44 Charles Street

When Charles-Edouard and Marya drove down from Vermont at the end of the Labor Day weekend, she looked healthy and brown and happy, and Charles-Edouard’s bright blue eyes danced in his tan face, which made his hair look even whiter. He was wearing a blue shirt, jeans, and espadrilles, with a red sweater on his shoulders when they got out of her car in front of 44 Charles Street, and they unloaded their suitcases and shopping bags full of fresh vegetables and fruit from her garden and the farmers’ market in Vermont. Marya sighed as she looked up at the house, thinking how different it would be without Eileen. She had given them all an infusion of youth.

Chris and Ian were home when they walked up the steps with their things. They were surprised to see Charles-Edouard, and it was obvious that he’d been in Vermont with Marya. Chris hadn’t realized that was the plan, and they seemed to be happier than ever together. Chris was still sorry for her that he was married. They seemed like a perfect fit.

“Welcome home,” Chris said as he came down the stairs when he heard them come in. And Ian came up just as fast from the kitchen with a milk mustache and a cookie. He smiled broadly at Marya, and threw himself into Charles-Edouard’s open arms.

“I have an egg in my ear!” he shouted excitedly, and instead Charles-Edouard pulled out a coin, and handed it to him.

“You sold your eggs for money,” he said, and kissed the boy on both cheeks, and then embraced Chris. He had gotten used to Charles-Edouard’s effusive French greetings by then. Ian helped him carry the bags of food down to the kitchen, while Chris whispered to Marya that he hadn’t told Ian about Eileen. He had said she had moved back to California to be with her parents, which was true. He hadn’t explained that she was going back in an urn, in the form of ashes. The idea of her getting murdered in the house would have frightened Ian, and he’d been through enough trauma with his mother. Marya agreed entirely, and said she’d mention to Charles-Edouard not to say anything to him about the murder or even her death. It was a sad circumstance for them all. She gave Chris a hug, and they exchanged a warm, loving look of understanding.

“So how was your summer?” he asked her. “Ours was great at the Vineyard.” He looked it, and so did Ian. They were healthy and tan, and so was she. With the exception of the tragedy that had befallen Eileen, they had all had good vacations.

“We had a wonderful time in Vermont,” Marya said, glowing, “and Europe is always terrific. I’ve been back for a month. It feels like ages ago.” Chris and Ian had returned from the Vineyard the week before. And there was no sign of disruption in the house. Eileen’s rooms upstairs were closed and locked. And Francesca had finally bought living room furniture to replace what Todd had taken eight months before. It was a very comfortable room now, and she had decided not to sell the house, in spite of Eileen. She had told Chris when he got home. It was a tragedy, but they had to go on. Chris approved of her decision and was relieved. He and Ian were happy there. It was a perfect setup for them, and he couldn’t imagine his life now without Marya and Francesca as friends for him, and beloved aunts for Ian, although he knew Ian would miss Eileen too, the stories she read him, and the origami birds she made.

As they always did when Marya was home, they all congregated in the kitchen. She put some mushroom soup on the stove that she had made in Vermont before they left that morning. It smelled delicious. Charles-Edouard was playing the egg game with Ian, who was squealing with delight. Suddenly the house seemed full of good smells, and joy and noise and laughter again. It hadn’t been that way when he and Ian got home, and it had felt very somber to him at first, and as though they were all in mourning. It was better now. Marya and Charles-Edouard gave them back energy and life. It had been too quiet without them.

Francesca could hear all of them laughing in the kitchen, as she unlocked the front door when she came home from work. She smiled as she walked downstairs, and saw Marya. She already had her apron on and was cooking. She had put a chicken in the oven for dinner. And Charles-Edouard put some pâté that he had made on a plate and then threw his arms around Francesca and kissed her when he saw her.

“Ahhhh!!! La châtelaine!” he said with delight. He called her “the mistress of the château.” 44 Charles Street was hardly a château, but it was their home and they loved it. “You look beautiful with a tan, Francesca.” And her hair looked like spun gold.