Thorny

“Did you see what those new people did with my sculpture? They’re using it as a doorstop. A goddamned doorstop, Russell.”

“In all fairness, Diana, I did see the woman—the wife—carry the unhewn blocks of stone into the barn. Russell Jr. left them outside in the driveway.”

“That real estate agent’s tongue wagged harder than a dog’s tail, telling everyone who looked at the place that I was an artist. So strident. They used who I was to sell the house. Now that it’s sold, you and I and my unfinished work are like unwanted yard-sale leftovers.”

Russell put down the book he’d been reading and reached out for his wife’s hand. She let him take it. “My impression was that the agent’s sales pitch wasn’t what made this couple buy the house. They looked unimpressed when she talked about your art.”

“Well, obviously that’s the case, if they’re using my sculpture to prop open a door.”

“What I’m saying, Diana, is that they seemed to appreciate the house. Give them a chance.”

“I know that’s meant to pacify me, Russell, but it doesn’t. In the first instance my legacy, such as it is, was being exploited. In the second, dismissed. I was a damned good sculptor. And also better than she is at keeping house. When the hell is she going to wash the windows? Soon they won’t be able to see out of them.”

“You were a gifted sculptor, Diana. You were. But you have to recognize that you can’t have it both ways—unhappy when you’re revered, and also unhappy when you aren’t.”

“My life was on my terms, Russell. I’m making sure it remains on my terms.”

* * * * * * *

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I keep tripping over it.” Katherine stumbled into the house, nearly losing her balance. She slammed the back door in annoyance.

“Stand it up,” her husband said.

“I can’t. It’s top heavy, and the base of it isn’t flat. I’m just going to shove it a bit more out of the way.” Katherine bent over. “Ay-yi-yi, the thing weighs a lot.” She stood back up, red-faced. “I bet the wife is turning over in her grave, seeing it lying on the kitchen floor like this. I was trying to do the right thing, bringing it inside at least, but this seems even less dignified.”

“Dignified? It’s an unfinished ass.”

She giggled, but then chided him. “A little more respect, please. She might hear you.”

There were other chunks of stone that Mrs. De Witt—Katherine needed to stop referring to her as “the wife”—hadn’t started chiseling, or whatever it was a sculptor did. Katherine had already put those chunks in the garage. Excuse me, she corrected herself, the carriage house. But she just didn’t know what to do with this work in progress. Personally, Katherine thought the white marble butt was beautiful, and it had seemed a shame—even disrespectful, as she’d pointed out to her husband—for it to sit discarded outdoors like that, although the son, the one who had sold them the house, said he simply ran out of time before the closing to clean up as much as he would have liked. He seemed nice.

This small sample of the woman’s life’s work probably deserved a better final resting place than on the garish vinyl floor of the kitchen, next to the back door.

But Katherine would have to find the perfect spot later, because heavy winds had blown pieces of their roof off overnight. Thank goodness they’d noticed the slate tiles—weirdly, an unlucky baker’s dozen—lying broken in the grass, because it had prompted them to inspect for leaks. Which they found in two upstairs rooms. For sure, it had been one heck of a storm. Biblical, even. This morning, though, the sky was clear and sunny, and the day was shaping up to be warm, so Katherine figured that the sodden area rugs, which she’d just put outside, should dry quickly.

“Roofer will be here tomorrow, he hopes,” her husband said. “I’ve put buckets in the attic for now, just in case.”

“And the ceilings?” she asked.

“Still wet, and definitely water stained. We’ll paint once the roof is fixed,” her husband said. “It’s an old house. These things happen.”

* * * * * * *

“It took me three days to hang that wallpaper.”

“You have to dissociate yourself, Diana. You’ve had time.”

“It’s still our house.”

“We weren’t the only family to live there.”

“But we lived there the longest.” She crossed her arms. “God almighty, now she’s scrubbing our fingerprints off the woodwork.”

“When we moved in, we cleaned too.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember you cleaning very much.”

