So much lost.
Breathing in deep, I tried to calm myself. I set the painting down to rest against the arm of the couch.
Breathe.
With the painting out of sight, I decided to have a gander at Rachel’s apartment. I mean, I had always wondered what this place looked like, and now here I was sitting in Rachel’s living room, and I didn’t know if I’d ever have another opportunity.
The floor space was as large as the store beneath us, which made it quite big for an apartment. Most of the square footage made up the living room/dining room/kitchen, but there were four doors scattered throughout, and I was only sure of two of them, one being the bathroom since I had taken the shower, and the other being Rachel’s bedroom, from where she had brought out the clothes for me to wear. Walls were tastefully decorated with prints of famous paintings like A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, which was the inspiration for the mural outside on the building of the bookstore. No wonder she was annoyed with me when I mentioned the Sondheim play. The painting had a place of honor above the couch I was currently sitting on. Tastefully decorated with neutral colors of tans, whites, and browns, I wasn’t sure if this was how I imagined Rachel’s place would look.
But the mantel was what caught my eye the most. Pictures. All of Rachel’s son Kent. I recognized him from the photo I had found under the stacks. There must have been over thirty on her mantelpiece below the mounted flat-screen TV across from the couch. And now, seeing more photographs of Kent, it really was eerie how much he looked like Josh.
I was pulled out of my reverie when Rachel walked out of the bathroom, dressed in pajamas and pat-drying her hair with a towel.
“I’m sorry about tonight. Thank you so much for . . . everything,” I stuttered.
Rachel sat on a chair next to me, placing the damp towel on the coffee table between us. “That was the first time in ten years I’ve left this building.”
Whoa.
“Whoa.” Apparently, I couldn’t keep it in. I knew it was bad, but I hadn’t been sure it was that bad.
“I kept thinking every day that I’d get out, for a walk, or the store, or anything, but I never did. Suddenly it’s been a decade. It’s terrifying, Jeraline, but the thought of leaving is even more terrifying.” Rachel’s eyes were round and frantic talking about it. Then she took a deep, calming breath and slightly chuckled. “Ten years of isolation, and I’m jumping in a dumpster helping some homeless guy.”
“Hank. His name is Hank.” I didn’t know what compelled me to correct her, but hearing Hank being written off as simply “a homeless guy” hurt me. Our eyes both rested on Hank’s painting.
“Yes, Hank.” Motioning to the painting, Rachel asked, “May I?” Upon my nod of approval, she picked it up, examining its details. “Remarkable. I’m going to have to commission something from him when he’s . . . healed up.” After another moment of being lost in Hank’s work, Rachel placed the painting back down next to me. “I’m sorry I’ve been so horrible to you.”
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay, but I couldn’t seem to stop the people-pleaser in me.
“No, it really isn’t. I just see you so scared of everything all the time, and I guess you remind me of me. And I don’t like me very much,” Rachel admitted.
And I knew. I knew that already. That was why I was able to stay for three years, because I knew there was no real hatred or malice behind her behavior. It was all about her, not about me. “You weren’t wrong. I am scared of everything.”
“But I am wrong. Look at what you did with the fashion show? You put yourself out there. That’s a bigger win than you know right now at your age.” She sighed, motioning to herself as if on display. “Trust me. I’m an agoraphobic forty-eight-year-old that pretends one of her employees is her dead son.” She gestured to the slew of photos on the mantel.
Dead.
Oh.
“I’m sorry.”
“He died in a car accident, and I haven’t left this place since. Crazy, right?” Rachel’s eyes searched mine, looking for something, some kind of response, but I wasn’t sure what she wanted out of me.
I leaned back on the couch, thinking. “No. Not crazy at all. I’ve pretty much only been here and my apartment since my parents were killed a few years ago.”
“Your parents were killed? I had no idea.” Rachel reached over to the bottle of scotch on the coffee table and poured herself a drink. “Now I feel even worse.” She motioned to the scotch. “You want one?”
I shook my head. Alcohol and I didn’t mix so well.
Rachel took a sip of her drink, then leapt to her feet. “I know how I can make it up to you.”
“Make it up to me? Uh, no, Rachel, I . . .”
But Rachel hurried into her bedroom, only to return a few seconds later with a book in her hands. Very purposefully, Rachel handed me the book.
A hardcover copy with the original sleeve of The Gateway to Winterbrook.
Um.
“Is this . . . ? How did you know . . . ? I can’t . . .”
“It is. I overheard you and Josh. And you absolutely can.” Rachel answered all of my questions.
The book. My Holy Grail. In my hands. I quickly opened it to the elusive golden page, and it was as beautiful as I’d imagined. Gold inlay of an intricately carved door was shiny and metallic despite being published over a hundred years ago. The door to Winterbrook. And given to me by . . . Rachel?
Rachel’s face softened, and her eyes sparkled with genuine affection. “I used to read it to Kent when he was little. And hearing you say to Josh that your mom read it to you, and now I know she’s gone . . .” Her eyes watered from emotion. “I sometimes imagine
