Page 31 of Somewhere Without You
I coughed, wiping water from my face.Fora moment, I stoodthere, drenched and frozen in shock. Mud clung to my bare feet, and water dripped from my hair.
I didn’tknowwhether to laugh or cry.
I wiped the mud from my cheeks, grimacing as the basement’s musty stench clung to my skin. I didn’t even want to think about what I looked like. Clearly, I wasn’t going to fix this mess on my own—and at this point, a shower wasn’t a luxury. It was a need.
With what little dignity I had left, I dragged myself upstairs, picked up the phone, and did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t.
I called for help.
Sixteen
“Whatdoyoumeanyou can’t get here until next week?” I snapped into the phone. “I can’t go a whole week without water.”
The man on the other endwaslosing his patience, but I didn’t care.“Look, lady, I’m sorry, but we’re booked solid until Monday. You’ll have to find someone else.”
“Thereisno one else!” I shot back, frustration creeping into my voice. I exhaledsharply. “I’m sorry, it’s been a hell of a day, and Ireallyneed this fixed.”Therewasa long pause.“Hello?”I called out, sure hehadhungup on me.
“I’m still here. You said you’re in Windhaven?”
I nodded without thinking, realizing he couldn’tseeme.“Yes, that’s right.”
“A friend of mine owns a contracting company nearby. He might be able to help. I’ll call him. He’sprettyflexible, might be able to come out today or tomorrow,” he offered with fraying patience.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaustion weighing on me. Tomorrowwasbetter than Monday.“Thank you,”I said, a sense of relief settling in.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned.“Andfor the love of God, don’t tighten any more bolts, ok?”
The trickle from the faucetwasbarelyenough to dampen the rag, but itwasall Ihad. I scrubbed my arms and chest, working to eliminate the grimethatclung to my skin, but my hair remained a tangled mess of grease. Digging around under the bathroom sink, I found a can of cornstarch—one of Gran’s old tricks. I sprinkled itgenerouslyover my hair, and like magic, the worst of the oiliness disappeared. With a sigh of relief, I braided ittightlyand let it rest over my shoulder.
I couldn’t bring myself to put on anythingnice, so I slid into a worn pair of jeans and grabbed an oversized t-shirt I only ever wore to bed.
Afterward I marched through the house, yanking open windows like I could chase the heaviness out with the wind. The scent of fresh earth and blossoming flowers filled the rooms, sweeping away the mustinessthathadsettledin.
It struck methen, how long ithadbeen sinceI’dfeltthe change of seasons. San Diegowasalways the same—mildlychilly winters, butmostlyhot, dry, and sunny every day.
I spent the next few hours cleaning—battling dust bunnies with the broom, shaking out blankets, tossing whatever trash Icouldfind. Itwassomething to do, a way to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
After vacuuming the whole house, I focused on thelargestone fireplace. Itwasoriginal, one of the few thingsthathadn’tchangedsince itwasbuilt. Gran used it often to warm the house during the harsh mountain winters.
Grabbing the last garbage bag, I made a mental note to pick up more as I knelt in front of the hearth. Gran kept an arrangement of tools nearby. I picked up the small iron shovel, along with the broom and started clearing away the ashes.
Everythingwascoatedin black soot. I scraped at the back of the fireplace, using the shovel to pry away stubborn debris clinging to the ancient stones. Itwaseasier than I expected—until a loose stone tumbled free. White dust billowed up like snow, settling with a dramaticthudinto the ash pile.
I coughed, waving away the dust cloud. First, the flour explosion in the kitchen, now this. My clotheswerealready dusted with soot. At this rate, Iwasstarting to resemble a ghost in alowbudget horror film. I threw a glance over my shoulder at Grans urn.
“No offense,”I mumbled, more to myself than to her memory. The last thing I needed to add to my mounting list of problemswastalking to the dead—oroffending them.
Oncethe dust settled, I reached into the dark opening, halting when my fingers brushed against something unexpected. A dark leather strap stuck out from a crack in the stone where ithadfallenaway. Movingcarefullyto avoid disturbing the ash further, I tuggedgently. The strap gave way, revealing more of whateverwashiddenon the other side.
Curious, I pulled again, dislodging another stone. I workedslowly, shifting more rocks until allthatremainedwasa deep, shadowy hole. My breath caught as Ifinallyfreed the strapcompletely, uncovering a small, worn leather satchel.
I stared at the unfamiliar object now in my hands.“Where the hell did this come from?”I whispered. The strapwasfrayed, the bag faded. Its brass bucklesweretarnishedwith age.
My hands trembled as I unbuckled it. Inside, nestled among the cracked leather,wasa bundle of envelopes tied with a faded ribbon. The faint scent of dried lavender mingled with the lingeringsmellof smoke as Icarefullyunfolded the top letter.
The scriptwaselegant, a spidery dance of inky loops and swirls but still legible. The date at the top sent a shiver through me. Theywerewrittenover several months, ending in late 1863.
A tremor of excitement ran through me as I began to read.“My Dearest Charlotte. . .”
