Chapter 14: Open House

On Wednesday evening the real estate agent turned on every light in my house and set out a plate of cookies.

I stood on the walk with Eli and read the sign on the lawn.

OPEN HOUSE, 5 TO 7.

"You don't have to go in," he said.

"It's a public showing. I'm a co-owner. I can walk in."

"I'll come in behind you and look at the crown molding."

"What's wrong with the crown molding?"

"Nothing," he said. "I'd like to have a reason to be quiet."

I laughed, and it steadied me.

His hand settled at the small of my back for the length of the porch steps, and then it was gone.

I kept feeling where it had been.

The agent met us at the door with a name tag and a smile.

"Welcome! Are you pre-approved?"

"I'm Roz Fletcher," I said. "I own this house."

The smile stayed up a moment too long.

"Oh," she said. "Mr. Ames said you had moved out and agreed to the sale."

"Did he say I agreed?"

"He brought the signed paperwork himself. Please. Look around."

The living room had rented furniture in it, and none of my books.

Dorothy's boxes were gone. So were the toys.

Somebody had cleared the whole house of the people in it so it could look like nobody lived here.

The kitchen was still a bare subfloor with two sawhorses.

Dean had propped a big foam board on an easel by the plywood.

On it was my drawing, enlarged and framed in gold paper.

The sage green range. The white oak cabinets. The long island with twelve stools.

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