“I certainly acknowledge that more of the housework fell to you, my dear, but we worked together. We were a good team.”

“They’re actively eliminating all traces of us.”

“The old place needs a good going over. It became too much for me in my final year. I’m relieved it’s someone else’s now. I like these people. And I’m pleased our children found new owners who’ll do what needs doing.”

“Our children. What did they do for the house in the year after you—what was the cliché used by that pompous minister you always liked—departed this earth?”

“Oh, Diana, they have lives to attend to. Trying to manage the empty family home too after I passed couldn’t have been easy for them.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be easy. It wasn’t easy for me, either. When I still inhabited it.”

“They did their best. We did our best too.”

“All they’ve done their best at is being a muddled, barely functional group of aging adolescents. And have you noticed our youngest has turned out to be three shades of crazy?”

“Now, Diana, that’s going too far. And not to worry”—Russell patted his wife’s forearm—“a bit of cleaning solution won’t wipe us away. We’ll live on there in spirit.”

“But I’m not ready to leave it, especially to someone who cleans woodwork with lemon juice and cheap salad oil, which is that mixture she’s using, by the way.”

“Diana, you have to be ready to leave it. We have left it.”

She turned to face him. “As you say, I’m living on there in spirit. The house needs some spirit.”

* * * * * * *

“I am so glad we decided to take down this wallpaper. The pattern was giving me a twitch.”

Her husband shrugged. “It’s not really my taste either, but it didn’t bother me as much as it bothered you.” He took a bite of his ham sandwich. “I’m thinking when we’re done here in the hallway, we should clean the shutters in the dining room and the living room. Don’t you think we ought to tackle those next?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “but that job’ll take a ton of time. I swiped my finger along one of the louvers the other day. Big mistake. What came off on my fingertip was beyond horrifying. But you’re right—we should get to that. We should also get to the kitchen. And to the windows, but I’m probably not going to anytime soon. Not my thing.” She stopped to sip her coffee, then resumed perforating the wallpaper and spraying it with white vinegar, which they’d read would help dissolve the wallpaper paste. She scraped up a section of the paper with a wide taping knife. It worked great. “Wasn’t she an artist? How the hell could she have picked these colors?” Katherine asked, then cringed. “Actually, maybe I shouldn’t say that out loud. I don’t want to make her mad.”

Her husband laughed. “I think she was a sculptor only, not a painter. Maybe she was color blind.”

“Actually, I saw the paint swatches you brought home. I think you’re the one who’s color blind.”

* * * * * * *

“Why are they talking about renovating the kitchen? We already did it.”

“Diana, my love, that was thirty years ago. And it is their house now to do with as they wish.”

“But the sale of one of my sculptures paid for those countertops. You’d think they could be more appreciative.”

“Oh, did you see? They’ve leaned your sculpture—the unfinished one—up against a wall. That was good of them.”

“Russell, they put a winter hat where its head should be.”

“Diana, they’re just being silly. It doesn’t reflect on you, and you shouldn’t see it in that light.”

* * * * * * *

Katherine stopped what she was working on and got up to set the table for supper. She pulled out the metal bowls and plates they used when they went camping, which was kind of what it had felt like the past few weeks since they’d moved in. No chance of unpacking their regular dishes until they primed and repainted the cabinets. And that was the bare minimum the kitchen needed. The renovations beyond that would be a big job. As big as last week’s storm had been. It’s not that the room was outdated—its old-fashionedness felt comforting to Katherine, like she was visiting her grandma. What bothered her was its inefficiency. She didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but the kitchen was pretty useless.

Katherine lifted the lid off the cast-iron pot on the stovetop, releasing the aroma of the simmering ingredients. Since the house hadn’t yet begun to feel very comfortable, she appreciated the aura of home the delicious smell created. She dipped in a spoon, lifted it to her mouth, and blew on the soup gently to temper its heat, then tasted it tentatively.

