Souvenirs of Starling Falls

“We don’t want to put you out,” said Tom.

“We insist,” Priscilla said again. “Wouldn’t you like to sleep in a nice bed after all the work you did today? Just come with us.”

At this point I thought that we would argue a little more and eventually they would leave. They’d take their glass pie pan with its leftovers and their fancy forks and we’d be alone, discussing them, rolling our tired eyes in commiserative amusement as we inflated our air mattress. It never occurred to me that we would sleep in the bed of these people we’d just met. Until Tom said, “Fine. You twisted my arm.”

Noooooo cried the voice in my head.

“I knew I could,” said Priscilla.

“But, what about our stuff?” I asked. The house’s locks were the kind that any skeleton key could open. A locksmith was coming the next day to install deadbolts.

“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.

“We don’t have real locks on our doors yet.”

“This is Starling Falls. You don’t have to worry about anything,” she said.

“We’ll put you in a room that overlooks your house,” said Barnaby. “If anyone tries to rob you, you’ll see them.”

“How could we when we’ll be all the way over at your house, sleeping?” I asked, then added a little laugh to lighten the edge of what I’d just said. Tom was already throwing some things in a duffle bag.

“Courtney, do you need help finding anything?” Priscilla asked, scanning the room. “Of course, you can always borrow whatever you need from us if you can’t find pajamas or a toothbrush.”

“I g

rabbed an extra t-shirt for you,” Tom said to me. “That’s all she sleeps in anyway,” he explained to the McGhees. “Looks like we’re all set.”

So, with Priscilla and Barnaby McGhee a few steps ahead of us, we made our way to 308 Hawthorne Avenue.

Chapter 3

The walk from our house to theirs was too short to undo it from happening. Once we closed our front door behind us and took the first step in that direction, it was done.

I remember our long shadows bouncing on the pavement beneath the streetlamps, my shadow ponytail looking disloyally flouncy, Tom’s shadow duffle bag filling the space between us, lurching along like a gimpy pet. While our shadows looked like an amicable pair, the flesh-and-blood Tom kept his face forward, avoiding my dirty looks.

The McGhees’ house loomed in front of us. Priscilla kept looking back, smiling. The four of us weren’t chatting with each other, I suppose because it was so late that we felt we needed to be quiet to avoid waking the neighborhood. Barnaby and Priscilla may have exchanged a few words with one another, but Tom and I were silent. I remember the smell of citronella in the air and the faint lingering pungency of a smoke bomb. In just a minute or two we were on their porch looking back at our own house. It looked different from this angle. Grand. Intimidating. Beyond anything I’d imagined for myself.

“Come on in!” said Priscilla. Of course the door was unlocked. We walked into a two-story room with a huge, winding staircase. A chandelier hung down, casting silver sparkles of light across the room. There was a clean, white, airiness to their home. An orchestrated, intentional certainty in the placement of each and every single piece of furniture and décor and art. It was like everything our house would never be. The pristine perfection of their home was at a level I’d never even considered aspiring to.

“Put your bag down,” said Barnaby. He pointed to a round table holding a vase of fresh flowers in the center of the foyer. “You can set it there, or better yet, let me.” He took the bag and set it on the floor in front of the table. “Let’s have a nightcap before you two get settled down for the night.”

“Cognac?” asked Priscilla.

“I’d like a nice Irish whiskey,” said Barnaby. “Irish whiskey for everyone, right?” he asked, blinking at Tom.

“Sure,” said Tom.

“Good. Honey,” Barnaby said, addressing Priscilla again, “why don’t you get those ready, put them on that nice mirrored tray you like, while I show our new friends the main floor.”

He led us to a room that could have been a page torn from a sort of ramped up Pottery Barn catalog. The trim throughout the house was painted white. The walls in this room were a muted blue-gray. Their house was breathtaking. Immaculate. It was as large and old as ours, but with even higher ceilings, and it had been so thoroughly restored that it felt almost like a new home. Despite my agitation, a sleepy, Buddhist calm settled over me.

Barnaby showed us a room with a grand piano, and then a living room with a huge flat screen television mounted on the wall and white linen sofas that felt practically beachy. Along the way he stopped to point out photos of them on a mission trip, and on their honeymoon in Portugal, and camping with friends. Next we moved on to a dining room, a bright white and yellow kitchen, and finally a sitting room. Priscilla was in there waiting for us, the tray of small drinks resting on the large leather ottoman, a fire burning in the converted gas fireplace. Her chopstick was gone now and her hair flowed down her back in long blonde waves. The clock on the wall showed that it was nearly one in the morning.

“Ahh, this is the life,” said Barnaby. He plunked down beside his wife while she held up the tray to us. We each took one of the little glasses of whiskey.

“To new friends,” said Priscilla. We all clinked glasses and took sips.

Barnaby loosened his shoelaces, kicked off his shoes, and put his stockinged feet on the ottoman. The smell of his feet filled the room.