Page 23 of The Quiet Tenant

People loved the idea. One of the volunteer firefighters drew the course, starting and ending in the town center. In the comments section, the Garcías offered up supplies from their organic grocery store—paper bags filled with raisins, orange segments. Kids from my former school signed up to hand out cups of water. Dads rallied as course marshals. Everyone was so eager to help that we almost lost sight of the endgame: registration for the race costs a minimum of five dollars, additional donations encouraged. The total will go to Aidan and his daughter to cover bills, rent, remaining funeral expenses, and whatever else.

Meanwhile, Aidan Thomas remained silent. I imagined him watching as our town tripped over itself to help him. Not wanting to sound rude, but hating the attention.

Until this afternoon.

I know Aidan’s profile, although we’re not Facebook friends. He only has something like three contacts on there, including what used to be his wife’s account. But I immediately recognized his picture—not a photo of himself, of course not. Just a scenic image of the Hudson, frozen, taken from the hill by the inn.

“Thank you so much, everyone,” he wrote under the judge’s post. “Cecilia and I are so grateful for this community.”

The comment was shared two hours ago, and more than fifty people have liked it already. Some have gone as far as responding with hearts or caring emoji, their little cartoon arms joined in a virtual embrace.

I sit in my bedroom, my index finger hovering over the trackpad on my laptop.

In the multiplex of my brain, the same movie has been playing on a loop: Aidan’s blue eyes watching me through his glass the night of the virgin old-fashioned. Something that belongs only to the two of us.

On Facebook, I click “comment” and start typing. Stop. Start again. Stop again.

The last thing I want is to appear overeager.

No, that’s not true.

The last thing I want is to look like I don’t care.

“Amandine would love to support all runners (and their cheerleaders). I’d be happy to set up a hot-cocoa station at the finish line?”

The restaurant does the hot-cocoa thing every year for the Christmas parade. I don’t mind setting up the dispenser a little early this year. Come race day, it’ll give me something to do and a reason to be around.

I proofread my comment and hit “send.”

As I get ready for dinner service, I return to the screen to check for updates. Just when I’m about to leave, a notification pops up in the top-right corner.

Two comments.

One is from Mrs.Cooper, who moved here with her husband and their two kids a few years ago. “What a wonderful idea!” she wrote. Mrs.Cooper. Always a bit too enthusiastic. Always worried she and her family won’t fit in.

The second comment is from him. I read it too fast, a panicky feeling compressing my rib cage (what if he thinks it’s dumb, what if it’s too much, what if it’s not enough). Then, I go again, taking my time. Savoring every word.

“How kind of you.”

Here, he pressed the shift and return keys together to start a new paragraph.

“I think that sounds delicious.”

CHAPTER 15

The woman in the house

You shift next to the radiator, try to find the least uncomfortable position. If you rest your back against the wall, you can stretch your legsout.

You close your eyes and listen. Outside, a woodpecker pecks. A different kind of bird sings. Before he took you, you had started learning about birdsong. You had found a book with a list of species and descriptions of the corresponding melodies. It all sounded so clear in theory, but you have never managed to match a bird to its sound with certainty, not even after years of practice in the shed. To your city ears, a bird is a bird is a bird is a bird.

By the time the truck returns, the squares of light around the shades have dimmed. Doors open and shut. Voices rise from the kitchen. You catch bits of sentences—“homework,” “dinner,” “jeopardy.” Someone climbs the staircase. The toilet flushes; the bathroom sink makes the pipes sing. The smell of food wafts through the house, rich and hot and—if you remember correctly—buttery.

He has warned you: Dinner won’t be every night. Breakfast won’t be every morning. He will come and get you at appropriate times. But tonight is the first night. So tonight, he shows up.

Already, you know the dance. He frees you from the handcuffs and tells you to hurry. You get up, bend your knees a couple of times, rub your feet back to life. Downstairs, the table is set like it was in the morning, with glasses of water in lieu of coffee mugs. He opens the oven and checks whatever’s cooking inside.

“Cecilia!”

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