The Sister-in-Law: An absolutely gripping summer thriller for 2021, Pamela Crane [reading eggs books .txt] 📗

Damn, I missed Ben. Wanting to wade in the grief, yet resisting the wallow, that was the irony of death. I wanted the pain, and yet I hated the pain. It had only been days and I already missed my house. The Colonial floor-to-ceiling windows. Lustrous, original oak floors. Large wraparound porch. Four-poster bed with a down pillowtop. Custom-made kitchen island. I appreciated my brother opening up his home to us, but Hendricks Way had been my home for so long that it was imprinted on me, the creaks of the floorboards a part of my lifeblood.

I pressed my hand to the window overlooking the backyard. I was disgusted by the neglected state of my garden, but I simply couldn’t push myself to deal with it. Weeds crowded the black-eyed Susans, overshadowing their yellow petals that contrasted against their black centers. My poor hollyhocks had been a showstopper with their apricot and purple blooms, but now they wept of thirst with their heads bowed and leaves brown. I couldn’t bear to watch my passion flowers struggle for life, their bright purple tendrils a distant memory. Behind my fence the gentrified urban neighborhood sprawled out as far as I could see, homes hidden beneath ancient oak trees connected by winding footpaths where privileged children rode bikes and moms kept up at a fast jog behind them.

Young and ambitious, Ben and I had picked this neighborhood and this house together. I had dabbled in architecture in college and instantly fell in love when I saw this rundown neoclassical Greek-revival style with a touch of Italianate – an architect’s dream. It had been built in the 1860s by an eccentric North Carolinian family of means with a knack for innovation. In a time when the concept of air conditioning wasn’t even a twinkle in inventor Willis Carrier’s eye, the home’s designer used nature’s solution. Floor-to-ceiling walk-through windows offered a consistent coastal breeze to maintain a comfortable room temperature. And for those brutal summer days, hot air would naturally rise up the grand staircase – up, up, up to the belvedere – where it exited through a row of small, open windows near the eaves. Louver vents offered an escape for the Southern heat, along with vents in each of the bedrooms. This avant-garde ventilation system was pure genius, if you ask me, though Ben still preferred the convenience of modern AC.

By the time Ben and I found the house for sale – and on foreclosure! – much of the wood had rotted from the Carolinian humidity or been neglected to the point of disrepair. But that didn’t deter us or our dreams. With over 5,000 square feet to renovate, it had been quite a restoration project. It took a grueling two years of backbreaking work, but in the end we had rediscovered its beauty and made it our own.

Four open boxes sat on the window seat, all of them full, all of them holding decades’ worth of memories. Next to the last box was a turquoise and gold urn caked in dust, a portable monument to the darkness inside me. I wondered when I’d be adding Ben’s urn to my collection.

I’d almost cleaned out the entire master bedroom, minus Ben’s bedside table. I opened the top drawer and grabbed its meager remnants. A handful of handmade Father’s Day cards from the kids. Gaudy red leather handcuffs he had bought that we hadn’t even used once, the key to which was probably lost. A Stephen King book with a bookmark halfway through, which Ben would never finish. His work cell phone. And an envelope.

A bulge crinkled from the bottom of the fold, so I opened it and peeked inside. A torn corner of paper with a street address 3 Summer Ln scribbled across it. A hardware store shopping list and rough sketch of the kids’ playset he had started building. And a jewelry store receipt. My nervous fingers dropped the paper and it fluttered across the dusty floor, like it was trying to scurry away. I picked it up and unfolded it, mumbling the description out loud:

18-karat gold charm bracelet

Engraved with: True love waits

Waits for what? Was this an anniversary gift Ben had planned to give me? And where was the bracelet? Though the message was cryptic, it fit us. Ben and I spent a lifetime waiting. Waiting to get married until after he graduated with his master’s degree. Waiting to buy the right house until after we saved up. Waiting for Ben’s investment career to take off. Waiting to have a second child after years of fertility struggles. We knew all about waiting; it had been a part of our relationship since the very beginning, when I’d told him I couldn’t be his girlfriend, and if he cared enough he’d wait until I was ready. It took me almost three years to be ready, but Ben had waited. Maybe this bracelet was a tribute to that – to all the waiting. To all we had endured to be together.

The stillness of the house haunted me, the silence cut by the drip of the master bathroom faucet. Ben had been meaning to fix that for months, but he simply never made the time. And then time ran out. I turned over the envelope and grabbed a pen sitting on Ben’s bedside table. It wasn’t Ben’s anymore, because Ben wasn’t here. I jotted down a to-do list, starting with fixing the faucet. Then I tossed the pen and envelope in my purse, grabbed a box, and left the mausoleum of memories.

On my way down the stairs I saw the silhouette of a person standing at the front door. The frosted glass masked all features except for the dark attire of the visitor. Then there was a knock, the sound reverberating against the vast emptiness. And another knock before I reached the door.

‘Mooom! Someone’s at the door!’ Elise yelled from the bowels of the house.

‘I’ve got it. Stay upstairs and keep