a moving painting. I didn’t need any art on the walls, although there were a couple of modern paintings that Juan had bought at auction, years ago, before the artist—with an unpronounceable name—became famous. It reminded me to start using the burglar alarm. I had a habit of leaving it switched off. It was one of those talking ones, which terrified me. A man’s robot voice would say things like, “Side east door open.” Just the voice alone was ominous. Watching. Waiting for a burglar. Willing a burglar, almost. So I kept it off. Not the most intelligent thing to do. I needed to switch it back on.
Cliffside didn’t look like it had ever belonged to a regular family but something out of Architectural Digest. Modern, sleek—a homage to Bauhaus. It was definitely a “grown-up’s” house. No frivolity. No frills. So different from the tiny, low-ceiling cottage I grew up in, with dated flowery cushions, peeling wallpaper, and old creaky plumbing that was constantly breaking down. Cliffside seemed to me the sort of house you only see in movies, not in real life. The sort of home that was perfect for a dashing, sexy man like Juan. But me? I couldn’t believe my luck. First marrying Juan, then moving here.
Except, in the end, I’d missed out. Not having kids made all this space a little pointless. This house was meant to be shared, not lived in all alone by a grieving widow. I laid my Thermos sadly on the table, and watched the triplets with vicarious pleasure charging around so happily in my home. Not having children made me feel like an artist without a paintbrush, a nurse in an empty ward. The retreat plan was a poor, wishful substitute. Cliffside needed love to fill her great glass walls, not just company.
Cliffside’s lack of triviality did suit my personality though. I was a grown-up before my time. I was never a giggler or show-off or a gossip at school. I wanted to be. I longed to emulate the other girls, the confident ones who made eyes at boys and discussed hair and makeup on weekends, and in long telephone conversations when they were supposed to be doing their homework. Not me. I was all about reading and studying, handing my papers in early, getting top grades, and helping my mother set the table.
A goody-goody.
A good girl who turned out not to be so good after all.
“So,” Jennifer said. “Where’s your husband?”
“Um, he’s away on business.” I didn’t want them to know I lived here alone, or for them to have any excuse for prying into my private life or Juan’s death. It was safer that way. I was already taking a big risk, but their faces were so trusting and their eyes kind. It would be fine, I told myself, to let them have a quick look around.
“Congratulations,” Dan blurted out, shedding his bomber jacket and flinging it on a chair, “it all looks the same. So far, so good.”
“Awesome!” Kate said, piling her jacket on top of Dan’s. “Let’s go and check out our bedrooms. Can we?” Before I had a chance to answer, all three were racing around the house, opening doors, drumming down the stairs to the lower ground floor. It led to spectacular views and the bottom half of the garden, before it dramatically dropped off in a vertigo-inducing cliff shielded by glass verandas.
I was taken aback by the ease with which the three made themselves at home, and although it slightly irked me, it was a relief to be amidst the bustle and noise, the feeling that Cliffside really was a family home. It brought the place alive.
Jennifer ran back into the living room. “Wow, you have no idea what a relief this is to us,” she gushed, her eyes shining with gratitude.
“What do you mean?” I said. I finally took off my hat and hung it and the binoculars up by the door.
Kate shot up beside me, out of breath, almost crashing into me like an overgrown puppy. “This is so cool.” She gave me a hug. I gingerly let her embrace me, not knowing where to put my hands. They hung limply, not touching her but hovering midway in the air. I realized it was the first real hug I’d had since Juan died. I could feel the girl’s warmth. Her sweetness.
“What have I done right?” I asked perplexed, strangely thrilled.
Jennifer unraveled her woolly green scarf and chucked it on the growing pile.