The Muir House by Mary DeMuth, Excerpt

8/6/2019 The Muir House by Mary DeMuth, Excerpt

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The Muir House A Novel

By: Mary DeMuth

Willa Muir cant say yes to the love of herlife until she explores her past andsolves the mystery of a haunting dream.But when Willas desperate search

unearths unthinkable secrets, her heartcollapses. Can Willa shake her past toembrace a love that could finally lead herhome?

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I read The Muir House in one day, alternating between wantingto put down the book and not learn the secrets of Willas lifeand reading each page as fast as possible so I could get to thenext. Mary DeMuth is a rare writer whose vulnerability canonly come from laying her head on the breast of Jesus andtapping out his heartbeat onto the page.

Tracey Bateman, author ofThirsty and Tandem

You know the minute you open a DeMuth book that you are inthe hands of a superior storyteller. Rich, masterful, poignant,and spellbinding, The Muir House is DeMuths best yet.

Tosca Lee, author of Havah: The Story of Eve

A captivating read filled with mystery and drama,The MuirHouse has you cheering for Willa as she searches her past in

order to come to terms with her future. Mary DeMuths well-crafted story makes readers ponder what home really means for her characters and for each of us.

Alice J. Wisler, author ofRain Song ,How Sweet It Is , and Hatteras Girl

Willa Muir is one of the strongest twenty-something charac-ters in modern fiction. Her quest to reconnect with her pastbefore embracing the future will resonate with anyone whohas ever left loose ends untied. The Muir Houseis a fascinatingcoming-of-age tale with twists and turns that constantly leavethe reader wanting more. It is Mary DeMuths finest work yetand it shouldnt be missed. Whether young, or young at heart,

you will find yourself enraptured by Willas determination tofinally find home. In fact, this book just might lead you hometoo.

Shannon Primicerio, author of The Divine Dance ,God Called a Girl , and the TrueLife Bible Study series


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There was a time when a man wanted to marry you. Haveyou ever played fickle with another persons soul, pulled himalong, then lost him forever? Mary DeMuth weaves a remark-able story of hesitation, rejection, love, and stability melted atlast into a circle of lasting relationships. Naked fingers are outof place in her world where gold endures and rings bind thehearts of best friends forever.

Austin W. Boyd, author ofNobodys Child , The Pandora Filesseries, and acclaimed Christy nomineeThe Proof

Mary DeMuth writes with extraordinary beauty, grace, andoriginality. The Muir House is a powerful and mesmerizingwork that takes you on a journey to discover the secrets ofyour heart.

Tom Davis, author ofRed Letters: Living a Faith that Bleeds and Scared: A Novel on the Edge of the World

With the skill of an artist, Mary DeMuth perfectly capturesthe desire within us all to know and be known, to love and beloved, and to understand the meaning of home. The Muir House is a captivating read to the very last page. I loved it.

Emily Freeman, author ofGrace for the Good Girl

and Chatting at the Skyblog

What a challenge family relationships can be, often rife withconflict and rich with love. With a deft pen and thoughtfulinsights, Mary DeMuth has given us a story of just such conflictand love guaranteed to touch the heart.

Gayle Roper, author of A Rose Revealed

and Shadows on the Sand

Mary DeMuth has once again captured my soul with a storythat resonated long after I closed the back cover. DeMuth is amaster at immersing readers in another world one of hopes


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and fears and triumphs. Shes done it again with The MuirHouse . Her finest novel yet.

James L. Rubart, bestselling author ofRooms and Book of Days

Mary DeMuth uses vivid language to unpack the myster-ies haunting Willa Muir, the heir to both a past and a houseshed much rather forget than embrace. The metaphors arerich, the story unique. Just when you think youve figured outthe ending, DeMuths The Muir Housetakes yet another darkturn in this story of redemption and yearning.

Patricia Hickman, bestselling author ofThe Pirate Queen and Painted Dresses

Mary DeMuth is a master at telling relevant stories that explore

the wrenching need we all have to find love and affirmationoutside of ourselves. Her characters in The Muir House are asreal as the sun on your face, the rain on your sleeve, and thebreath in your lungs.

Susan Meissner, author of The Shape of Mercy


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Also by Mary DeMuth

Defiance Texas Trilogy

Daisy Chain

A Slow Burn Life in Defiance

Nonfiction

Thin Places


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ZONDERVAN

The Muir House Copyright 2011 by Mary E. DeMuth

This title is also available as a Zondervan ebook.Visit www.zondervan.com/ebooks.

