“The town funded a renewal program for all the remaining Founder Houses,” Hannah said. “To preserve our history. Don’t tell me you’re not pleased. It looks a hell of a lot better than the tumbledown mess it was before.”
It did. The railings were straight, the warped boards had been replaced on the porch, and the windows actually sparkled. At the top of the peaked roof, a new weathervane in the shape of a sunrise (ugh) creaked and turned in the direction of the breeze, and as Hannah opened her car door, Claire heard the thin, whispering sound of wind chimes. Someone had mounted a set of them at the edge of the porch, along with a large potted plant that looked new and healthy.
The place was spiffy and pretty and not theirs.
“Tell me you didn’t touch anything inside the house,” Eve said.
“Because I swear I’ll cut somebody. We liked the house the way we left it! That is our home!” What she didn’t say, but Claire thought she almost heard, was It’s Michael’s home. And her heart ached for him, and for Eve.
“Nobody went inside the house,” Hannah assured them. “This was an exterior renovation project. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“You could have asked first,” Eve said, but after the initial shock, some of her dislike was fading. And yeah, the house did look fantastic— restored to all its old Victorian glory, neat and sound.
Claire realized it only underscored how little they’d taken care of the place . . . but then, they’d had other priorities, like staying alive.
And none of them was much on chores.
“Let’s just get inside,” Shane said. “Hey, Hannah? Tell the Day- lighters not to do us any more favors. I don’t want to owe them.”
Hannah didn’t comment on that. She just opened the back door of the cruiser, and Shane piled out, followed by Eve and last of all, Claire.
Walking up the steps was a whole different experience. The paint was still new enough to make her dizzy, and its smell min- gled with the aroma of fresh- cut grass and new plants in the warm desert air. “Guess we’ll have to start watering the damn lawn now,”
Shane said, and fumbled for his keys. “So much easier to take care of when it was a wreck. Watch the paint on the door. I’m pretty sure it’s still wet.”
As Claire followed them over the threshold, she felt a shiver of power crawl over her . . . the house, waking up from a sleep, com- ing alive, welcoming them home. It felt like a fresh blast of cool air, and also, weirdly, like hands stroking her hair. She shut and double- locked the door— ingrained habit, in Morganville— and leaned against the wood to breathe in deeply.
Inside, it still smelled familiar. Old wood, dust, paper— not a clean smell, but a good one. The interior walls needed painting just as much as those outside had; they were smudged, scratched, and dented from hard use. None of the four of them was much on surface cleaning, and as Claire glanced into the side parlor, she saw that the oval coffee table— replaced relatively recently, after half their furniture had gotten smashed in a fight— had a blurring of dust over its surface. The old Victorian sofa looked as saggy and tired as ever.
Shane and Eve had already wandered off down the hall, Shane heading for the more modern, overstuffed couch in the living room and Eve’s clunky boots echoing on the stairs that led up to their rooms. Claire went a few steps in, and just . . . stopped. She closed her eyes and felt a peculiar, warm kind of peace sink in.
Home.
She felt almost as if the house itself were saying it to her: This is where you belong. She remembered leaving here for her brief journey to MIT in the predawn darkness, carrying her bags down and try- ing not to wake up any of the others to let them know she was leav- ing. She remembered the feelings of excitement, of worry, of longing, of fear, of anguish . . . and of devastation.
It felt healing to be back.
It felt right.
“Claire?”
She opened her eyes. Shane was standing at the end of the hall, and his dark eyes were full of concern. She smiled at him and saw the tension ease. “I’m home,” she said, and came into his arms.
They closed around her, strong and warm. “I’m home, Shane.
We’re home.”
“Yeah,” he said, and let out a long, slow breath. “Home. But it’s not exactly what we left behind, is it?”
“The house, or Morganville?”
“Either one.”
“Seems the same in here.”
“Not quite,” he said. “Not without Michael.”
He was right about that.