Chapter 4 - The Attic of Forgotten Things
The morning arrived with a thin, watery light that failed to cut through the gray mist hanging over the Newport cliffs. At 07:30, the automated blinds in the master suite drew back with a faint, mechanical hiss, revealing the cold expanse of the Atlantic outside. Preston stood by the window, a cup of black coffee untouched in his hand, his eyes tracking the white lines of the tide against the black rocks below.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Abigail’s voice: You are treating them like corporate assets.
He walked down the western corridor toward the service stairs that led to the third-floor attic—a space he had not visited since the construction company had finished moving the crates from Boston twenty-four months ago. The air in the stairwell was cooler, lacking the perfect humidity control of the lower residential floors.
When he reached the top landing, he found the heavy oak door already open.
The attic was vast, lined with exposed cedar beams and lit by a series of small, arched windows that looked out over the rooflines. Dozens of wooden storage crates, labeled with the stamp of Hale Holdings Logistics, were arranged in neat rows like tombs in a clean cemetery.
In the center of the room, sitting on a low packing crate, was Ben.
Beside him stood Abigail, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her hands covered in a thin layer of grey dust. Between them lay a large, flat cedar chest that Preston recognized instantly. It was the chest Eleanor had kept in her studio in their old home—the one that contained her original film negatives and her personal prints before they were digitized for commercial galleries.
"Not that one," Ben was saying, his small voice sounding clear and hollow under the rafters. "She didn't like that one. She said the lighting was too harsh on the rocks."
"Which one do you prefer?" Abigail asked, her voice patient, holding up a large black-and-white print of a lone lighthouse surrounded by a storm-tossed sea.
"The one with the dog," Ben said, his finger pointing to the bottom of the chest. "The one we took in Maine when I was six. Before Jamie got the scar on his knee."
The Excavation of MemoryPreston stepped into the room, the floorboards groaning slightly beneath his weight. Ben instantly stiffened, his hand dropping to his side, his posture reverting to that guarded, defensive stance he used when his father entered a space.
Abigail looked up, her expression calm and unbrained. "Good morning, Mr. Hale. We are selecting the three images according to our agreement."
Preston walked over to the chest. He looked down into the interior, where hundreds of photographs lay arranged in chronological order. The scent of old silver halide and dried paper rose from the box—a smell that was so explicitly Eleanor that he felt a sudden, physical tightness in his throat.
He reached down and pulled out the image Ben had mentioned.
It was a candid shot, slightly out of focus at the edges. Eleanor was sitting on a gray driftwood log on a beach in Maine, her long hair blowing across her face, her eyes crinkled with laughter as a young Ben and Jamie, covered in sand and wet wool, tried to pull a golden retriever into the surf with them. She looked alive. She looked hot, messy, and intensely present—the absolute opposite of the clean, silent perfection of Seacliff House.
"We can't put this downstairs," Preston said, his voice flat.
"Why not?" Ben asked, his voice rising, his eyes narrowing as he stared at his father. "It’s my favorite. She made us hot chocolate after that. With the big marshmallows."
"The frame is non-standard, Ben," Preston said, his mind reaching for any logical, structural reason to reject the image. "It won't match the gallery lighting in the main hall."
"We aren't lighting a gallery, Mr. Hale," Abigail said softly, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the cedar chest. "We are lighting a home. The non-standard frames are exactly what the lower floor needs. It reminds everyone that lives here that people are irregular."
Preston looked from the photograph to his son. Ben’s lower lip was tucked under his top teeth—a sign that he was preparing for a full-scale battle.
"Find a silver frame in the storage closet on the second floor," Preston said to his son, his voice tight. "If it's silver, it can go in the library."
Ben’s eyes widened slightly. He looked at Abigail, who gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. He grabbed the photograph from his father’s hand with a quick, jerky motion and ran down the service stairs, his sneakers thudding against the wood.
Preston remained in the attic with Abigail. The silence between them grew heavy, filled with the scent of cedar and dust.
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"You're pushing very hard, Ms. Rowan," Preston said, his voice dropping into a cold register.
"A child’s mind is like bone, Mr. Hale," she replied, closing the lid of the cedar chest with a quiet thud. "If it breaks and sets incorrectly, it stays crooked for the rest of their lives. You have been letting their ribs set crooked for two years. It's going to hurt when we straighten them."
