Page 46 of Whirlwind

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“It was one of the first big houses in town,” she said. “Queen Anne style.”

“A piece of Meager history.”

“It is. And Dillon history. It even has a name: Whisperwind.”

“That’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? There’s a family story that on rare occasion you can hear the wind whisper up in the turret room. Jeremiah and his wife and kids heard it and that’s how they named the house. I’d love to hear it one day.” Her voice had softened.

“Is the house in good shape?”

“I haven’t been inside since I was a little kid. On the outside, it’s worn and tired, definitely needs a refresh. But it’s not shabby. To me it isn’t.”

“That makes you happy, doesn’t it?”

“You can tell?”

“I can tell.”

“It’s always been a dream of mine to own it and fix it up. It has a colorful history. Legend has it that Jeremiah fell in love with a brothel girl. The townsfolk were shocked and appalled that he married her, but he didn’t care. He built this grand house for her, for his Clara and their future, the town’s disapproval and criticism be damned.”

“The Dillon Taj Mahal?”

“The Taj Mahal was built to honor a dead wife. Jeremiah and Clara had lots of babies and grew old together in this house.”

“That’s terrific. It’s not a sad monument, but a real testament to perseverance and love. To family.”

“That’s right, it is. It’s our legacy and it’s one of a kind.”

“Someone’s living in it now?”

“Yes, but they’re out of town right now. Their kids and grandkids are in California, so they’re out there a lot visiting. A couple of months ago, my dad asked them if they wanted to sell, but they weren’t interested. Maybe one day. I hope so anyway.”Her voice was gentle, dreamy, and goosebumps prickled along the back my neck.

I needed to capture that, like a unique sound or a beat I’d record on my cell phone for a potential song. A sound I didn’t want to forget.

“Take a selfie in front of the house, send it to me.”

“Okay, hang on.”

My phone vibrated. Violet, jaw tight, jeans tighter, a thin three quarter length coat with fringed sleeves, a Prairie hat on her head. The boho chic Black Hills girl. Eyes determined, a slight smile, hands on her hat, hair flying in the wind in front of that grand house. She’d gotten all of herself and all of the house in the shot. Past and present in perfect, gorgeous harmony.

“You’re beautiful,” tumbled out of my mouth.

“What?”

“You’re beautiful. Did I ever tell you that night we were together? I should have. You’re beautiful, Violet.”

“Beck—”

“You look great in front of that house. It’s you.”

“I love this house,” she breathed into the phone, a warm whisper across my flesh. “Send me a picture of you on that round bed.”

“It’s not that exciting.”

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