her feet, or rummaged around in the boxes in the bathroom to find her some antacid.

  The last thing in the world Ginny wanted right now was to have Sean hovering over her, no matter how good his intentions.

  More cool air washed over her as she eased herself into the hall. She took a second or two just to relish the fact they had an upstairs with a hallway—their townhouse had been two-story but the second floor had been completely made up of their bedroom, a tiny guest room and shared bathroom. This house was so much bigger, so much a real house, not some rinky-dink starter home. Ginny took the time to savor this, until her teeth chattered harder and she had to wrap her arms around herself to keep warm.

  It seemed they’d been looking at houses forever, unable to make the leap, until the housing market made it impossible not to go for it. They’d looked at this house four times before making their offer. The seller had accepted immediately without haggling, though they’d come in low the way the realtor had suggested. Four times Ginny had toured it, making sure she could imagine herself in just this spot, before she felt she could commit to it for what she knew didn’t have to be the rest of her life, but surely felt like it.

  Standing outside her bedroom door now, Ginny could imagine the placement of every other door. Six of them—four other bedrooms, empty because they didn’t have enough furniture to fill them. A bathroom, inside which she could still hear Noodles’s faint, annoyed meowing. A linen closet. In front of her, the railing surrounded the open space around the stairs, with the entrance an equidistant walk to the left or the right of her, depending on which way she felt like going. The movers hadn’t closed the doors after putting the labeled boxes in them, and some light filtered in through the one directly to her left. That would be the nursery, and like the master, faced the street as well as the yard on the other side of the house. Blinking, her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could make out the faint shapes of open doors, a window at the other end of the hall.

  And something else.

  On the far side of the hall, something in the shadows moved. She was sure of it. Something low to the ground, but not Noodles, because not only was the cat still locked up, this was bigger than a cat. Which meant it was bigger than a mouse. Bigger than a squirrel too. Way bigger. Oh God. What if it was a raccoon or something, come in from the attic? Didn’t raccoons carry rabies? Ginny reached for the railing, smooth and cool beneath her fingers. The wood creaked as she squeezed. Whatever it was, whatever she’d seen, didn’t move again.

  She blinked hard, then again, eyes straining against the darkness. Something took shape
in the place where she’d seen movement. A box, a pile of sheets and towels on top of it. She remembered it then. The movers had asked her if she wanted the box in one of the empty bedrooms, but she hadn’t wanted to move it again. They’d left it by the linen closet, right there—that’s all it was. A stack of linens that probably hid her flannel sheets and the extra blanket she was missing.

  Ginny had been holding her breath but let it out now on a long, low hiss that became a self-conscious laugh. Silly. Seeing things. New house, new life, all of it new, and of course she wasn’t used to getting up in the night and seeing things move that should be still. And she was still cold, no heat sifting up from the registers.

  Ginny went to the left, past the nursery and toward the linen closet, her hand on the railing to keep her from stumbling. Shuffling, one foot sliding in front of the other, bare toes on bare wood, without ever really lifting fully. She didn’t want to bump into anything or step on something unexpected.

  Just before she got to the stairs, her sliding foot encountered what felt like a splinter. A faint, small sting had her pause and hop to rub it, her toes cold against equally chilled fingers. She couldn’t find the splinter in her sole, and when she put her foot down gingerly the sting seemed to have gone.

  She added a hall runner to the “gotta get.”

  The thermostat was in the front hall, just at the bottom of the stairs. Unlike most of the house’s fixtures, the thermostat was brand-new. Electronic. It had been replaced, along with the furnace, shortly before the previous owner passed away. It lit when she flipped up the cover to get at the buttons, and the green light that would be barely visible in the daytime was like a beacon to her night-sensitive eyes.

  Ginny squinted against the sudden glow and leaned forward to push the button once, twice, again. The digital numbers changed from sixty-two—way too cold, to sixty-five. That wasn’t that much better. She pushed it a few more times, bringing the temperature to sixty-eight. Sean would grumble about the heating costs, but, dammit, she was cold. At least until they had some sort of idea how much this house would cost to heat she could claim ignorance in her desire for comfort.

  She’d changed the temperature, but there was no rumble from the basement of the furnace kicking on, no welcome burst of warmth from the vents. To the left of the front door, she went through an archway and into what the realtor had called the “front room.” It connected to one of equal size through a set of pocket doors. Both rooms had fireplaces, as did the small parlor across the hall, though only the fireplace in the front room still worked. In the months leading up to this night, Ginny had imagined a hundred different ways she’d furnish this place, but for now the movers had simply put their old furniture and all the boxes marked “Living Room” into the front room.

  Most of the rooms had no overhead fixtures, just switches that operated certain outlets, and she hadn’t yet figured out exactly where she wanted the lamps or which outlets worked from the switch. There was enough light from the front windows to direct her to the leather couch pushed up near the front window. She wove around the boxes and chairs to snag the afghan thrown over the back and wrap herself in it, then took a minute to peer through the front windows hung with lace curtains she’d never have chosen but had asked to keep anyway. Those curtains were hers now.

  This place was hers.

  She ran her fingers along the leather couch. The back of the overstuffed armchair. The cardboard boxes still crammed full and taped shut, guarding everything they owned. This house, this brand-new place, this fresh start…it began in chaos and confusion but would settle. It would. Ginny stood for a minute in the middle of the room, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of this new place. Her nose was cold. Her toes were cold. She hugged the afghan tighter around herself and waited to get tired. Waited to be warm.