This title is also available in a Zondervan audio edition.Visit www.zondervan.fm.

Requests for information should be addressed to:

Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

DeMuth, Mary E., 1967 The Muir house / Mary E. DeMuth.

p. cm.ISBN 978-0-310-33033-2 (softcover)1. Self-realization in women Fiction. I. Title.

PS3604.E48M85 2011813'.6 dc22 2010052105

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, NewInternational Version ,NIV . Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc. Used by per-mission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture quotations marked The Message are taken from The Message . Copyright 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress PublishingGroup.

Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are

offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsementby Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbersfor the life of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopy,recording, or any other except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the priorpermission of the publisher.

Published in association with the literary agency of Fedd & Company, Inc., Post OfficeBox 341973, Austin, TX 78734.

Cover design: Michelle LengerCover photography: Dan Davis PhotographyInterior design: Michelle Espinoza

Printed in the United States of America

11 12 13 14 15 /DCI/ 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


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To Rockwall, a stable home, a great place to raise kids,a special city in my heart


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It takes wisdom to build a house, and understanding to set it on a firm foundation;It takes knowledge to furnish its rooms

with fine furniture and beautiful draperies.Proverbs 24:3 4, The Message


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one

Seattle, March 2009

In that hesitation between sleep and waking, that deliciouslonging for dawn to overwhelm darkness, Willa Muir twistedherself into the sheets, half aware of their binding, while theunknown mans face said those words again.

Youll find home one day.She opened her eyelids, forced wakefulness, maligning

sleeps lure. Her two legs thrust themselves over the side of thestorm-tossed bed. Toes touched hardwoods, chilling her alert,finally. She pulled the journal to herself in the dusky gray ofthe room, opened its worn pages, then touched pen to paper.She copied the words as she heard them. The same sentencesshed written year after year in hopes of deciphering its mes-sage, understanding it fully. But they boasted the same syntax,the same prophecy, the same shaded sentences spoken by adream man with a broken, warbled voice. A faceless man ofthe South, words erupting like sparklers from the black holeof Willas memory.

Why couldnt she remember the man? Understand hiscryptic message?

Something stirred then. A flash of recognition. Willaclosed the journal, placed her pen diagonally on top, thencurled herself into a sleep ball, covers over her head like apercale cocoon. She forced her eyes shut, willing her mind toremember the glinting.


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12 / MARY De MUTH

There! Like an Instamatic from her childhood, the flash-bulb illuminated a gold ring. The man didnt cherish it on hisfinger. He held it like a monocle, as if he could see through itclear to eternity. Through that ring, a circular snapshot of theman clarified. Though the rest of his face faded into blue mist,his eye, wrinkle-creased and wise, focused like an eye doctorschart under the perfect lens. A crocodile-green iris circled alarge black pupil, its whites streaked pink with lacy vessels. It

winked at Willa, or maybe it merely blinked. Hard to decipher,looking at one eye. The eye held sadness and grace, laughterand grief and an otherworldly hint of promise. Willa memo-rized that eye behind the gold ring.

But like every other snatch of Willas memory from thatvacant memory of a four-year-old, the eye vaporized.

So familiar.

Yet so unfamiliar.Nearly the green of Blakes eyes so long ago, those bewitch-

ing, enticing eyes shed made herself turn away from, breakingher heart. Shattering his.

She returned to her journal, sketching the ring, the hazyface. The muddy-green eye she highlighted with an olive pen-cil. Light played at the window shade. She tugged it down soit would fling ceilingward, which it did in flapping obedience.She opened the sash, ushering in Seattles evergreen perfume.The crisp air stung her Southern arms with goose bumps asshe inhaled its scent. Fifty-five degrees in the morning felt likeice to Willa, even now. But facts were facts: You just couldntcompare the airs pristine cleanness to the Souths sometimes

thicker-than-mud humidity. And if she could help it, shednever breathe Texas again.Mother made it quite clear. Not even Southern hospitality

could woo Willa back, not with Mothers hateful words swirl-ing through the heat.


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MUIR HOUSE / 13

Willa fingered Mrs. Skyes letter atop her pile of books.Come home, the caretaker wrote, in plainer-than-plain Eng-lish dark blue letters on crisp white stationery. I need yourhelp remodeling the Muir House. Need your expertise. Besides,your mother needs you. Shes fading as fast as the houses paintpeels. Its time.

Willa shook her head in response. No, she said to herroom, her heart, her will. I cant. Wont.

