The Night Strangers - Chris Bohjalian [39]
“It is. And there’s also that woodstove.”
“I love that woodstove. Soapstone. Palladian windows on the doors, right?”
“Right. We’ve been so busy unpacking we’ve only started a fire in it a couple of times.”
“That must have been cozy,” she says, and there is something vaguely seductive in the sibilant way that she finishes her sentence. Those magnificent eyes widen just the tiniest bit.
“It’s not really a cozy house.”
She sits upright behind her desk, that lovely oval of a face abruptly looking alarmed. But you’re not at all sure that the alarm is genuine. She looks alarmed, and it is that same disingenuousness that marked the bad acting of so many of Emily’s friends in Pennsylvania when they pretended to be actors in their community theater dramas and musicals. “Oh, I hope you’re not regretting the move already. We’re all so happy to have you here. You and Emily and your beautiful twins.”
“No, not at all. It’s a wonderful house. I didn’t mean to suggest I had any regrets. I think Emily and I will be very comfortable there. I think the girls already are adjusting quite well. Especially Hallie. She loves that greenhouse.”
“That’s important. Is she sleeping well? Are you all sleeping well?”
You recall Hallie’s bad dream that first Sunday night. You recall a second she had more recently. You wonder simultaneously whether a couple of bad dreams would suggest your child is not sleeping well and why the real estate agent would ask such a thing in the first place. Has she heard something from someone? Did Emily mention something to another attorney in her firm who mentioned it to Reseda? Did Hallie tell her teacher in school, who, in turn, told this real estate agent? Is the town really that small? Is it possible that people really talk that much?
“We’re all sleeping fine,” you respond, which is, more or less, the case with your daughters and your wife. A couple of nightmares, you decide firmly, does not constitute sleeping badly. And while you yourself haven’t slept well in six months, your nightmares and flashbacks are really none of her business. Besides, you don’t want to appear any more damaged to Reseda than you already must.
“But right now you and Emily are only … comfortable,” she murmurs, repeating one of the words that you used, and you detect a slight sniff of disappointment. No, not disappointment: disapproval.
“Sometimes, happy is asking a lot.” You say this with no particular stoicism in your tone; it’s a glib throwaway.
“Oh, I hope that’s not true. Personally, I don’t think it is. I understand what you’ve been through. But I would like to believe that happiness is a perfectly reasonable expectation here.”
“Perhaps.”
“Have you taken the door off?” she asks, her eyes growing a little more probing, a little more intense.
“It would demand a lot of effort.”
“Have you talked to Hewitt?”
“About the door?”
She nods.
“Nope.”
“You should,” she says.
“Probably.”
“Or …”
“Yes?” You realize for the first time that there is a scent in the office that is reminiscent of lavender. Burned lavender. As if it were incense. You have inhaled a small, lovely dollop of Reseda’s perfume.
“You could ask Gerard up to the house and have him just rip that door down. That would be easier than removing all those bolts.”
You pause for just a moment before responding, because you don’t believe you have mentioned the bolts. But then you get it: “Anise must have told you about the bolts.”
And for just about the same amount of time that you paused, so does Reseda. Her face remains waxen, unmoving. Then: “Yes. She did.”
“Who’s Gerard?”
“Anise’s son—and a very nice young man. A little quiet, a little intimidating even. He’s a weight lifter. Belongs to the health club in Littleton. He will probably be the one haying your fields this summer. He’s big and tall and very, very strong, and I’m sure he could rip that door right off its hinges.”
You contemplate this notion. The advantage