  Well, the afghan was helping with the latter, but though every muscle ached, weighted with exhaustion, she was very far from sleepy. Mindful of her splinter-stuck foot, this time she didn’t slide her feet while walking. So of course, two steps away from the couch, she stepped on something hard enough to make her gasp and hop with pain. The heavy thud of whatever it was moved along the floor as she kicked it, and though she tried to see what it was, shadows consumed it.

  Damn, it hurt, her sole bruised. Ginny added a pair of slippers to that ever-growing mental list—clearly, she couldn’t be shuffling around in her bare feet until everything had been unpacked and cleaned up. Instead of traversing the maze of boxes and possibly stubbing her toes or stepping on some other bit of moving detritus, Ginny decided to head for the kitchen via the hallway.

  From behind her, when she got to the doorway, came another sound of something clinking on the wood floor, so faint that though she turned her head toward it, she could easily convince herself that she’d imagined it. Or maybe that it had been her rings clicking on the wall as she gripped it to pause.

  She listened.

  Nothing. Only the sounds of an old house settling; sadly, still no huff and puff of hot air from the furnace vents. She felt a little warmer, though, under the blanket like a cape. Ginny’s gran hadn’t crocheted it. She wasn’t the sort to spend her time in what she called “handicrafts.” But the blanket reminded Ginny of her. Gran had been a late-night wanderer, often with a blanket wrapped around her just like this. Checking the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. The stove to make certain all the burners were off. Gran had been one to bend over her sleeping children and grandchildren, holding her fingers under their nostrils to make sure they were still breathing. Ginny had woken many times in the night to see the shadowy figure looming over her, to hear the sharp pant of breath or Gran’s grunt of approval when she figured out Ginny was still alive.

  Ginny shivered at the memory, more from emotion than the chill. Gran’s house had been similar to this one, full of nooks and crannies and delightful built-ins. A great place for kids to play hide and seek. A wonderful house for parties with neighbors, family and friends gathered around to eat, drink and be merry. Gran’s Christmas Eve parties had been legendary, but only those closest to her knew how much effort and frustration she’d had in the planning and execution of even the simplest bits of the planning, how she’d worked herself into a frenzy with the preparations and how hard she’d crashed after. Those manic highs and lows had been the reason why Ginny’s own mom had never thrown any parties, not even for birthdays. Maybe it was why her mom had never crept into her bedroom at night either, to make sure her children hadn’t died in their sleep. Ginny couldn’t say she minded that bit, but she had always loved helping Gran get ready for the Christmas Eve celebration.

  Maybe she’d have her own Christmas Eve party, Ginny thought as she moved through the dark hall past the small parlor. It didn’t matter that she and Sean had always celebrated the holiday with no more fuss than a tabletop tree, a few gifts and dinner at the Chinese buffet—unless they went to his mother’s house. They’d get a real tree, floor to ceiling. Garland and tinsel and twinkling lights, with mistletoe in all the doorways. Gran’s eggnog in the big crystal punch bowl she’d given Ginny when she moved into the nursing home and had distributed all of her “treasures.” It would be a lot of work, but Christmas was a couple months away and, besides, after that, the baby would be here. There’d be no time for parties after that, at least not for a while.

  And as for the other…would she be the sort of mother to creep around at night on cat-soft feet, always afraid? Or the other sort, so determined to let her kids go she didn’t cling to them fiercely enough? Only time would tell.

  Ginny made a pit stop in the powder room, her five-months-pregnant bladder reminding her that even without heartburn, sleeping through the night had become a thing of the past. She had to squint from the bright-white glare of the single, hideous fluorescent fixture. A new bathroom light went on the list. She peed forever, the jingle of urine splashing in the bowl sounding extra loud in the tiny room.


  From her spot in the light, the hall seemed extra dark, the shadows even thicker. There was an alcove beneath the rise of the stairs and in it, something moved. No flash of light to indicate eyes, no pale glimpse of a face, but nevertheless, the shape moved with a purpose. No random shift of light and dark, nor a mimic of her movements spilling into the hall and making the illusion of something else there.

  In the dark, something moved.

  Ginny froze, a crumpled wad of toilet paper in her fist, her bladder already loose and now looser with fear. She wouldn’t have been able to stop the flow even if she wanted to, but the mortifying horror of being found dead on the toilet, with her faded and stretched-out panties around her ankles, forced a sudden startled laugh out of her. It also sounded extra loud. She cut off the noise by closing her mouth tight; in the next moment she finished peeing and that noise stopped too.

  She waited, listening, trying to see what would loom up out of the shadows to get her. Of course, nothing did. She waited another thirty seconds before finishing on the toilet, pulling up her underpants and washing her hands while she stared hard into the mirror to make sure nothing came up behind her. And of course, nothing did.

  In the doorway she put a hand out into the hall, searching for a light switch. None to the left. None to the right. There was one in the kitchen, she knew that. And one by the front door. But none here. She could stand here in the light forever, or she could venture out and face her fears.

  It would be another box, she thought. A pile of something in the shape of a person, maybe a slowly toppling pile of curtains or tablecloths that had finally given in to gravity just when she happened to be looking at them. She stepped forward, into the hall, the alcove just a step or two in front of her and slightly to the left.