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Another memory surfaces. One of me and this same boy again, sneaking treats from the kitchen. He is a little clearer now in my mind, with a mess of curly blond hair and a big dimpled smile.

I stroll up the hall, taking in the countless photos that pepper the wall on my right. They’re mostly shots of what I assume are guests of the hotel standing in front of the estate over the years, but there are a few of the grounds themselves, too, of the small vineyard alive with grapevines, and the large oak with unbroken tire swing sitting proudly in manicured lawns.

“Mom?” I pause at a portrait of a group of children sitting on the front steps of the estate. It is definitely my mother. She’s got to be barely six in the photo, though, and I’m guessing one of the boys seated around her is Jack. I pull out my phone and snap a pic, sending it off to Mom.

NATE:

You’ve barely aged a day. Xoxo.

MOM:

You’re sweet but a terrible liar. How was the drive?

NATE:

Not too bad.

MOM:

If you decide to keep the place, maybe I’ll visit in the spring.

NATE:

I’m here to find this Remigius person and convince them to sell, nothing more. I have no clue how to run a hotel.

MOM:

You had no clue how to play baseball either until you gave it a go and look how that turned out.

Yeah. Exactly, I feel like messaging back. Look how fucking messed up that turned out. All that work and all that effort and time spent on becoming the best baseball player I could be, and for what? To just have it ripped away from me when it was just getting good. I don’t send that back, though. My shoulder throbs, and I massage the muscle, hoping it will ebb the ache that seems to always be there. It doesn’t.

NATE:

Love you. See you at home in a few days.

MOM:

Love you more!

I follow the hallway, listening to the floor beneath me creak with every step until I turn the corner and freeze when I lay eyes on the back of the main door. The light from outside is cascading through the stained glass window and throwing a rainbow of colors through the space.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a woman’s voice asks, startling me, and I turn toward her. She’s an older woman, maybe sixties, with graying curly hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She’s not wearing any makeup, but she has this classically beautiful look to her like they had in old movies. She looks familiar, but I just can’t be sure after all these years away.

“Umm, sure, yeah, it is. I saw it from the outside, but it didn’t even occur to me it would look like this on the inside.”

“There is much about this place that will surprise you, Mr. Buxton.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yes, we have been expecting you.”

Of course. I emailed a few days ago, letting them know I was coming.

“Right. I booked a room.”

“Yes, but we’ve also met before. You were probably too young to remember. My name is Seline, and I worked with your uncle for many years. So sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” I say, though it doesn’t sit well. I hardly knew my uncle. I should probably give my condolences to her; she probably feels the loss more than I do. I try to remember her from when I would visit here as a child, and a fuzzy memory resurfaces of me and that same fucking boy running around her as she hangs large white sheets on the line out back. Then she’s not hanging them anymore, she’s chasing us playfully through them like they’re a maze. What is his name and why are all my memories of this place involving him?