Chapter 9 - The Reclaiming of Home
When the sound of the car engines finally faded into the distance, Eleanor turned and walked back inside her house.
The front door clicked shut. The deadbolt engaged with a heavy, satisfying *thunk*.
For the first time in five months, the house was silent. Not the painful, hollow silence that had haunted her after David died, but a clean, pristine quiet, like a fresh snowfall over an untracked meadow.
Eleanor did not sit down to rest.
She walked straight to the hall closet, pulled out her bucket, her cedar-scented floor soap, and two thick cotton rags. She went upstairs to the guest room.
She stripped the modern, sterile gray duvet Harper had bought. She stripped the pillowcases. She threw them into plastic garbage bags to be donated to the shelter downtown. She opened the windows wide, letting the freezing winter wind blow through the room, sweeping away the traces of synthetic floral perfume, hairspray, and resentment.
Downstairs, she went into the spare study. David’s big brown leather wingback chair was still pushed into the corner, covered with dry-cleaning bags.
Eleanor gripped the heavy mahogany frame, braced her feet against the floorboards, and pulled. She dragged it out of the shadows, through the doorway, and back into its rightful place by the living room bay window, angled precisely toward the stone hearth.
She went to the linen closet and retrieved her thick, royal-blue Egyptian cotton bath towels. She hung them over the brass rods in the guest bathroom, replacing the scratchy, paper-thin white hand towels Harper had deemed "modern."
Next came the kitchen.
She retrieved her vintage Italian drip coffee machine from the bottom cabinet where it had been hidden, wiped its chrome finish with a damp cloth, and plugged it back into the center counter. She took out a bag of French roast beans, ground them, and set the pot to brew.
Within twenty minutes, the house smelled of dark coffee, cedarwood, and cold, fresh winter air.
Eleanor sat down in David’s chair, holding a steaming mug in both hands. She looked across the living room at the wall Harper had tried to tear down. The plaster was unmarred. The oak beams beneath were secure.
She took a sip of hot coffee, leaned her head back against the worn leather, and closed her eyes.
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She was sixty-eight years old. Her home was hers. Her life was hers. And she was completely, beautifully free.
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