But something deep inside told her it was time to findhome.Willa folded Mrs. Skyes letter in half. Instead of quarter-

ing it and returning it to its envelope, she tore it into confetti.When she left the room, the confetti stuck to her bare feet.


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twoIf you ask me, Hale said, its a sign. He took a drink of

sludge, what the Oasis Caf called Vitality, and smiled. Greenbits clung to his perfectly white teeth.Rinse, Willa said.Green teeth again?She nodded.He emptied the small water glass, a throwback from fifties

diner ware, swirled a bit, then swallowed the whole mess. Hesmiled. Satisfied?

Quite. She picked at her smoked salmon frittata. I sawan eyeball, Hale. Nothing more.

You said it was green, right?She nodded.So it wasnt mine, then. He held a hint of sadness in his

blue eyes, the color of Seattle sky after the fog lifted.Willa kept her gaze there, willing herself to forget Blakes

envy-green. She held Hales carefree blue to her heart.Hale made a circle with his index finger. Au contraire. You

saw a ring. A golden ring. The Egyptians Quit it with the Egyptians. For you, everything goes back

to the Egyptians.Hale shook his head. He pulled her hand to his, held itperfectly. Not too tight to make her palms sweat, not too looseto make her wonder. The Nile River, he said as if he hadntheard her scolding, provided the first rings, woven from the


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MUIR HOUSE / 15

sedges and rushes nestled next to papyrus plants. With hisother hand, he circled her naked wedding finger. The symbolof eternity.

Quit getting creepy and stalkerish on me.Im not Blake.I know.Then dont pull the stalker card.He withdrew his hand, then winked one dusk-blue eye. A

ring has no beginning or end. Like life, it circles around itself,returning from where it came. He shaped his free hand likea spyglass, looked out the cafs window onto the sidewalk.Then he spied it on her. Its a symbol of the sun and moon,this shape. And the inside isnt dead air, its a portal to theunknown.

I have no portal.Everyone does.Nope, youre the one who told me I had a wall. Perhaps I

am a wall.Hale sighed. I didnt say you were a wall. Just that youre

so afraid of love that youve built fortresses around yourself.Like your mother. Like the Egyptians. But I

Focus, she said. She squeezed his hand, then withdrew.This isnt about my mother who, by the way, hollered at me,told me to leave once and for all. Its not about ancient Egypt oryou storming my walls. Its about my life. She sipped her greentea pomegranate infusion, then nibbled on dry flax toast.

Im well aware of your life. Of your obs

I swear if you say obsession one more time, Ill break upwith you.He laughed, and when he did, his brown curls bounced in

the effort. Hales goatee, longer than a real goats, swayed inthe mayhem. She did love this man, loved him right on down


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16 / MARY De MUTH

to his Salvation Army shoes. He drank more sludge, not both-ering to rinse. Im in your life for the long haul, Wills, hesaid. Besides, who else would accompany you on your valiantquest?

He did have a point. All those years piecing together herpast in yellow notebooks, journals, and scraps of paper. Allthose newspaper clippings. Most men most people wouldthink her, well, obsessed. But since when did seeking the truth

equal obsession? You know where you came from, she said.Raised by wolves. He howled.She shook her head. The Oasis Cafs patrons didnt even

look their way, didnt seem to care that her boyfriend fanciedhimself a werewolf. Stranger folk than he frequented this off-beat place. Maybe I was too, she said to the coffee-drenchedair between them.

You werent. You had a mom and a dad.Had is the appropriate word. Im a twenty-six-year-old

orphan, she said.Shes still alive, Wills.She said, You are worthless and ugly and stupid and not

my child!

Why do you keep revisiting her words?Youre the one who brought it up. And having to talk

about it again breaks my heart. Shes a closed subject, youunderstand?

Hale nodded. But your parents loved you, right? Beforeshe sent you away, your mother took care of you.

Rote, Hale. Something she had to do because Daddy madeher. Sometimes she tried to fulfill requirements of mother-hood, a miser with affection, but most of the time she scowled.Daddy? He loved extravagantly. She felt her voice quaver. Dad-dys eyes sparkled like Hales, the purest azure, which made her


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18 / MARY De MUTH

She raised her eyes to his, and she understood. His face,unlike the man in the dream, snapped into perfect focus. Thoseeyes, that face, that man, his heart wanted to marry her empty memories notwithstanding.

His left hand held hers, but with his right, he fumbledthrough his thrift-store khakis. He pulled out a simple goldring. One ring to rule them all, he said.

