This week’s installment is where we meet our second point of view. It’s a short one. If you’ve been following along from the start you know that this is a novel I shelved years ago and I promised in uploading it as a series I’d only edit it lightly, essentially leaving it as-is. What I didn’t expect was to find that I still love these characters and this story flaws and all. I hope you do to. 🙂

Owen Caldwell sat in his car with the engine running and stared at his father’s house. He’d finished up at a meeting earlier, drove here, pulled into the driveway and parked ten minutes ago. Despite telling himself that this time, he was going to go in there and just get it done, here he sat. Weeks ago, he’d told the realtor he’d have it cleaned out and ready for a walk through. “This is not a big deal.” He said aloud, hoping it would work. It didn’t. “It’s mostly empty anyway.” This was true. His dad hadn’t been in the house long and was midway through a renovation. Still, he sat.

When the house had been his grandmother’s she’d called it Cliff Top. It was a bit much, but she was from an old-money family, and they did things like name houses. The name was more for the lot than the house since it was a nice, old Victorian, but it sat not far from a bluff overlooking the Atlantic. Back in the day, the house was full of antiques that were used like regular furniture and multiple sets of china Nana had treated like every-day objects. Every visit was a test of his nerves. He’d grown up spending each Thanksgiving and Christmas there, carefully keeping his hands to himself. When she died the visits ended. Her kids squabbled over who would get it leaving it to sit vacant while they litigated. They fought for so long that the house began to fall in on itself.

The family followed suit, breaking off, moving away bit by bit including his own parents. He was ten when his mom moved to California leaving her family behind. Eventually they had to sell before it lost any more value. In a surprising act he still didn’t understand, his father formed an LLC to hide his identity and bought the place. Owen still wondered why he did it. After all it was his ex-wife’s childhood home. If he’d bulldozed it, Owen would have understood that, but rescuing it for a renovation? To live there? Nuts.

He looked up through his windshield at the second story of the house. The windows were still the original. His father had gutted the interior but never had the time to get to the upper floors beyond that. He’d concentrated on the first floor, moved in when that was done and then was going to work on the rest. There were still whole rooms that had to be finished. The plan had been to turn it into a fully-functioning, modern house inside, but keep the exterior mostly original. His dad had shown him the plans and Owen had to admit it was one of the best renovations he’d seen for a home that age.

Looking at it now, half-finished, empty of life, it seemed to reach out, into his chest and squeeze his heart. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the feelings knowing they’d just bring the memories with them. Against his will the last day he’d been there, just two days after his dad died, began to playback in his mind.

Owen had finished up at the funeral home and made a list of what needed to be done. Checking them off, one by one, he arrived at the house, ready to shut it down until it could be cleaned out and evaluated for sale or rent. He went from room to room making sure each exterior door was locked; each window secured even though all he wanted to do was get the hell out. Thankfully, the housekeeper had already cleaned and closed the home office, the place his father had been found. It was an act of kindness, as if she knew he’d never want to see it again.

The last room was the recently renovated living room with glass doors looking out at the ocean. Owen made his way there but stopped dead at the threshold. There, in the center of the room, was a Christmas tree. He stood still, like a deer in headlights, floored by the sight of an eight-foot, fully decorated tree. His dad didn’t do holidays. Did he? Then again, since he’d been old enough, Owen had made it a point to be away at Christmas, so he never knew what his dad did anyway.

Walking closer to the tree he saw that the ornaments were the ones he remembered from childhood. He hadn’t seen these in years; the star his mom used to boost him up to hang, his cinnamon dough hand prints from kindergarten, and the construction-paper creations he had brought home over the years from school. It looked just like the last time they had a tree in their old house, back when his parents were still married. His father had to have put this up by himself; he had to have hung each of the ornaments.

A pang hit his gut and with it a wave of emotion overtook him. Pity, remorse, and guilt churned in his stomach, making him sick. The thought of his father here, alone, putting up a tree for a Christmas he’d spend by himself…  dying alone, his body lying on the floor for the housekeeper to find… Another rush of guilt threatened to drag him under. He thought his dad hadn’t given a damn, wasn’t sentimental, that he didn’t care if Owen was there or not. And now here, in his face, was the evidence of his father’s feelings. Backing away from the tree like it was a snake, he almost tripped over a chair before turning and bolting from the house.

That had been weeks ago. He hadn’t been back since. The cleaning staff he hired had taken the tree down and boxed up the ornaments. It all sat with the rest of his father’s worldly goods, rotting in the house that was now Owen’s; a house that was just another weight in the load already on his shoulders. Rubbing his hands over his face he gave up knowing today was not the day. If he was having flashbacks just looking at the place, going in was straight out.

It was time to clear his head and make a plan. Maybe he could hire someone to take the boxes to one of Caldwell Construction’s storage facilities. His dad’s company, now his company, had an office building with apartments above, one of them being Owen’s, but they also had two storage facilities they both used and rented out. The more he thought of it as he drove to the office, the better an idea it seemed. He could get the place cleaned out and store his dad’s stuff safely for the day he’d be able to take the time to go through it. Yeah, that made sense.

Caldwell’s offices sat in a converted warehouse that overlooked the harbor. It was still a bit rough around the edges with his business and a fish broker sharing the first floor. The apartments above were one and two bedrooms. He had the corner unit on the top floor. It made up in view for what it lacked in space or amenities. It was basic, but it did have a washer and drier. He never used the kitchen for much and his living room had what it needed, a sofa and a flat screen. The bedroom windows had the view. High enough up, he could see out past the cluttered harbor to the ocean.

If he had a choice he would’ve lived year-round at the beach house. That place was a sweet deal he scored when a friend got in over his head and was facing foreclosure. He’d rented it out though, the money was too tempting. As soon as the weather turned, he’d be there every weekend if he could.

Parking his car, Owen headed up the elevator to his apartment trying very hard not to think about anything other than changing and going out tonight. Once inside, he walked into his bedroom and took off his suit coat, hanging it up. The apartment wasn’t large, but it did come with a walk-in closet which for Owen was essential. His father had harped on the importance of always looking the part regardless of whether it was a meeting with clients or showing up at a job site.

Owen had everything from a custom Italian suit down to ripped jeans. He wore the clothes without any self-consciousness. To him they were like costumes, one for every play, but he did take crap from the crew for being “Mr. GQ” among other crude titles. They didn’t get it about appearance. It matters.

He sat on the bed to take off his shoes and found himself staring at the wall, trying to get his thoughts in line. It was eating at him that yet again, his failure to take any kind of action. He tried to focus his spiraling thoughts on the stuff he had coming up instead. Closing his eyes he listed what his goals were for the next few weeks. There were the deals he had been working on when his dad died, ones that he had to secure if he expected to keep the company afloat. He had to get rid of that house since the taxes alone were going to kill him. He knew he couldn’t let it drag out or he’d have to sell his place at the beach to make ends meet.

But, instead of helping him ground himself in the here and now, his brain shifted to thinking of how happy his father was when he talked about the house, planning for it like it was his kid. Each thought dropped like a brick in the part of his heart where everything hurts. If he could just reach in, pull it all out and throw it away, he’d be okay. But that wasn’t possible, and he knew it. Instead, he tried to bury it deep with the rest.

Standing, he rolled his shoulders, grabbed clothes from the closet and went to the bathroom to take a shower and hopefully, clear his head. A half-hour later, he left the car home and walked up from the harbor into the city in search of some distraction. He knew half-a-dozen places he could spend the night not thinking about a damn thing.

Image Credit: Cameron Stewart via Unsplash