Inhale

Lindsey

The drive to New England would have been formidable on a normal day, but in a snowstorm, it is downright menacing. By the time I reach Gardner, the small silver Hybrid is on the verge of collapse. The poor car stalls into the drive of the towering house before me. I don't even attempt praying that it will start when I get back in.

I stare at the immense building before me, not fully believing it could truly be a house meant for people to live in. From what I can see through the foggy windshield, the house has peeling yellow paint, faded concrete steps leading up to the door, a sullen red chimney jutting out from the roof, and Victorian-style windows pushed out from the house. All three floors of the house loom over me like a monster waiting to lure me in and swallow me whole.

I have to kick against the driver's side door to get out of the car, as ice has already begun forming over the car from just the two minutes I've been sitting in it without the engine running. Once I'm out in the snow, I can feel the cold creeping in through my jacket and digging deep into my flesh, causing violent shivers to ransack my body. The howling of the wind around the house is intimidating enough, but then, I see the heavy brown doors in front of me swing open to reveal a tall woman dressed from head to toe in black. She says nothing, but instead rushes out into the cold to wrap her gloved hands around my shoulders and usher me inside.

I'm relieved when she shuts the doors behind us, and warmth slowly creeps back into my bones. Around me, I can see a grand staircase, warm orange lights hanging from the ceiling, and hallways with prettily stained wooden floorboards headed in every direction. The beige wallpaper that covers every wall is somewhat perfect, and the daunting apprehension I felt outside quickly subdues into an almost homely affection.

I turn back to the woman, who I can see has taken off her black gloves and grabbed a clipboard from the side table by the door. She almost looks as if she was born into the wrong century now that I can see her clearer. She wears a black satin gown, a felt cloche hat, and modest black heels. Her dark brown hair is pinned up in defined curls under her hat, making her appear younger than I'm guessing she really is.

She must have noticed me staring, because she arches one of her finely trimmed eyebrows and extends a hand.

I take it unsurely. "Nice to meet you. I'm-"

"Miss Grayson. I know who you are, dear. We spoke on the phone last night. I'm Deborah Carlisle, but please call me Debbie." I couldn't mask the awe in my expression. Even the way she spoke sounded refined and instructed, as if she should be pouring a Queen's wine rather than showing creepy old houses to clients.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but I have to ask. Why this," I gestured to what she was wearing, "while it's so cold outside? I don't mean any offense. I just couldn't ever pull that off myself without freezing to death." I knew I sound rude, but even still, Debbie tilts her head back slightly and laughs.

"No need to worry. It will take far more than a bit of snow to get to me. Now," she says, walking forward, "since you went through all of this trouble to drive down here to see your aunt's house, shall we start the tour?"

"Sure."

I follow behind her, careful not to step on the end of her dress. At the base of the staircase, I see an old piano sitting stoically, its keys covered by a wooden fallboard.

"Do you play, Miss Grayson?" I look up at Debbie.

"Oh, no. One of my daughters-" I catch myself, a lump rising in my throat that I choke back down. "My daughter plays sometimes." She says nothing, though I can see a flicker of understanding in her eyes as she turns and continues up the stairs.

Debbie takes me through the house, the conversation limited almost entirely to comments about the ample space of the dining room, how grand the fireplaces are, the plushness of the carpet, and so on. Neither of us bring up my family after my comment at the piano, though I can see by the shifting in her face that it occasionally dances across her mind. I don't pay much attention, though. Everyone wants to know.

By the time we are finally back downstairs in the sitting room, the air shifts again. Debbie turns to me, smiling. "So, what do we think?" I look back around quickly, studying the colored glass panes in the window and the steady creak in the floor as I shift my weight to my other foot.

"I just can't believe she left me all of this. I didn't even know her." I look around the spacious room, doubt rising in my mind. "It's too much."

Debbie takes my hand in hers reassuringly. "Now, Miss Grayson, I know that Crill House seems a bit large to be left in an inheritance, but I knew your aunt long before she passed. She was a fine woman, and a rather gracious friend.  You were all she had left in the family. She wanted you to have it. Why don't you give it a trial run of sorts? Stay here a week and see how you like it. Of course," she sighs, "should you decide after the week is over that you do not wish to stay, I can see to it that it goes back onto the market at a decent asking price that can benefit you and your family."

I bow my head, thinking it over.

"What could it hurt? It's just a week," Debbie says encouragingly. Almost anxiously.

Making my decision, I hesitantly nodded my head. "One week."

After all, I think to myself, what could it hurt?