Willas heart hiccupped. She wanted to pull her hand away,

wanted to run out of the Oasis Caf screaming, but fear magne-tized her to the metal chair. Im not easily ruled, she chokedout. Panic f luttered inside. Memories of yelling, shrieking, hat-ing swirled in the cavity of her heart. Daddy. Mother. Willa.The big white house. A broken heart.

He glided the ring onto her finger. The vena amorisis thevein of love. Originating here. He touched the simple goldring on her finger, And venturing to the heart. He pointed tohis own, thankfully.

You know I dont do marriage. As the words passed hertongue, her teeth, her lips, she saw his wince as if shed slappedhim.

You love me. Hales hand still rested on his heart.

She nodded. That truth, she knew. Willa felt the ring rulingher finger, threatening to travel the vena amoris to her heart.I need to go. She gathered her purse, her hand, that ring,and stood.

Hale didnt stand. Didnt chase after her. He sat there, wet-eyed and slapped, his face like a scolded boys, not a mans.

She wrestled with the ring, expecting it to glide off as eas-ily as it slid on, but it wouldnt. I cant get it off.Keep it. Let it remind you. Hale said these words to the

patchwork napkin, not to her.I need to go home, she said.


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MUIR HOUSE / 19

He lifted his eyes to hers now. Cleared his throat as if hewanted to unclog his voice of emotion. What if home is a per-son, Wills? What ifI am your home?

She tore away from his eyes while his words chased her allthe way home.


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threeThey say a womans wealth, her true identity, rests in the rich-ness of relationships, but they have it all wrong. What awoman really needs, what truly defines her, is four solid walls.A house with good bones, a yard sprinklered in the summer-time, a creaking porch swing, overflowing window boxes.Castled there, she safeguards her secrets, particularly if thosemysteries lie concealed in cardboard boxes in the attic.

Willa sanded the importance of both hearth and secrets

into her marrow, nailed them like Luthers treatises to herheart while she walked seven blocks toward home, still tryingto pry Hales ring from her finger, his hopeful words from herheart.

Hale was beautiful. In every way. She knew this. Othersconfirmed it. He worked on behalf of Seattles working poor,helping secure affordable housing. Homes for those withouthouses. And he loved her. Why he did, she couldnt quite makeher heart understand.

With every logical step toward home, while Green Lakeglistened under the morning sun, she scolded herself incadence.

He loves me.

I should marry him.He should marry me.We should marry each other.Should, should, should.Such a mathematical equation. Hale plus Willa equaled


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MUIR HOUSE / 21

marriage, the ring being the plus sign making it all balance.She would have the security a fatherless girl wanted. He wouldhave someone needy to rescue and coddle. A perfect match.

Willa pulled the locket from behind her tank top. A heartdangled as faithfully as it had years and years before. Sheopened it. Blue-eyed Daddy on one side, five-year-old Willawith crooked teeth on the other. She wanted to ask Daddywhat to do, how to react to Hale, what to say, but his smiling

picture said no words. And his death confirmed that hed neverspeak life over her again. In that recollection, grief moistenedher eyelids. How long would she miss that man? Forever? Withevery milestone, the pain augmented like a terrible exclama-tion point to his absence.

She squinted back the tears in the sunlight, pulled in thehalcyon air, and smelled fire. Odd that someone would stoke

fire from kindling this time of year. The chill of spring leftweeks ago, replaced by Northwest heat a balmy seventy-twodegrees at high noon. Still, some folks relished cozy liked theychugged their coffee fix often.

Willa looked at the ring, how it captured the sun. Hale saidits innards were a gateway to the unknown, yet now her fingerfilled that void. He mustve thought she was his unknown. Butwas he hers? Could a person become a home?

She wanted to holler a yes, jump on Hales back under thewatchful eye of Gas Works Park, and let him run her downthe grass incline toward Lake Union while she screamed andlaughed and hung crazy to his shoulders. She could picturesuch a thing. Could feel her hair windwrapping her face,

could smell the faint hint of Hales evergreen cologne. But shecouldnt make the daydream a reality. Which is why she hadto go home now, to sift once again through the large box ofclippings in her attic, to carefully weave the broken story of herpast so she could finally make sense of todays reticence.


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22 / MARY De MUTH

A fire truck screamed by her, glassy red. She smelled itsexhaust, tasted it on her tongue. It turned right.

Onto her street.Something inside, a primal horror, made her run flat out.She turned the corner. Four houses down on the right, it

squealed next to others of its kind, catty-corner this way andthat. Hoses hooked up to the blocks fire hydrant spewed wateronto her fuchsia house.