“Mmm…supper’s ready,” she said to her husband, who had just arrived home from work. She turned the stove off and stepped over to the sink to wash the spoon. When she turned on the faucet, a thin jet of hot water struck her between the eyes.

She yelped, and instinctively twisted the handle to stop the water. But the laser-like stream targeting her didn’t stop. It kept shooting out of what she could now see was a pinhole in the spigot. Her husband saw what was happening, nudged her aside, and squatted in front of the cabinet below the sink so he could reach the shutoff valve.

“Uh oh,” he said.

“What?” She grabbed a dish towel to quickly wipe her face, then folded it and pressed it against the faucet to stanch the water.

“The shutoff valves aren’t budging.” He peered into the shadows at the rear of the cabinet. “Yup, rusted in place. They’ve probably been on there for thirty years.” He calmly stood up—he was always calm—and crossed the kitchen to the basement. “Water’s going off.” Still in his suit, he disappeared down the cellar stairs.

He reemerged a minute later, giving her the signal to lift the compress. The water had stopped spraying.

“I’m heading to the hardware store. There’s no water till I’ve fixed this.” A modern warrior, she thought, heading off to battle wielding a plumbing wrench.

“But supper’s ready,” she said, disappointed. So much for the aura of home.

“Eat without me.”

“Please—the soup is hot now. And I spent so much time making it.”

“All right. For sustenance. It’s going to be a long night.”

* * * * * * *

“Well, Russell, at least she cooks. It hasn’t previously been apparent that she does much else.”

* * * * * * *

On Monday, a heavy sconce in the dining room fell and dented the pine floorboard below it. Katherine’s husband said the screws holding it in place must have worked themselves loose over time.

On Tuesday, the refrigerator died.

On Wednesday, the upper sash of one of the windows slammed down unexpectedly, and a pane of glass shattered.

On Thursday, Katherine called her husband at work.

“I just got home from the grocery store. While I was out, there was another storm.”

“And? Did the ceiling leak again? How bad is it?”

“No, no ceiling leaks this time.”

He paused. “What happened?”

“We have about four inches of water in the basement.”

“All right. You didn’t touch it, did you? It could have an electrical charge.”

“No, I stood on the stairs.”

“Is the boiler wet?”

“No. The concrete base it sits on is mostly submerged, but not quite. And I remembered that’s about six inches thick. That’s how I eyeballed the depth of the water.”

“Okay, this is surmountable. The switch for the sump pump is right at the bottom of the stairs—turn it on. Just be careful. I can be home in an hour. I’ll buy a dehumidifier and a couple of fans for after we remove the standing water, plus we can open the windows up. Okay?”

She stayed silent.

“Are you still there?” he prompted.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be all right. Do we need anything else?”    

“How about an escape plan. Do they sell those at hardware stores?”

* * * * * * *

A few days later, Katherine was leaning against the kitchen counter and saying, “I’m telling you—two chipmunks were chewing the new electrical lines.”

Her husband had just come up from the basement, which Katherine had begun to think of as a place where only bad things happened.

“If you say so. I checked the wiring, and it looks fine.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that I didn’t see any evidence of chipmunks having been in the basement.”

“Well, how about the evidence of the mouse in the dining room, the flying squirrel in the upstairs bathroom, and the raccoon under the front porch?”

“Which I also didn’t see,” her husband replied.

“Are you implying that I imagined those? Like I need friends and so I mentally invented a traveling circus to keep me company?”

He shrugged. “It is all starting to sound a bit mental.”

“I’m here more than you are,” she argued, feeling testy, “and I’m telling you that when I was sitting in the dining room today, I heard a scratching noise along the floor. At first I thought I was imagining it, because the sound was so faint. It became more insistent, though, and the noise came from right behind the new electrical outlet. When I went down to the basement, I assumed I’d see a mouse, but there they were: two chipmunks, gnawing away. So brazen. They did not care one bit that I was there. I had to run at them waving my arms and shrieking, like a banshee.”

