Page 3 of Coram House

In the kitchen it’s disorienting to see the grocery bag from my apartment in Brooklyn on the counter—like it got lost and wandered into the wrong life. I put a piece of bread in the toaster. No butter, no milk. But good enough for now.

While the coffee is brewing, I turn on my laptop. Last night, I’d set it out on the table along with the slim folder that contained everything I had from Stedsan so far, which is not much. My contract. The book pitch. A proposed schedule—one month for an outline, which is punishing for a research book. Stedsan promised he had boxes of deposition transcripts, interview tapes, and historical photos, all waiting for me at his office. And also that there might be more documentation with the church or local historical societies.

I send my agent a quick email, letting her know that I’ve arrived. She’s been quietly furious with me since I signed the contract. She’d assumed we’d negotiate—the money, the terms of authorship—but I said no. None of it. She sat me down in her office, actually crouched so we were eye-to-eye like a parent with a child.I know this story is interesting, she’d said,and sure, it’s been a dry spell, and yes, your last book didn’t turn out so well, but you’ve been on the bestseller list twice, and now you’re not even going to get a byline?

But none of it changed my mind.

The story was interesting. A haunted orphanage for a setting. The terrible stories of nuns and priests. The settlement that buried the whole thing. But that wasn’t the reason I took the contract. My agent thought I simply hadn’t written anything for the last year and a half. That I was grieving. I never told her how I couldn’t write. How I’d tried and failed. How I’d looked for that spark I felt with my first book, but couldn’t find it. How I was starting to believe it was gone forever. But maybe if I was writing as someone else. If everyone in the story was already dead so I didn’t have a chance to fuck up their lives. Maybe now, things would be different.

I unpack, which takes ten minutes. Then I drink my coffee. My appointment with Stedsan isn’t until ten, but by eight it feels like the walls are closing in. At home, I’d go for a run—sweat out my impatience onthe paths that crisscross Prospect Park or along the river. Before I came, I scoped out some likely routes, but none took a foot of fresh snow into account. I think of the sign I’d seen yesterday in the window of the minimart, promising samosas. Then I pull on my brand-new snow boots, grab my keys, and head across the street.

The floor of the minimart is already slick with brown slush. I fill a paper bag with samosas and pour a cup of hot chai so spiced the smell alone is warming. I eat while walking, past a Nepali restaurant and a school with an impressive treehouse, already busy with kids, their snowsuits blurs of color against the white snow.

The road ends at a park, though there’s not much to it—an empty stone fountain and a stretch of piebald snow and brown grass all encircled by a retaining wall. If you rolled down the steep slope beyond, you’d land in the harbor. Granted, with a few broken bones.

I’d looked at Burlington on a map. Downtown is on a bay that looked like no more than a puddle-sized inlet off the rest of Lake Champlain. But now, seeing it in person, the bay is plenty big: a two-mile-wide expanse of solid ice dotted with fishing shacks. At the far end, forested peninsulas enclose it on both sides, like a forefinger and thumb nearly closed in a circle, cutting the bay off from the great expanse of open water beyond.

I bite into a samosa and grease dribbles down my chin. Sitting on the wall, feet dangling over the edge, is giving me vertigo, so I turn my back to the view to finish. On the far side of the park, three police officers cluster around a parked school bus. The nosy reporter in me wonders what’s going on. Then a man in an apron passes a cup and foil-wrapped package out one of the windows.

The officer tucks a few dollars into a jar. Only then do I notice the smell of grease in the air. The side of the bus is painted with big blue letters:BEANSIE’S BUS. The officers cross the street into a squat brick building.BURLINGTON POLICE DEPARTMENT, announces the sign above the door.

My phone buzzes. A text from Stedsan.Running late. 10:15 okay?

It’s almost nine thirty now. I write him back.No problem! See you then!

As soon as I hit send, I regret the exclamation marks. Then regretmy regret. It feels pathetic that, at thirty-six, I can be sent into a spiral of self-doubt by punctuation. Five years ago, I don’t think I would have had that same doubt, but I can’t be sure. That’s a land too foreign to remember clearly. The grease in my samosa has hardened in the cold. I crumple the rest in the bag and throw it away.

The dashboard clock says 10:05 when I park in front of a small brick building with the kind of antique white patina that home improvement shows covet. In front, a carved wooden sign hangs from a post.ALAN STEDSAN, ATTORNEY AT LAW—black with gold lettering. Stately homes with turrets and gingerbread trim keep watch over the rest of the street. The setting has the flavor of old money and deep connections.

I glance in the rearview mirror, but my reflection is not encouraging—dark circles under my eyes, thin pale lips blending into the rest of my skin. I riffle through the glove box, find a tube of half-frozen lipstick, and smear some on my lips and cheeks. Good enough.

There’s no doorbell beside the red front door, just a brass knocker in the shape of a fist. I knock. After a few seconds, the door opens. Alan Stedsan is nearly seventy, but there’s something ageless about him. Like he might actually be thirty and just wearing stage makeup to play someone much older. I’m five foot eight, but I have to look up into his bright blue eyes and cut-glass cheekbones. He looks descended from Viking kings. The expensive suit helps too.

“Alex,” he says, holding out a hand for me to shake. “Alan Stedsan. Nice to finally meet you. Come in.”

I step into the foyer, a dark cocoon of green, striped wallpaper and slate floors.

“May I take your coat? You can leave your boots just there.”

He points to a copper tray beside the door. Below the hem of his suit he wears only socks, but makes it look elegant. I hand over my coat and pull off my boots, balancing on one leg and getting slush all over the cuffs of my jeans.

Stedsan guides me into the living room and then disappears to “get refreshments.” The room is all blond wood and modern furniture. Inthe corner, an egg-shaped wood-burning stove descends from the ceiling on a long tube like a spaceship. The vibe is rich-person IKEA—not what I expected.

The entire back wall is glass and looks out onto a snowy garden, though the only sign of life now is a small, twisted tree with a stone bench beside it.

“In September, it puts out hundreds of apples.”

I turn to see Stedsan holding a tray with a French press, silent as a cat in his socks. He offers a plate of delicate, flaky pastries but I decline, imagining crumbs all over myself and his expensive couch.

“Your office is lovely.”

I gesture to take in the room.

“I’m mostly retired, so it’s more home and less office these days. And how about you—how are you settling in?”

I think of the generic motel furniture and peeling linoleum in my apartment. It’s funny how some things don’t bother you until you see them in contrast to something else.

“Fine, thanks,” I say.

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