Chapter 14: The Pale Rectangle

Delia's POV

Theo told me about the church hall and the two hundred thousand dollars on the drive up Harbor Hill.

He told it flat, with both hands on the wheel, and left nothing out except the end of it.

"Did you want it?" I said.

"The ferry? Every day for eleven years."

"And you said no."

"Your mother said I would."

"She told you that?"

"She told me not to leave the boat when you're angry." He glanced at me. "I'd already left it."

I put my hand on his knee and kept it there until we reached the gate.

The Pruitt house stands at the top of the hill, white clapboard with green shutters, and I had not come in through the front door since Wednesday.

My key still fit.

That surprised me, because I had half expected my father to change the locks a second time.

Theo stopped on the porch.

He stood with his boots at the edge of the doormat and looked at the threshold for a long moment.

"You don't have to," I said.

"I know." He took off his cap. "Not yet. Go in first."

I went in alone.

The front hall smelled of floor wax and my mother's lavender soap, and I stood there with my bag on my shoulder.

On the wall by the stairs there was a pale rectangle in the paint.

It was the size of a framed card.

For thirty years it had hung there, over the umbrella stand, in my grandfather's handwriting.

Any Pruitt may veto anything.

The nail was still in the wall.

"Looking for something?"

Dad stood in the door of his study with a glass in his hand.

He wore a clean shirt and his Rotary pin.

"Where is it?" I said.

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