She rushed to the sidewalk facing her porch, a cry leav-ing her mouth. But in the cacophony of fire, no one heardthe scream. Willas skin absorbed the heat of her bungalowsflames licking, tasting, biting, consuming her home, its secrets,while firefighters sprayed pathetic sprinklers onto the raftersthat buckled beneath the attack of flames. Still, she rushedat it. If she ran fast enough, she could rescue her journal, the

drawing of the mans green eye.But arms caught her. Stand back, miss, a fireman said.But thats my house. My Im sorry. He said it like he mightve meant it, but she

knew he couldnt possibly. Had he not interrupted her, myeverything wouldve been recorded by the day, showing all ofSeattle that her research was her everything. Even more thanHale and his ring. More than white window boxes or a ricketyporch swing or fuchsia siding.

Shed been so close. And now every shred of evidencebelched flames and smoke. She struggled against the firemansembrace, smelling soot. He held her back, saying Im sorry overand over again. She looked up to see the roof implode on itself,

sparks twirling to the sky like unwanted confetti after a parade.Home lost its fight. The fire won everything.

Willa sat on the sidewalk below the cobble-stoned retain-ing wall while firefighters clodded heavy boots on her once-


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MUIR HOUSE / 23

pristine patch of clovered lawn. They shouted indecipherablewords above her in a strange whirlwind. She told herself nowwould be an appropriate time to cry, but no tears obeyed, hereyes as dry as the lathe and plaster of her once-preening home.This was the way of it, right? Throw your life into one singlepursuit, only to see fate roar away everything in one nastyspark. She could almost feel the wall around her heart erectitself as it had in the aftermath of Blakes suffocation.

She opened her phone, then closed it. The small act burnedisolation into her. Once again shed given her entire life toone person a man. She had several girlfriends she could call,but none she felt comfortable sharing the fire. Hale was it.Before that Blake. And always Daddy. Willa tasted the fire onher tongue, and felt its hiss inside.

She didnt even own the home kindling before her a

rental leased to her by a distant friend of a friends grand-mother, the rent ridiculously affordable as reimbursement forher decorator skills.

Splintering caught her attention again, the crackle of flamesoverwhelming her home dreams. The truth will set you free , sheheard on the singeing wind. Call her sentimentally religious,but she believed those things. Believed if she knew the truthof the past, shed be free in the great big Now.

A fireman lifted her to her feet, his grip stronger thanher resolve to resist. Now that every shred of evidence waftednorthward on an erratic breeze, she would never know thehole, never unravel the mystery of the months she lost, neverunderstand the fickleness of her parents marriage or figure

out why she couldnt say yes to Hale, or why she ran from Blake.Should she call the man she ran from? She touched herphone, let her finger rest on Hales number, and settled onsnapping it shut. Again.

Not Hale. Not now. Not with the ring burning a circle


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24 / MARY De MUTH

around her finger like a heated expectation she could neverfulfill.

Where would she go?No, not there.Mother would holler those words again. Words that burned

more than the crumpling house before her.


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fourWilla picked a piece of fire-defiant grass pushing throughthe crack in the landladys sidewalk, then ripped it into tinypieces, littering the pavement while ashes stirred by a breezedandruffed her hair. She plucked a dandelion. The insuranceadjuster didnt notice this act, too occupied as she flusteredaround Willas collapsed rental home. At the place shed sev-ered the poor dandelion, white milk circled the stalk. Shepressed the juice to her tongue, grimacing as she did. Its milk

was not sweet. Anything but.Last night as she reclined in the middle of a king-sizedbed at a nameless hotel, Hale texted her ad nauseam. Hedapparently driven by to check up on her and spied the charcoalhouse. Im freaked, he texted. You okay? said another one.Where are you? I called all the hospitals and youre not there,so youre either with Jesus or staying somewhere. Please tell

me youre okay. Text me back! Mustve been forty or so ofthem, all unanswered. She felt cruelty in the act of ignoring,but she couldnt bring herself to let Hale into her pain. Thisshe would go through alone.

She signed papers, nodded toward the empathetic-facedwoman, trying to assure all would be well. Willa hated thesympathy of people who didnt know her, so she deflected.

Thanks for your time, Willa said. Im sure you have otherdisasters to attend to.

The woman nodded, shook her hand. Im so sorry. Yourefar too young to have such a thing happen. Everything youowned inside.


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26 / MARY De MUTH

Tell me about it, she almost said, but kept her words behindclenched teeth. Instead, Willa turned away, waving as she did,indicating the conversation was over.

