That night I lay awake beside Shane, staring at the ceiling fan. The warm smell of pot roast had long since faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the apartment. I tried to picture Victoria. Would there be Spanish moss maybe, or crumbling courthouses, a sense of history in the air? I wondered what my grandmother had wanted, what she’d seen in me that made her tie her legacy to someone she barely knew. Who was I kidding? She couldn’t have known me at all, so what made her think that I would be worthy? Or was it just hope? Or just to spite my father for leaving and never looking back?
The call to William Gough, the lawyer, the next day was short and professional. His voice had the clipped tone of someone used to explaining complicated things without drama. He confirmed the trust, confirmed that the bed-and-breakfast was real, and invited me down to Victoria so he could explain the details in person. He told me that he could authorize two plane tickets and a rental car from San Antonio. Shane was listening; the lawyer was on speaker phone.
Shane shook his head and mimicked steering a car. I declined the offer for a plane ride and told him that we’d be driving. “It’s a seven to eight hour trip by car,” Mr. Gough reminded me.
“We’ll be OK, maybe a little tired.”
“Text me when you decide which day you’re leaving, and I’ll make sure there’s a room ready for you in the house.”
“I’m not sure we can afford a bed-and-breakfast,” I admitted.
A chuckle came from the speaker before I had a chance to ask him which motels might be the cleanest and least expensive. “It’s your house Mr. Henderson. I’m sure you’ll want to evaluate the process. You won’t be charged,” he added just to make sure I understood completely.
“I’ll text you then. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he said. The call disconnected.
I looked over at Shane, expecting him to laugh at my ignorance. His eyebrows jerked up and down quickly. “I was about to say that we needed someplace less expensive. I mean, it’s not yours until you sign the papers, right?”
“I don’t know. He said it’s my house. Maybe signing something is just a formality.”
“Well, I think we should head down there and find out. And while we’re checking out the house and the town, why don’t we check out the beach? It’s pretty close, isn’t it.” Shane rubbed his hands together.
“Are you a beach bum in disguise?” I laughed.
“I think I’m about to find out. Shall we pack up and start tomorrow?”
“I’ve got nothing on my calendar until August, well, except for treating you like the prince that you are.”
“Let’s check out our kingdom.” He laughed until I covered his mouth with mine. “I’m thinking that you’ll take one look and want to dump the place. But, you never know.”
We left the next morning before the sun came up. The drive from the Panhandle to Victoria was no quick trip, hours stretched into hours. Mr. Gough was accurate in his estimation of the time it would take. The endless flatness of the plains gave way to the slow rise and fall of Hill Country. Shane drove the entire way, a baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses reflecting the empty highway. I sat and dozed. My feet pushed against the floor to stretch and then to the side. I nodded off more than once. The man at the helm kept his diligent guard as I watched the miles slip by in shades of brown and green.
We passed through tiny towns with names that sounded like old songs, Ballinger, Eden, Cuero, each one a cluster of weathered gas stations and faded diners. At one point, Shane pulled off so we could stretch our legs at a rest stop overlooking a dry creek bed. He laced his fingers through mine as we leaned against the hood, the heat of the metal seeping through my jeans.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
I nodded. “It feels like stepping into somebody else’s story.”
Shane squeezed my hand. “Maybe it’s been yours all along. You just didn’t know it yet.”
By the time we reached Victoria, the sun was low and gold, painting the streets in long shadows. The lawyer’s office was closed for the evening, but we expected that. We drove across town, the streets lined with massive oaks that arched overhead like cathedral ceilings.
When we pulled into the drive, the house itself took my breath away. It was large but tired, its Victorian trim dulled by years of Gulf Coast humidity. The porch sagged slightly at one end, but the stained-glass panels in the front door caught the last light of evening, scattering color across the steps. The key to the bed-and-breakfast was in a lockbox that I had the combination to. But I didn’t have to unlock the door. A cheerful woman in a simple dress and wearing an apron opened the door for us.
“Welcome, welcome,” her voice lilted. “Oh, I should have had Roger open the garage door for you. Not to worry, I’ll have him put your car in there while I show you to your room.”
“Thank you,” Shane and I said in unison.
“Oh, I should introduce myself. I’m Gretchen Peterson. Roger and I take care of this house and the one next door. We stay in the little cabin behind the house next door. You’re Taylor and Shane Henderson, right.”
Shane grinned broadly. “That’s right, ma’am.”
“I knew it the moment I saw you. Mr. Gough described Taylor to a tee.” She giggled again. “How long have you two been married?”
My voice was frozen.
“Since January,” Shane replied without missing a beat. “But we’ve known one another since we were five. But Taylor didn’t realize he was in love with me until we were seniors in high school.”
“But you knew sooner,” Mrs. Peterson giggled again. “Isn’t that just the way it is sometimes. I don’t think Roger would have married me if I hadn’t told him that we were made for one another.”
“Did I hear my name being slanderously bantered about?”
I turned to see a very fit man in a blue tee and jeans coming from what turned out to be the dining room.
“Of course,” he continued, “I remember that story differently.”
“I’m sure you do, but it’s more interesting the way I tell it. Now, these boys need their car parked in the garage. Are there more bags in the car?”
“No,” I shook my head.