“All right, well, as I said, the wiring doesn’t look damaged. It’s been chilly at night, so I suppose critters are coming in for warmth, through all the holes in the concrete floor, which I will call the mason about this week, I promise.”

“Boy, I’m glad we’re able to make all the wild animals feel at home. We should set up a bird sanctuary in the sunroom. Maybe we could get a tax credit.” She was getting herself worked up. “Doesn’t it bother you that rodents feel more welcome here than we do? Because we’re paying this big mortgage we can just barely afford, and we do all the repairs of the broken bits and parts this place has been flinging at us like a pitcher throwing crazy-ass curveballs, and yet I’m still waiting for this house to feel like it’s ours.”

“It will. Just give it time.”

* * * * * * *

“Do you remember the opening night of my last gallery show, Russell?”

“Your retrospective? I remember it well. A lot of people came, from my office, from the country club, some neighbors, the children.”

“Yes, it seemed like everyone we knew showed up.”

“The work on display was impressive. More than impressive. An inspiration. I was so proud of you that night. I was always so proud of you. You know that.”

“Yes, Russell, I do. A year later, when I was dying, all the time I was dying, it was only you who took care of me.”

“Of course I did, Diana. Of course. But you wanted me to keep everyone else out. The children didn’t understand. They did call, you know. You were hard on them, even at the end. And the neighbors meant well.”

“The neighbors were officious ninnies, Russell.”

He considered his wife, then offered her his hand.

She took it.

* * * * * * *

Katherine turned off the vacuum cleaner. Admittedly, she didn’t love cleaning, but it had to be done, and vacuuming was mindlessly easy enough that it gave her time to reflect. “I don’t think she likes us.”

“Who?” Her husband had been casually scrolling through messages on his phone, and he looked up at her, clearly baffled.

“The wife.”

“Huh?” he said, still not comprehending.

“Mrs. De Witt.”

“Um . . . you know she’s dead, right?”

“Yes, but I think she doesn’t like us, and that’s why we’ve had so many problems with the house.”

“That’s ridiculous. We’ve had problems because it’s a house and things go wrong with houses—all houses, especially ones that’ve had a hundred and fifty years to be screwed up by insects and weather and people doing stupid things to them. Now it’s our turn—we’ll just do our best to not do stupid things to it. All its quirks seem worse than they are because we’re still getting acquainted with the house.”

“That’s my point, though. I have gotten to know the house, and the energy has shifted into negative overdrive.”

“The energy?”

“The aura—that kind of thing.” She looked at him, waiting for acknowledgment of her point. He just raised his eyebrows. “Oh, come on,” she snapped. “Don’t be dense. Remember how it felt friendly in here at first?”

“I think that was our excitement at finally closing on the house after all the bank delays.”

“No, that’s not it. I was happy when we bought our last house too. But I never had any feeling about it in that way.”

“You mean you were fine dating it but didn’t want to commit for the long term?” he teased.

She ignored him. “I mean I never felt the presence of anyone.” She stopped for a second, thinking. “I would expect the energy to be more concentrated in this house—”

He interrupted her. “Do you mean you’ve seen ghosts?”

She shook her head. “No, I have not seen ghosts. But as I was saying, I would expect more concentrated energy in this house than in our last one. That house wasn’t as old, but it had so many more owners than this one. And I have this sense that the last owners of this house haven’t completely vacated the premises—her in particular. I understand their reluctance. I mean, after sixty-two years, I’d probably have a hard time giving it up too.”

“Not to be pedantic, but let me remind you that the former owners are now deceased, so the choice to give up the house was made for them.”

She shook her head again. “Nope. They’re still here. I’ve heard he was lovely. Her, not so much, though I’ve been giving her the benefit of the doubt, to account for bias.”

“Bias?”

This time she nodded. “The world is harder on women than it is on men. Actually, never mind the world—women are harder on other women than they are on men. The lady next door had nothing good to say about Mrs. De Witt.”