She waited for the adjuster to pull away from the sidewalkbefore she sat on her scorched lawn. The smell of firewoodmixed with burning plastic seeped into her. There was trulynothing left, and with the wiring gone bad in the attic first,God had assured her hed burned every shred of evidence.

Every one of her boxes.Thered been a time, not many years ago when Willa livedfor her carefully constructed reputation, that shed rather diethan talk to God in broad daylight, where passersby on theirway to Green Lake could watch the crazy girl rail at the heav-ens. Shed rather have ankle tattoos laced over bone than beheard like that. But that was before Hale authenticated her, as

he put it. Taught her the value of sharing secrets, being real.He prayed out loud during all sorts of occasions lamentingSeahawks games, hiking Tiger Mountain, delivering bad newsto a client. He didnt mind voicing his concerns where folkscould hear them. And that carefree, uncomplicated relation-ship with Jesus rubbed off on her. Tainted her in a good way.Thanks to Hale, Willa threw underfoot some of that irrepress-ible need to be liked. Since God saw fit to point his electricfinger on her roof and burn every bit of her investigation tocremation, she figured what could it hurt?

She didnt kneel.Didnt stand either.Just sat on what was left of the green patch and crossed

her legs. Her temper too. As her ancestors put it, she hollered.God, I get it, okay? Get. It. Youve been messing with me tostop the detective work from afar and just get on with it. Well,congrats, Almighty. Youve done it now. Every single piece,every opened path, now closed for eternity.


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MUIR HOUSE / 27

A couple walking a golden lab strolled by. The man raisedan eyebrow, then saluted her. She saluted back. Carry on, hesaid.

Thank you, she said. So she carried on.And how am I supposed to head back to her lair? Mothers

not exactly wanting me back, regardless of her state. Not tomention other folks back there who want nothing more thanfor me to disappear. You hear that? You want me to disappear

too? Are you ticked off that I wasnt in my house so I couldincinerate right then and there, collapsed under all my boxes?I wouldve made interesting compost. At this, she severed clo-ver, head by head, only three-leaf ones, though. Ah, come on.Say it, God. You wished Id been in there. Then you wouldnthave to trouble your sovereign self with my nagging.

A Boeing jet spewed its carbon tailprint in a long whitestreak across the periwinkle sky, creating a skyway from theOlympic Peninsula toward the summit of Mount Rainier.Since its trajectory headed southeast, the precise directionshe needed to go, Willa took the exhaust as another bread-crumb in Gods Hansel and Gretel ways. Hed been coaxingher with pieces of the trail all along her sojourn in Seattle, but

she hadnt budged. With the nightmares, how could she? Andwith Blake back there, why would she? Why would God tellher to go back to the place where the darkness began? Wasnthe the Father of Lights? And wasnt that precisely why she didher research from a safe haven? Besides, she couldnt bear thesmell of that house again.

But Mrs. Skyes email seemed hopeful a strange thing fora woman often reserved. When Willa wrote shed be willingto fly back and do the design job for her old home, now con-verted into a bed and breakfast, the caretaker welcomed her.Told her to come, that shed have a room for her. Her old room.


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28 / MARY De MUTH

No doubt with strings attached to visiting Mother. But whereelse would she go?

Ashes dotted her skin, brought her back to Seattle, a daypost-fire. She brushed away the memories in like manner theembalming room with black and white checkered floor. Thevoices around the corner she couldnt make out. The curtainclosing on the memory. She shushed her mind, told it not tostray. Even then, she couldnt resist the pull from her pocket.

She took out the slim picture holder and removed the Polaroid.There she stood, a pale yellow dress above her knees, mis-matched socks, black shoes, pigtails. A mans hand rested onher head as if he would prevent her growth. He stood in shad-ows beneath a giant tree, his shaded face blending into gray.

Sometimes when Willa strained, she swore she heard thefaceless man sing, but when he did, he opened up a gash in hersoul the gaping wound that started her cutting all those yearsago. All that cutting for nothing.


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fiveTwo weeks later, Willa fingered a House Beautiful under trem-

bling hands as airplanes muscled overhead. Thomas Wolfe wasright. You couldnt really go home again. Even as the fluores-cent lights of the kitschy Seattle gift shop hummed, she triedto convince herself of the authors fallibility. After all, a 767parked in the North Satellite of SeaTac Airport denied thefact she was headed home. In twenty minutes she would shuf-fle her feet down a too-narrow aisle, cram her body betweentwo strangers, and wait for the planes nose to aim Texasward.A few confined, hungry hours and it would spit her out onSouthern soil. Shed be home.

