That Summer: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the bricks beneath her patent-leather Mary Janes. Just ahead, up a small flight of stairs, the door of the house opened, spilling out light and warmth and—
    The sun was shining painfully into her eyes. Julia blinked, hard, and the illusion vanished. It was just jet lag, that was all. Nothing more. Her contacts were practically glued to her eyes from sleep deprivation; it was a wonder she could see anything at all.
    Yanking her computer strap higher on her shoulder, Julia hauled herself and the bags through the gap in the gate. Her wheelie skittered and bumped on the uneven surface of the walk, wheels catching on bits of cracked brick. It seemed longer than it was, twisting and curving coyly through hedges that might once had been decorative edging but had since run amok, catching at her ankles, prickling against the hems of her jeans. For a moment, she remembered her dream, the thorns pricking at her as she fought her way through.
    Just a dream, Julia told herself, and shook her ankle free, marching down the path with a little more force than necessary. Some people liked old houses. Somewhere, surely, there would be someone who would want to take this one off her hands, preferably for a satisfyingly large amount of cash.
    Up close, the house was larger than she had realized, covered in a muddy stucco that might once have been white but had darkened over time to a sort of dun. It was a tall house: three main floors, an attic floor, and what looked to be some sort of basement area, the top of the windows just visible from ground level. The front door was up a flight of stairs, flanked on either side by long windows, draped in dirt and damask. The sun couldn’t compete with the thick growth of foliage around the house; it was almost chilly in the shade, chilly and very quiet. It seemed odd that the road was just a few yards back, smoking in the July sun. Just down the block people were buying lottery tickets and picking up their dry cleaning. But here all was still and silent.
    Julia marched up the stairs, hauling her wheelie with her, wincing as it clunked against the old stone steps. The door had once been painted, but the paint was gray and peeling, the panels of the fanlight grimed with dirt.
    The solicitor had sent the keys, in a package padded around and around with tape that had taken forever to pick off. Julia wished she had more confidence that they might work. There were five in all. Three had small tags attached reading “front door: lock,” “front door: bolt,” “back door.” The last two were unlabeled.
    That was going to be fun, trying to figure out what they belonged to, if they belonged to anything at all.
    She was stalling, she realized, reluctant to open the door. Really, what did she think was going to be on the other side? Dracula? Frankenstein’s aunt? Julia mocked herself, digging in the pocket of her computer bag for the keys. At worst, she might face a bad smell. She hadn’t thought to ask the lawyer if anyone had remembered to empty the fridge. Assuming there was a fridge and not just an icebox, or whatever it was. No, that was silly. People had been living in this house more recently than that.
    Her mother had lived in this house.
    Ignoring a wave of light-headedness, Julia fumbled the key out of her bag. It was a normal key, cheap and flimsy, not a baronial clunker. The bottom lock turned without a protest; the bolt squeaked slightly, then gave way.
    Julia pushed the door cautiously forward, feeling as though she were intruding, as though, at any moment now, someone was—
    “Hello?” It seemed silly to be speaking to an empty house, but Julia did it anyway, feeling slightly sheepish.
    She nearly fell down the stairs when she heard someone answer, “Yes?”

 
    THREE
    Herne Hill, 1839
    “Who is she ?” The stairs creaked as a woman stepped out onto the landing, a candle held aloft. She looked at Imogen with visible consternation and no little surprise. “Arthur?”
    Spattered with the