Secrets Never Die

Chapter 4

On my last day in Caldwell Cove, the dawn crept in with a soft, golden glow, filtering through the small gap in my curtains like a gentle caress. It was a ritual passed down by my mother many moons ago, a trick to coax wakefulness from the embrace of sleep without disturbing the peace of my hard-working husband, allowing me ample time to make myself presentable and prepare breakfast before he was ready to eat. It was a different time, but even now, long after Seth had departed this world, I clung to the habit, finding solace in its familiarity.

As I rose from my bed, the cool touch of the hardwood floor sent a shiver down my spine, a reminder of the fleeting warmth that lingered beneath the covers. I dressed and smoothed the wrinkles from my dress, the fabric cool against my skin, before I brushed my hair with practiced precision, each stroke a silent prayer for the strength to face the day ahead.

On this day, I rose and made myself presentable before beginning breakfast for my son, as I had done for over forty years. Barring his years in college and law school, Bradley has lived at home. It was not that he couldn't afford his own house; it was that he was entirely incapable of starting his own life. Perhaps life in my household was too comfortable to push him from the nest, but the fact remained that he still lived in my home. We both acted as though it were his home now. The story was that without my dear Seth, I needed help to maintain a home of this size and pay the bills. The truth was, I needed no support other than for my son to find a partner of his own and start his own life. Perhaps my death would be the push to meet someone, that is, if the entire construction of our lives didn't come crashing down at the hands of Adam Sheehan.

So, like any other day, I began breakfast. Bradley appeared at the table at precisely 7:15 am, as he did every morning, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished wood. A ghost of the boy he once was, now a man bound by the ties of routine and familiarity. He enjoyed a breakfast of sunny-side-up eggs, bacon, and buttered toast, while I enjoyed my dry toast with tea. We ate in silence, the clink of utensils against plates punctuating the stillness of the morning. Once our meal was complete, I handed Bradley his lunch and sent him off to work, just as I had sent him off to school as a child.

On this particular morning, a sense of purpose imbued every movement, every task. I moved through the house with a meticulousness born of anticipation, a determination to leave no corner untouched by my ministrations. With a feather duster in hand, I chased away the lingering dust motes that danced in the morning light, the soft swish of the bristles a soothing rhythm against the backdrop of quiet contemplation.

The laundry beckoned next, a mountain of fabric waiting to be cleansed of the stains and traces of daily life. I scrubbed and rinsed, the scent of detergent mingling with the warm steam rising from the basin, enveloping me in a cocoon of domesticity. Each garment, each sheet, bore witness to the passage of time, their folds and creases a testament to the stories they held within their fibers.

With practiced hands, I smoothed out the wrinkles from Bradley's shirts, the crisp sound of the iron gliding over fabric a symphony of domesticity. I hung them in his closet with care, each hanger a sentinel standing guard over a piece of his identity, a reminder of the son who still clung to the comforts of home.

As the chores wound down, I turned my attention to the refrigerator, its cool interior a sanctuary for the bounty of provisions that awaited their moment in the spotlight. With a practiced eye, I sorted through the contents, discarding the remnants of meals past and making space for the influx of covered dishes that would soon grace our doorstep.

Amidst the flurry of activity, there was a moment of respite, a pause to savor life's simple pleasures. I savored a toasted tomato sandwich, the juicy sweetness of the fruit a burst of flavor against the crispness of the bread. I then plucked the rest of the beautiful red fruit from the bushes and placed them in a basket lined with my favorite yellow checkered tea cloth. Then, as I had many times before, but not so much in recent years, I set out for Trudy's house, just two houses down from my own.