And Hale would be safely tucked into his life in Seattle.He could pursue a better girl the kind of Larabar-nibblingknockout he deserved.

Im not letting you go. His words wafted skyward on mistybreath. He stood anchored to the drop-off deck while cabswhirred by and she told herself not to cry. Through the miracleof drugstore Vaseline, she managed to dislodge her engagedfinger and re-gift the ring to him. Yet he held it out to her,those not-letting-go words still playing in the cold air betweenthem. He placed its circle in her left palm, then closed her fin-gers in his. You keep it.

Hale


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30 / MARY De MUTH

Please dont say anything else. Lets just keep it at me notletting you go because thats the truth. And truth is somethingyou value, right?

She nodded, hoping the motion wouldnt dislodge hertears.

He pulled her to himself, wrapping strong arms aroundthin, weary shoulders. Ill be in touch, he said. He kissed thetop of her head as if he were her brother sending her off on

a trip to Europe, not her brokenhearted ex-fianc. He stoodback, held her upper arms, and dazzled her with his clear eyes.I mean it.

House Beautiful didnt keep good company on the plane,so she recycled it in the seatback pocket. Too many austere,architecturally dry homes with pristine furniture suited formuseums, not living. She preferred eclectic a holy mishmashof tokens from life, scoured finds from garage sales marriedto midcentury modern furniture. The contrast, the hominess,the collaboration of styles would culminate in her own home,someday.

She thanked God for an interior design job with porta-bility, particularly with Mrs. Skyes job offer in front of her.

And although the renters insurance money had yet to kickin, she thanked herself for the wisdom of backing up all herdesign files on an exterior server. From a now-depleting bankaccount, she bought a new Mac, some clothes and toiletries,and several pairs of Toms shoes, one pair of which graced herfeet today. She checked her phone for messages, half hoping

shed see a clever text from Hale. Nothing. Didnt he say hedcontact her?She rented a Prius, in honor of Seattle, and started the

monotonous drive around 635, a looped freeway that circledDallas. No mountains shouted hello. No Indian-named towns


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announced themselves on highway signs. No Puget Sound letthe sun dance on its choppy waters. Just a sea of large vehiclesheading on a cement serpentine to Lord knew where while theblue sky loomed terribly large, unbroken by topography, whilestrip malls cloned themselves every four miles. How many Mat-tress Giants did a city need?

So this is home, she said to the Prius. With its computer-game-like console, she half expected it to answer her back.

When she took the Interstate 30 overpass, she announcedto her fellow Texans, Take in the vista, folks. This is as highas youll get. For a second, maybe two, she drove above theworld, just concrete below, while Wal-Marts and subdivisionsspread before her street after street. Though a forty-degreespring chill had cut through her that Seattle morning, a balmyseventy degrees hugged her the second she exited the airplanethrough the non-air-conditioned tunnel. Now she let in theTexas air. Her hair tickled her face, no doubt stringifying itself.With one hand, she pulled it back, her eyes on the gray hori-zon, straining to see the water.

When the sun caught Lake Ray Hubbard, she felt her chestconcave. The size of Lake Washington, it sparkled under the

day, reminding her. Fishing for catfish, bass. Swimming behindtheir too-small boat, the elation of water skiing the first timein the boats minimal wake. Memories with Daddy attackedher, shotgun-like. So much all at once. Itd been one thing toplay CSI with her past on papers organized into files, tuckedinto now-torched boxes. It was quite another thing to smell the

humid air, watch the lakes waters dance. And as the air flewthrough her window, she wondered why it didnt smell like thePuget Sound.

It wouldnt be long before shed face Mother, untangle hermemories. Then everything would be okay. She had to believe


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32 / MARY De MUTH

that. She drove toward a Rockwall she didnt remember. A newlakefront development rose like a gem to the right of the I 30bridge. Her town had grown as she had in just a few shortyears. It practically preened new.

She exited, all the while telling her stomach to stop flip-ping, turning, churning. Shed emailed Mrs. Skye, the care-taker, days before, telling of her intentions to stay in the familyhome. Shed received a tepid reply, but expected that. Would

the woman crack this time? Enough to shed some light? Orwould she remain the caretaker of darkness? In a handful ofminutes, Willa would know.

