Chapter 19 - The House with the Lemon Tree
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A year later, we sold the Paradise Valley mansion.
Neither Irene nor I could sleep there anymore.
Too much had happened in those rooms.
Too many shadows lived in the hallways.
We bought a smaller home outside Phoenix, with a wide front porch, a lemon tree in the backyard, and a nursery filled with sunlight.
There was no giant safe in the bedroom.
No staff quarters.
No locked doors between us and the people we loved.
On the first evening after we moved in, Irene sat on the porch with Grace asleep against her shoulder. The smell of blooming citrus drifted through the warm air.
I brought her tea and sat beside her on the wooden swing.
The desert sky was turning gold and purple over the distant Bradshaw Mountains.
“It’s quiet,” she said.
“It is.”
“Do you miss the old house?”
I looked at the warm windows behind us, glowing with soft yellow light.
At Grace’s tiny crib visible through the open nursery door.
At Irene’s face, no longer marked by bruises or fear.
“No,” I said. “I don’t miss it at all.”
She rested her head against my shoulder, her breath slow and steady.
For a while, we said nothing, listening to the crickets beginning their evening song in the lemon tree.
Then she whispered, “Do you ever think about them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hate them?”
I looked out at the distant, darkened mountains.
“I think I hate what they did.”
“And them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
May you like
Irene nodded slowly, pressing her cheek against my collarbone.
“You don’t have to know yet.”
