By Lauren K. Joyce
He paced outside the wrought-iron fence, eyeing the bright-red brick Victorian mansion as if a monster lurked within. His first time back since…
And his first time seeing her again in many years.
A plaque by the open gate read The Big House: Home for the Lost. Established 1920. Open for more than four decades now and overseen by the founders’ grandchildren.
He took a few tentative steps up the stone path.
Several boys playing on the front lawn noticed him. One shouted, “Do you want to play with us?”
“Thank you,” said the visitor with a smile. “But I’m not here to play today.”
Finding his stride, the visitor climbed the porch stairs. With a delicate touch, he lifted the doorknocker—an intricate gold fairy. He took a deep, steadying breath and rapped on the door.
A young woman answered. Her sharp features and fierce eyes cooled against her sun-kissed, freckled cheeks and wavy brown locks. Just like her grandmother.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was pleasant, but she remained in the doorway.
“Is the lady of the house here?”
“She is, but she’s sleeping.”
His heart pattered. He flexed his shaking hands. “Would you wake her? I’m an old friend, and she’d like to see me.”
The young woman cocked her head and furrowed her brow.
He stifled a laugh at the familiar expression. Now that came from her grandmother. He gave her his shyest, most imploring smile. It usually worked.
She blushed, laughing a little. “I’d be waking her soon anyway. What’s a few minutes?” She stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
“Thank you very much.” He found himself inside the massive foyer, a crystal chandelier hanging above his head.
“Wait here,” the young woman instructed. When he made no objection, she hurried up the grand staircase and disappeared.
Alone in the hall, the visitor smoothed his shirtfront, wiping sweat from his palms. He needed a distraction while he waited, so he turned to examine the framed photographs and newspaper clippings covering the walls. Most featured various children, often blurry from activity, who had grown up and become doctors, lawyers, teachers.
But in all the pictures, one face stood out above the rest: Andrew Nibson, his best friend, a brother, the closest thing he’d had to an equal. His throat tightened, breath catching. An ache, like a hook in the heart, blurred his vision with tears he blinked away. He and Nibsy had seen each other through the best and worst, inseparable through lifetimes.
The walls hosted photos of Nibsy when he’d graduated university, when he married the most beautiful girl in the world, and when he and his wife opened The Big House for orphaned children. In one photograph, an old Nibsy sat among at least a hundred people, mostly kids, on the front porch. The visitor’s own face was somewhere in the crowd. He’d been present for most of his friend’s life, albeit anonymously, a role less familiar to him. But for Nibsy, he’d do anything.
Even sit at the edge of the bed, as nothing but a shadow, when Nibsy breathed his last. But, just before, he heard him whisper, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”
Floorboards creaked above him and distant voices spoke. He began to turn toward the stairs when another old photograph caught his eye.
Winter, World War I. He couldn’t remember where. He and Nibsy stood, side by side, among a group of soldiers. Upon the glass of the frame, his fingers traced his friend’s young face, the face he knew so well. He glanced at his own image in the photo, identical to the one reflecting back at him from the frame’s glass surface.
“Peter?”
He whipped around with a gasp.
There she stood, at the top of the staircase, holding the banister for support and gaping at him with surprised joy, her eyes sparkling. White hair framed her wrinkled face, weathered from decades of a life well lived. As beautiful now as the day he met her.
The years dropped away, every muscle relaxing with an exhale. Peter grinned. “Hello, Wendy.”
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