She turned left on Goliad, the quasi-highway, broken upwith lights and mom-and-pop stores. To her left, she spied JoeWillys Restaurant, a haven of many fun and food memories.On her right, she spotted the veterinarian where Sanka, herancient cat, had let out her last breath. Willa could still pictureSankas eyes, how they pled not to send her to the back of theoffice. Willas heart broke with every meow.

Just beyond that, she spied the florist, where Blake senther on a romantic scavenger hunt. When shed found the floristand walked inside, the clerk handed her one dozen pink buds.

She blushed rose-red precisely the minute he jumped up frombehind the counter, scaring her half to death. She threw theroses when she jumped, twelve pink long-stems flying hitherand yon. The florist laughed, gathered them again, and re-presented them. And when Blake kidnapped her away fromher car, he bent near and kissed her, long and slow. Delicious,

really. Her first kiss.Willa shrugged away the memories, or tried to. Somewherealong this stretch of road rose a convalescent center, whereMother inflicted nurses with her charm, the site of Willasheartbreak. Three years it had been, before the Alzheimers


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MUIR HOUSE / 33

took vicious root, according to Mrs. Skye. For the past threeyears Willa had read the caretakers guilt-laden letters, blast-ing Willas ingratitude, her neglect, her stupidity. Three yearsof letters she seldom answered. She viewed them then as evi-dence, every page detailing her mothers decline in painstakingdetail. Though Mrs. Skyes letters were ash now, the words stillscreamed at Willa.

She no longer walks.

She yells obscenities now.She doesnt know me.She never asks about you.She wets herself.She is alone in the world, and you have abandoned her.Her mother, so alive, so angry, so full of words, now

reduced to bed-living, crying at old shows, locked away in hermind. Would Mother remember the words she spoke over her?Would she recognize her face when she dared to visit? Wouldapologies leave her mouth? Willa shook her head, hoping toshake the guilt. What kind of daughter, an only daughter atthat, let her mother rot away in a convalescent center?

A diversion rose bright and bold in the same place itd been:

Sonic. She turned right into its lot, angled her car into a slotand ordered cranberry limeade from the dismembered voice.Maybe a drink would soothe her conscience, would erase the

jumpiness in her stomach. She looked at the bright menu, tell-ing herself to relax. In Seattle, shed missed the mini ice cubesof Sonic fame. Never had it been replicated. Not a slushy. Not

crushed ice. Something in the blessed in between. The roller-skating waitress handed her the drink. Willa placed her delicacyin the cup holder, backed out of the angled spot, then continuedtoward old Rockwall, minutes away from the house of mysteries.

She dodged construction through the town square, then


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34 / MARY De MUTH

picked up speed. Old timber-framed homes lined the widen-ing street, some proud, some crooked from disrepair. The sunhovered in the left hand pocket of sky, warming the side of herface. At least shed have the sun, its warmth, its happy hellonearly every morning. For all it lacked in mountains, Texas didhave its sun.

Willa slowed when she saw the house towering on the rightside of the road. She told herself to breathe, told herself to suck

in sunshine air, but her lungs held her breath. The Muir HouseBed and Breakfast, the sign said. Established 1895. She parkedout front, marveling at the transformation from funeral hometo bed and breakfast in a few short years. Didnt folks havememories? Of touching Grandpa Clarks icy hand right there inthe front room? Of mourning Elda Perkins who made the bestpies in Rockwall? Of forming lines of cars and driving overyonder to the cemetery? Could a place morph from embalmingto entertaining?

But then she remembered the place wouldnt serve as arespite for fellow Rockwallites; it would welcome visitors fromout of town who didnt know the homes death roots.

But she knew. All too well. The utility shelter her haven

on the houses right side knew.Living above a funeral home had its macabre moments. The

family quarters were spacious for just the three of them: Mother,Daddy, her; and the back carriage home housed Mrs. Skye,always watching. But the bustling below her footsteps, inter-rupted by long bouts of quiet, weighed on Willa once she was

old enough to understand death. For a time, she wondered whypeople wailed and wept when they first saw the plastic people,eyes closed, dressed in their Sunday best. Why the tears for amannequin? Somewhere around five years old, death dawnedon her, and the great hereafter made its presence known.


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MUIR HOUSE / 35

Willa shook her head of the memory, willed it to die, butit stayed perched in the back of her consciousness as it alwayshad been, teasing her. She opened the car door, then lookedlong at the old house, her heart catapulting inside. The leftfront door opened. Willa shoved down her fear. Told herselfto be brave.


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The Muir House A Novel

By: Mary DeMuth

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The Muir House by Mary DeMuth, Excerpt

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