Page 87 of The Curse of Indy Moore
“I appreciate the thought and being invited. I think it will feel good to be around something familiar.” Even if they weren’t my family. It would be nice to sit at a table surrounded by one as we ate, listening to any stories they might share.
“I will try to keep today as painless as possible,” he said. “But as a second warning, I have two girls with a lot of energy.”
“How fortunate for them and you that I also have a lot of energy.”
Colt and I shared a laugh. Ahead of us, Thea lectured Mr. Hawthorne on his lack of visiting. I expected him to make a joke, but he apologized profusely. It seemedhe became rather docile in front of his mother, nodding and agreeing, all the while smiling that crooked grin, more authentic than most he had given.
We left behind the shops to travel the residential streets, where most of the homes stood three stories high. Their iron gates let one enjoy the sight of their vibrant gardens and stained-glass windows. Many were constructed of red bricks or gray stones, their windows wide and long. Carriages passed with golden-capped wheels, and all were dressed to impress. We were in a neighborhood in which I expected to be sneered at, but I fit in with the Hawthornes.
We came upon one home with vines draped over the brick walls. Mr. Hawthorne opened the iron gates, welcoming us in. A great white door stood at the end of the walkway, its handle and knocker a shimmering bronze. They had a modest yard, where toys littered the grass and flowers lined the walls. Colt opened the door to a foyer, pastel purple in color, where a set of stairs curved to the second floor and an archway on either side opened further into the house. The door remained open behind me. I spun to close it, only to find Mr. Hawthorne standing on the stoop, staring darkly into the interior.
“Are you coming?” I asked, startling him. He almost looked ashamed, perhaps because of his long absence.
“Yes,” he said, joining me inside.
The door shut softly behind him. He looked ahead, frozen a moment, then stepped aside, refusing to lift his gaze. I followed his line of sight to the back of the foyer. A painting hung on the wall over a console table.
“Let me inform the others that you are here. Manfred might have started lunch by now.” Thea gestured to her left. “Please, take Indy into the dining room.”
Thea wandered off with a pip in her step. Colt excused himself too, leaving Mr. Hawthorne to guide me to the dining room. He moved quickly, utterly unaware that I didn’t follow. Instead, I went to investigate the painting.
The Hawthorne family had constructed a sort of shrine for their departed Luther. A painting of him, his cheeks still full of boyish youth, gazed brightly at allwho entered. However, there was something a little off about him—nothing eerie, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Luther died before we could afford any proper painting,” Mr. Hawthorne said. I hadn’t heard him return. He stood two steps back, arms crossed and eyes locked on the painting. “It doesn’t look entirely like him, but it was the best the artist could do with our descriptions.”
I understood why he didn’t want to look back here. A sore spot for the family, and perhaps a little uncanny to see someone not quite his brother. But the painting hovered over a counter full of what once must have belonged to him: a frayed teddy bear, an old newspaper boy hat, a worn leather cat collar, and a box of matches that, upon inspection, was empty.
“Did the collar belong to Beamy?” I asked. One of the cracks turned out to be a tear. She wore the collar until it broke.
“Yes, Mother made him the teddy bear, he always wore a hat, and he liked to chew at the end of a match.” Mr. Hawthorne shook his head at whatever memory put a slight smile on his face. “Obviously we can’t have any in the box with the girls around. The little heathens would burn the house down.”
“May I ask how he…?”
“Mining accident. His body is still down there,” Mr. Hawthorne replied between his clenched teeth.
They lost him entirely. His family didn’t have a last goodbye. I had no words, and Mr. Hawthorne didn’t want them.
“This way.” He stormed out of the foyer.
Before I followed, I bowed my head to the painting. I wasn’t a religious person. There were no gods I prayed to, but for the Hawthorne family, I would hope with all my heart that they could continue to heal from their wounds.
I followed the sound of Mr. Hawthorne’s steps, soon joining him in the dining room. Windows lined the walls to create a vibrant and sunny atmosphere, where a white round table sat at the center atop pale gray floorboards. The walls were a beautiful pale blue with white floral designs. Elaborate crown molding decorated theceiling to its center, where a glittering chandelier hung, unlit as it wasn’t necessary to illuminate such a sunny space during the day. A large man waltzed into the room, proving where Mr. Hawthorne got his height and Colt his impressive size.
Mr. Hawthorne’s father filled the doorway and his suit that, while fitted, still struggled to contain his figure. His smile could light up the darkest night, and his eyes were nothing but soothing warmth. He didn’t hesitate to swoop Mr. Hawthorne into his brawny arms.
“You have been gone too long, my boy. What did we tell you about visiting?” The senior Hawthorne squeezed tight enough to make his son croak.
“Perhaps my lack of visiting has to do with the assault I receive upon my arrival,” Mr. Hawthorne groaned, though returned the gesture, albeit not as vigorously.
His father set him down, only to take his face in his hands. He swung Mr. Hawthorne’s head from side to side. “You’ve lost weight. Are you eating well? How long will you be staying? I can cook up a few things to take home with you. You’ve always had such a poor appetite. Too forgetful you are, sitting in your room all day, toiling over enchantments.”
Mr. Hawthorne swept his attention toward me, his cheeks lightly dusted a pleasant pink, then forced a smile. “Father, you are retired and have a cook now. Besides, I am perfectly well, and can’t you see we have another guest?”
“Huh? Oh.” The man spotted me, his jovial grin returning with as much force. His thick beard, nearly fully gray, added even more to his bear-like appearance. “Hello there. I’m afraid my wife didn’t say much, only that our boy was home with a guest. I’m Virgil Hawthorne.”
He held out his hand for me to shake. His hand utterly engulfed mine.
“Indy Moore,” I replied.