“Yeah, well, you complained about her choice in wallpaper. Assuming she was the one who chose it.”

“True. Anyway, I’m coming to the conclusion that she’s behind the nonstop triage we’ve had to do.”

“You think the spirit of a pissed-off dead woman you didn’t even know has pervaded our home.”

“Yes, I do, and as I’ve gotten to know her, I’ve begun to find her pretty, umm…prickly. God I could use a drink. Do we have any gin?”

Her husband laughed. “Are you joking?” He looked at his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon. Besides, you never drink gin. You barely ever even drink.”

“You’re right. I don’t know what made me say that.” With her foot, she pressed the button to retract the vacuum cleaner’s cord. “Holy crap, there’s something wrong with this house—it’s corrupting me.”

“There’s nothing the matter with this house that a whole lot of money can’t fix,” her husband corrected. He smiled. “And in the meantime there’s gin.”

* * * * * * *

Katherine waited for her husband to answer the phone. These workday phone calls were becoming a regular occurrence.

“There was a lightning strike.”

“Our house was struck by lightning?” He sounded frantic. Funny enough, she didn’t, which was a one-eighty role reversal. “Wait a minute—you weren’t there when it happened, were you? Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t here—I’m fine. And the house seems to be too.” She looked out the window. “But that maple in the front yard isn’t doing too well.” He groaned. “You might want to pick up a chainsaw on your way home.”

* * * * * * *

The weekend’s weather was sunny and, taking advantage of it, Katherine stood outside, contemplating how to wrangle the overgrown backyard into submission. She’d seen no signs of past gardens on the property. Just a lot of big trees. Unlike that beautiful maple in the front yard that had met its demise in the electrical storm, most of these looked kind of sick and mangy and maybe should be cut down, but what did she know? The property wasn’t extensive—only an acre—but walking down its length felt to her like wandering into the woods Little Red Riding Hood had encountered the wolf in. Or the forest Hansel and Gretel got lost in. It was that shadowy.

She reached out to touch one of the shrubs also growing in the yard. “Ow!”

* * * * * * *

“Now she considers herself a gardener. And I can see in her face that she’s judging us. No, not us—me. She thinks I didn’t do enough. But I did what I needed to do.”

* * * * * * *

Katherine entered the house, kicked off her slip-on boots, and threw her work gloves roughly onto the counter. As she washed her hands at the kitchen sink, she heard her husband, who was down in the basement, say “damn.”

She called to him through the wood floor. “What’s the matter? Wait, you know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

He answered anyway. “I was just replacing the broken windowpane and I cut myself. Deeply. Hurry—get me something to put on it. Please? I’m bleeding all over the new concrete.”

She jumped up, grabbed the roll of paper towels, and ripped off two sheets while moving quickly down the stairs. She pressed a makeshift pad against his split-open palm, which he held face up but cupped slightly. Katherine pursed her lips. “So now she’s extracting blood.”

Katherine pressed down too hard and her husband winced. “Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “I cut myself on a sharp edge of the glass. My fault. I should have been more careful.”

“No, it’s her. I was checking out our backyard, and I accidentally stuck myself with a really big thorn. And yeah, in case you’re wondering, it hurt.” She paused to wipe dripping blood from the side of his hand. “While I was out there, I noticed something that I hadn’t before: except for the lawn and the really big trees, everything growing back there is thorny. All of it. And I am ripping all of it out, asap. You know, if I were feeling particularly touchy, I might start thinking that the plants only sprouted thorns once we moved in. But that would be crazy talk.”

Blood seeped through the compress. She replaced it with another.

“I’ve had just about enough of the keep-out vibe she’s hitting us with. I mean, for god’s sake, is she telling us we shouldn’t have this house? We had as much right as anyone to buy it.”

“What are you going to do?” her husband asked.

“I’m going to make her back off.”        

Her husband looked down at his hand. “Before you do that, can we please bandage my wound?”