“Dinner’s on the table,” said Roger Peterson. “Let me have your keys, and I’ll put the car away, and I’ll take your bags up to room three. You get something to eat. The Smiths are already in there.”
Shane handed him the keys. We both felt that Roger was someone to keep on our good side.
Gretchen lowered her voice. “The Smiths are in Room One, but don’t you worry. Room Three is the best one.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes as she led us into the dining room. The air was fraught with the aroma of a wine and mushroom sauce. Thin slices of breaded chicken breast glinted from the tiny bits of butter that had been used to prepare them. Roasted Brussel sprouts and crystal goblets of water adorned the sideboard. The Smiths occupied a table for two just inside the window overlooking the front yard. Two other tables occupied the dining room.
The Smiths nodded as Gretchen introduced us as Shane and Taylor Henderson. “Pleased to meet you,” Shane and I replied in unison as though we had practiced.
“I need to wash my hands,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Shane.
“Oh, of course. Through there.” She pointed to a small corridor opposite the front window. “I’ll get your plates started.”
When we came back, one of the tables had plates filled with dinner for us. Mrs. Peterson had estimated the correct amount of food for this weary traveler. Shane left a few sprouts on his plate. We were both tired, but I knew Shane had to have been exhausted from the drive.
We bid goodnight to the Smiths and stepped back into the main hallway. Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and lemon polish, like someone had cleaned but hadn’t quite erased the house’s age. I hadn’t noticed it the first time I stepped into the room. Worn rugs softened the creak of the old wood floors, and everywhere I looked, the past seemed to whisper, framed photographs of guests, oil lamps kept for decoration, a carved banister polished by countless hands. There was only one squeaky tread on the stairs as we headed up to room three. It was easy to spot as it was directly at the top of the stairway.
“Wow,” exclaimed Shane. “You have one fucking awesome house there.”
I closed the door and took a look around. This was the picture under the word opulence in the dictionary. As Shane kicked off his shoes, I scoped out the bathroom. He was on top of the duvet cover on the bed when I came back out. His even breathing told me that he was already asleep.
The next morning, we met with the lawyer. He spread papers across the wide oak table in the parlor, explaining each one with patient precision. The bed-and-breakfast was indeed profitable. The Petersons managed the day-to-day, and a portion of the revenue had been accumulating in trust for me since the arrangement began. I could access a small allowance now, but the bulk of it, and full control of the property, wouldn’t come until I turned twenty-one.
Then he hesitated, adjusting his glasses before continuing. “You should also understand the history. The property came through your grandmother’s side, but the trust was established by Patience Moore, your grandmother’s great-aunt. There’s a rumor that she was also the mother of Carl Henderson.”
I frowned. “My father.”
The lawyer nodded. “Your father was born out of wedlock; the paperwork indicates his mother was Kristina Moore, despite the rumors. He left home for college and never spoke to her again. When she later came into the family money, and this house, she was able to build things through smart management. She chose to cut your father out of it. But she left instructions that the next generation, if there was one, should have the chance to benefit.”
The words sat heavy in me. I had never thought of my dad as someone with secrets. He was just… gone, a closed door that I would never try to open. Now, a crack of light spilled through, messy and complicated, but still leaving him in the dark.
After the lawyer left, Shane and I explored room two as well as the downstairs. The house creaked around us, as though settling after so many years of holding its breath. At the end of one of the halls was a bathroom with a clawfoot much smaller than the one in the ensuite of our bedroom. The enamel was chipped at the edges. There were two small rooms next to the room with the tub, but they were empty and didn’t disclose their purpose.
We finished the tour with some chicken salad sandwiches before venturing into town to see what we could see.
I wouldn’t say we were exhausted when we got back, but a light dinner was all we needed to feel satiated. I told Shane that I wanted to test out the large tub in our bathroom after dinner. As soon as we got upstairs, I went straight to the tub, dragging him behind me. When the hot water rushed in and steam began to rise, it felt like stepping into another time.
The floor under the clawfoot tub groaned under the weight of the water; steam curled up around the edges like ghostly vines. When I slipped in, the porcelain was warm beneath my back, but it was Shane’s body pressed against mine that truly heated me. His chest rose steady under my shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine until it felt like we were one long, quiet exhale.
Water lapped lazily against our skin as his arms slid around me, pulling me closer. My knees brushed his thighs, my toes finding the solid press of his calves beneath the surface. The closeness was unhurried, almost reverent, as though the house itself had slowed the world to watch.
I tilted my head back, and Shane kissed the corner of my jaw, his lips damp and warm. It wasn’t urgent, but it carried the kind of weight that said he’d wanted this exact moment for longer than he could say. His hands moved slowly, tracing over my stomach, over my ribs, memorizing me in the steam-softened light.
“Can you picture it?” I whispered. “Us living here… when school’s over.”
For a moment he didn’t answer. His lips moved against my temple, lingering there, and his fingers slid between mine under the water, twining them together. The sound of dripping faucets and the faint creak of the house were the only witnesses. “I can see it.” I felt him harden and slip into me. “But I can see me anywhere as long as you’re there.”
I turned enough to see his face, flushed from the heat and softened by candlelight. He looked at me the way he always did when the noise of the world fell away, as if I were the only thing left worth holding on to.
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