Chapter 16 - The Clearing of the Table
Two weeks later, the snow returned, but this time it was a gentle, quiet dusting that made Denton look like an old postcard.
The colonial house on Hunter’s Ridge was empty.
Miller’s Estate Liquidators had done their work with clinical precision. Every trace of Derek Holloway’s existence—the Italian leather furniture, the abstract art, the monogrammed linens, the sixty-bottle wine cellar—had been cataloged, loaded into box trucks, and sold at a private auction in Columbus.
The proceeds, totaling eighty-four thousand dollars, had been wired directly into the *Sarah Miller Vocational Tool Grant* account at Denton Community Bank.
Melissa stood in the empty dining room, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the bare windows, casting long, clean rectangles of gold across the honey-colored oak floor.
I walked in through the front door, my cane tapping softly on the hardwood. I was walking with barely a limp now. The doctor at the clinic had told me yesterday that my pelvis was strong, the deep tissue had healed, and with a little physical therapy, I’d be tossing truck tires again by spring.
"Hey, sweet girl," I called out.
Melissa turned, a paintbrush in her hand. She was wearing an old pair of my denim overalls, rolled up at the cuffs, her hair tucked under a grey bandana.
The walls of the dining room were no longer the cold, corporate slate-grey Derek had insisted on. Melissa was painting them a warm, soft buttercream yellow—the exact color of Sarah’s kitchen back home.
"Hey, Dad," she smiled, wiping a speck of yellow paint from her cheek. "What do you think?"
I looked around the bright, sun-drenched room. "I think your mother would say it needs another coat near the crown molding, but she’d love the light."
Melissa laughed—a clear, musical sound that filled the empty house with genuine life.
"The real estate agent called this morning," Melissa said, setting the roller into the paint tray. "We have three offers already. A young couple from Mount Vernon—she’s a pediatric nurse and he’s a high school history teacher. They offered full asking price."
"That’s a good family for this house," I said, walking to the center of the room.
I looked down at the floor beneath my boots.
Right there, near the kitchen doorway, was the exact spot where the chair had landed. The small, crescent-shaped gouge in the polyurethane where the oak leg had scraped violently across the grain had been sanded down, filled with wood putty, and restained.
You couldn't even tell where the break had been.
"Joanna and the kids are coming over at five," Melissa said, stepping beside me and linking her arm through mine. "We’re going to order pizza from Lucca’s and eat it right here on the floor with paper plates."
"A floor picnic?" I smiled.
May you like
"A floor picnic," she confirmed, resting her head against my shoulder. "Where nobody gets kicked down, and everyone has a seat."
***