* * * * * * *

Katherine crossed her arms and drummed her fingers against the sleeve of her sweater, thinking. “We need to appease her spirit.”

Her husband looked at her doubtfully. “Like the ancients made offerings to the gods? With those words, you’ve set civilization back two thousand years.”

“I’m not proposing that we sacrifice our firstborn child to her. Geez, is that what you thought I meant?” she said, mirroring his look of doubt.

“Nonetheless, you’re being kind of superstitious, wouldn’t you say? Not even kind of. You’re being irrational.”

“Not irrational,” she countered. “Nonrational. There’s a difference. But don’t you agree that we need to give her something, in order to reestablish harmony?”

“Like what?” He turned up his palms, including the bandaged one, questioningly.

“Well…what would you do if you were trying to suck up to, say, my grandmother?”

“Your grandmother already loves me.”

“But if you had to try.”

“Flowers. A bouquet of flowers.”

She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “They weren’t garden people. There are no flower or vegetable gardens or anything like that.”

“Well, she might still like flowers. Most people like flowers in some form, even if it’s just a photograph of a rose or something.”

“No, it’s got to be more specific.” Katherine looked like a commander considering her next move in battle.

“How about a nice dinner?” her husband suggested. “We could call up her son and find out what her favorite food was. The scent of it might waft her way and make her happy.”

“It’s a thought, but it won’t work. Not food people either. You can tell because the kitchen layout stinks. If they cooked, they would have had more counter space. Besides, I get the sense she’s vindictive. If we sat here and ate her favorite foods, if she even had any, we might inflame her ire.”

“Well, let’s just drink a toast to the woman and be done with it,” he said, sounding done with the conversation.

“Now you’re talking. A drink. The son said they liked their cocktails. What do you think they drank?”

He shrugged. “My parents used to be partial to Tom Collins mix. What about your parents?”

“Mine are teetotalers,” she said.

“Oh, right.” He shrugged. “Anyway, once we settle on the particular alcoholic beverage, what do we do with it? Just put it on the dining room table like we’re leaving a glass of milk out for Santa?”

She grinned. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead yet. But that might work. Let’s also mix up a couple of Manhattans, though—maybe go light on the bourbon for me, please. For planning purposes.”

* * * * * * *

Diana looked at her watch, surprised as ever that the damn thing still worked. Made before the seventies, that’s why. The seventies were when things went to shit.

She knocked back the rest of her whisky sour, then nudged her husband, who’d nodded off in his armchair as they watched the sunset. They had a view of it from here that rivaled all the landscape paintings she’d loved best.

* * * * * * *

At sunrise—much earlier than she usually was up, Katherine stood in the kitchen, feeling refreshed after an especially good night’s sleep. There’d been a light rain overnight, and when she cracked open the window for some air, even the soft breeze felt clean and renewed.

She made herself some coffee, then simply started talking. “Are you feeling slighted or something? Like we’re not suitably impressed? Except for the one unfinished sculpture, I have never seen your work. Although I’m standing in what was your kitchen, and I’m guessing you picked this paint color for the walls, so I guess I’ve seen a little of your work. So to speak.” She giggled nervously. “Sorry, not”—her voice rose on that last word—“a fan of the salmon pink.” A pot lid in the drying rack crashed to the floor. “Sheesh, I said I was sorry.”

She looked around at her surroundings, including the pine cabinetry, which they’d begun refinishing. And in that moment she felt she was seeing through the eyes of the wife—Mrs. De Witt, I mean. Why on earth do I keep thinking of her as “the wife”? The room came into focus as if fog had burned off to reveal a clear, sunny sky. At least, it would have seemed that way if the kitchen hadn’t been the darkest room in the house. But for the first time, the pink walls, which had seemed so ugly to her, now made some kind of sense. They were the color of the sky as the sun rose outside the picture window on the rear wall. In the face of the scene before her, she felt serene, contemplative.

