Cotuit Circle

“Let’s keep pretending…”

I whispered those three words with a slight slur, the buzz of two champagne cocktails still churning through my veins. The air was thick with that sleepy summertime vibe, bugs buzzing and crickets chirping their seasonal symphony. I tucked a copper-colored curl behind my ear and squeezed Nic’s hand tighter as we strolled through the canopied streets, the golden sunlight still warm on our shoulders. At dinner, we had joked about being rich retirees just stopping for a quick bite before returning to our yacht for a summer soiree.

“Sweetheart, you can be whoever you want to be,” Nic grinned, slowing down his lanky stride to steady my swaying steps. “In fact, I have a surprise for you. Follow me.” We interlaced our fingers and ascended the hill towards Cotuit Circle.

Backed by a ridge of evergreen, the house stood out amongst the newly renovated mansions, its creamy white woodwork and deep sage trim a charming reflection of timeless architecture. Despite being worn and weathered, the house seemed to boast of its own importance, like a royal battleship returning from war. The setting sunlight sparkled off the towering, tapered windows that flanked each side of the entryway. Fragrant honeysuckle climbed the porch railings in intricate swirls, weaving in, out, and around each delicately carved post. I ran my fingers along the smooth address welded into the bars of the gate… 3… 5… 4.

“Cotuit Circle… kaaah-too-et. I love saying those words,” I murmured to myself.

Click! Nic opened the gate with a grand flourish. “Today, on lifestyles of the rich and famous, we are touring Gemma Grant’s opulent Cotuit Circle home. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams and all that jazz.”

“Nicholas! Whose house is this?”

“I fixed a broken pipe here last week. The old lady is gone for the summer. Stop stressing. It’s fine.”

I hesitated. Nic tilted his head in a knowing glance that wordlessly implied, “Trust me.”

 I exhaled deeply to calm my nerves and stretched my arms overhead.

“Shit! Ow!” I moaned as my thumb caught on a thorn from the crimson rose-lined trellis. A tiny trickle of red snaked down my wrist. I pressed my thumb to my lips and rolled my eyes. “I’m fine,” I murmured.

Nic kissed my hand and guided me through the gate to the front door. He entered the same code into the panel above the door handle and it creaked open.

The essence of the interior washed over me—a stale bouquet of black tea, sugared orange cookies, dried lavender, and my grandmother’s Mille Fleurs perfume. My throat burned. I steadied myself against the velvet damask-covered wall and struggled to appear composed.

“Do you smell that?” I whispered.

“Old lady perfume and dust? Yeah, a little. We can leave if you’re nervous, but I swear no one is here.”

I shook my head and hurriedly wiped my watery eyes. “No, show me around,” I managed to utter. 

The house oozed opulence. Thick ruby-red rugs with dizzying geometric patterns covered the chestnut wood floors. Centered in the middle of the entryway was a grand staircase that spiraled up to the second-story landing. Ornate sconces and buttery yellow candles marked the walls. I ran my hand along the carved banister and watched the closing streaks of golden sunlight glitter down through the narrow windows. The central parlor overflowed with collectibles—built-in bookcases full of gold leaf books, decorative lamps, and miniature figurines. Shadows danced along the walls in a forlorn choreography. But despite the soaring high ceilings, the interior appeared to be suffocating itself.

There was no room to breathe.

“Gem, look—your favorite!” Nic appeared completely unaware of the existential crisis brewing inside me as he placed the needle on a vintage Victrola and sauntered toward me. Billie Holiday’s voice filled the room…

I’ll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

I wrapped my arms around Nic’s neck, laid my head on his chest, and tried to ignore my rising apprehension. Tick, tick, tick. . . the second hand on the grandfather clock marked the rhythm of our movement.

“I am so pleased you’ve arrived!” a voice rang out as the record player screeched to a stop.

I froze. The known voice resonated deep within me.

A gaunt, withered hand delicately placed the record needle to the side. The woman’s frail body was stooped over like a wilting blossom. Spotted skin stretched tightly over her bones like sheer sheets of tissue paper.

“Mrs. Danforth, I am so sorry! My wife has always wanted to tour one of the Cotuit Circle homes, and I knew she’d especially love to see yours. We didn’t mean to intrude. We’re going,” Nic spoke hurriedly with his head bowed down.

“Nonsense, Nicholas! What a jest! You certainly know I was expecting you both. I’ll make us some tea.” Her voice clanged out like crystal, delicate and precise—inconsistent with her shriveled appearance. I watched her curved form stagger toward the kitchen door and felt like I was grasping at the last shreds of a dream that would soon be forgotten. I didn’t know her.

Or did I?

I began to mouth, “What… the…” to Nic as he grabbed my hand and led me toward the door.

The hearty voice resonated from deep within the kitchen: “Nicholas, can you see to the water faucet in the powder room again? It’s no longer leaking, but I cannot seem to get the water hot!”

Nic shrugged and dropped my hand. “She’s old and confused. Have a cup of tea, and we’ll go. It’ll only take me a few minutes to fix the water.”

“Do NOT leave me alone with her,” I shut my eyes and begged.

When I opened them, he was already gone.

The tea kettle released a shrill squeal and seconds later she shuffled out, a stack of cookies and two porcelain cups of tea sloshing over on a delicate tray.

“Take a seat, love,” she said sweetly as she set the tray on the table and shakily handed me a cup. I positioned myself on the edge of the velvet amethyst couch and ran my finger along the sage ivy swirls of the teacup. I watched the steam rise, desperate to avoid eye contact.

“Oh dear! Looks like the roses snagged you too,” she observed as she held her hand next to mine. Along her thumb was a shiny white scar, identical to the thin red cut on mine. I winced.

“Please have a cookie. They are delightful with this tea.”

I picked up the iced orange cookie and inhaled deeply. “I love orange cookies.”

“I know. It’s your favorite recipe,” she replied.

A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. This old lady was definitely unhinged.

“Thank you for your kindness, but we should be leaving. It’s getting late.” I glanced at the clock once more. The second hand appeared frozen in time.

“Oh, shush. The night is young. I even pulled some books off the shelf this morning to show you.”

I wondered if she would find it rude if I pulled out my phone and texted Nic to hurry the hell up.

She slid a stack of leather-bound books across the table and slinked so close to me that our knees touched. The proximity of her presence made me uneasy. I set the teacup and cookie back on the tray, picked up the top book, and crossed my legs away from her.

“So, Mrs. Danforth, what do you read?”

“Words, words, words,” she smirked.

I raised my eyebrows to acknowledge her reference. My mind flooded with long-forgotten quotes… “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so…”

I opened the book.

“Oh, this is a photo album! Is this you and your family?” My shoulders relaxed as I slowly turned the pages. The photos all had the same muted rust color that designated the passage of time. The images captured a variety of milestones—lake vacations, ski trips, vintage cars, graduations, and birthday parties. Smiling, happy people.

“Yes, dear. Long before I lived here on Cotuit Circle… kaaah-too-et. I love saying those words,” she mused.

Her unnerving remark made me shiver. I set the album on the table and stood to find Nic.

But something caught my eye. The album opened to an entire page of a little girl in lavender-striped pajamas. Copper-colored curls. I leaned down and flipped the pages faster and faster. The little girl appeared everywhere ... her first day of school, the day she got her ears pierced, the time she fell out of a tree and fractured her wrist … 

The little girl was me.

The saccharine voice soured into a hoarse whisper.

“Let’s keep pretending…"