Then a switch flipped in her brain. Actually, no. Still the color of a psychiatric ward. “Sorry, I tried.”

Katherine slogged onward. “You know, I’ve picked up on the fact that you didn’t much like the neighbors and the neighbors didn’t much like you, either.” Being generally conciliatory by nature, she added, “I also picked up on the fact that a couple of them are sort of nosy.” She paused. “And not as nice as they pretend to be.” Another pause. “And way more conservative than they think they are.” Katherine looked around the room again. “Although you weren’t exactly living an avant-garde life yourself. This is kind of a fancy house. Also, I read in an old newspaper clipping that you had a summer home. And a country-club membership. You were no rebel.” She lowered her voice to whisper conspiratorially, “Don’t tell anybody, but me either.” It crossed Katherine’s mind that if her husband heard her, he would think she’d gone off the deep end.

“Listen…I’m asking you nicely to cut out the Wicked Witch of the West routine. Buying this house was a big deal for us, and I really love it. Besides, we have the legal papers to prove ownership. So I think it’s time you allowed us to peaceably occupy it.” She waited, but nothing happened. That seemed a good sign.

“Maybe I’m being thick, but I’m not really understanding what you want. Should we build a shrine to you? I feel like that would be weird.” Katherine sat down at the simple kitchen table, took a sip of her coffee, and then rested the mug on a coaster. Taking a few seconds to collect her thoughts, she looked at the undersize antique woodstove, which maybe was or maybe wasn’t usable. Katherine wasn’t even sure. She supposed they’d have to look into that, too. “If we can speak plainly for a moment, um, you died about three years ago, right? And your husband passed away last year? I find myself wondering why now. I mean, you’ve had time to get used to, you know, not being alive. And call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure that it’s you, not your husband, who’s trying to give us the heave-ho, or whatever it is you’re aiming to accomplish.” Katherine had no idea what sort of response to expect, if any. She peered into her coffee cup. No ghostly messages in there. No more falling pot lids or shattering glass. No threatening words suddenly appearing on the walls. She tapped her foot. “We’re not moving out, so you can either graciously step aside or learn to coexist with us. I’m happy to have you stay on, but it’s my house, my terms.” Katherine crossed her arms and listened.

Her husband came down the back stairs and peeked into the kitchen. “Kat . . . who are you talking to?” He looked around the room and then at her.

“You know who I’m talking to. And you’re interrupting.”

He headed back the way he’d come. “Can you make me coffee, please, though?”

“I’m kind of busy right now,” she said. “You can wait.”

Katherine reached for her mug again and at that moment felt a pang of conscience. She didn’t know why. Definitely not because she had sent her husband away coffeeless: seriously, he could wait.

In the quiet, her mind wandered, and it eventually headed in the direction of her to-do list for the day. And as she remembered that she needed to call her grandma for her birthday, two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle fitted together in her brain.

The first thing her grandmother did when visitors came into her home, even unexpected ones, unless they were there to burgle the place, was to put on the coffee. She never asked, “Would you like some coffee?” or “Should I put on some coffee?” She just stated her obligation as a host—“I’ll put on the coffee,” and then got busy fussing with the percolator. Of course there would be baked goods to go with it, often homemade, and always on a nice platter. When someone comes to your home, you welcome them. It was Katherine’s home now, and her pang of conscience reverberated.

She launched herself into action.

Katherine switched the immersion kettle on, ground some more coffee beans, and placed a fresh coffee filter in the cone. From the temporary shelving they’d erected, she selected a clean ceramic mug. Then she strode to the antique sideboard they’d bought specifically for their new dining room and pulled out a tray they’d received as a housewarming gift. On it, she arranged gingersnaps she’d baked the previous day.

Once the table was set, Katherine sat down and settled in for the tête-à-tête. Woman to woman, to discuss the terms of truce, and possibly of retreat, over a good cup of coffee and delicious cookies.

After a moment’s hesitation and another sip of coffee—she took it light and sweet—Katherine started the conversation.