Sleepwalker by Wendy Corsi Staub Read Free Book Online Page A

“historic architectural masterpiece” and a raised ranch with a moldy first floor a “trove of possibility.”
    This house—the Happy House, built in the 1920s, white with dark green shutters—certainly had curb appeal—and a million-dollar-plus price tag.
    Allison later pointed out that the same house in Nebraska would have cost five figures instead of seven.
    â€œBut you’re paying for location. This is Westchester County, New York. Do you want to live in Nebraska?”
    â€œYou know the answer to that.”
    Yes. He sure did. She didn’t even want to visit Nebraska.
    Meanwhile, it turned out they’d bought at the peak of the market, before the economic downturn that sent real estate prices plummeting. Plummeting, as in they could probably get nine hundred thousand for the house if they had to sell it now. Of course, they don’t—and they won’t.
    â€œI think this is my dream house,” Allison whispered to Mack that first day, as the Realtor led them along a brick walk past tall shrubs and stately old trees covered in English ivy that also climbed a white trellis and black wrought-iron lamppost.
    Inside, the rooms were inviting, flooded with light. A formal dining room lay to the left of the entry hall with its curved staircase, and a formal living room to the right; fireplaces in both. Off the living room, the charmed sunroom had built-in shelves and cupboards. Across the back of the house, a large kitchen opened to a great room overlooking a sunken brick patio.
    Upstairs, there were three family bedrooms, a small study, a hall bath, and the master suite, which took up half the second floor and stretched from the front of the house to the back.
    Aesthetics aside, it is truly a Happy House, and that’s what Mack and Allison have called it ever since. There’s just a nice vibe here. Good energy.
    â€œThat’s because the owners didn’t get divorced or die or go bankrupt like some of the other houses we looked at,” Allison said, before they made their offer.
    No, the sellers had raised three children here, now grown, and were retiring to play golf in Florida.
    Someday, that will be me and Allison , Mack thinks.
    Yes, when the kids are grown—and Allison has learned to golf—and his career is behind him, that’s exactly what they’ll do. Move away, head to someplace warm and sunny, where the living is easy and reminders of the past—not this past, but the one that came before—are easily forgotten.
    Mack can hear the Sesame Street theme song playing on TV in the living room. Maddy is singing along, “ Sunny day, sweepin’ the . . . clouds away . . .”
    Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly it.
    In the background, Allison clatters breakfast dishes in the kitchen. The baby is in there with her, banging something on his plastic high chair tray. From outside, he can hear a lawnmower, a barking dog, chirping birds.
    Mack glances at the roll of blue painter’s tape on the floor, then at the baseboards and crown moldings and three walls of this room that are virtually made of paned glass. Taping off the trim is going to take hours. But maybe he can at least paint part of the wall first, so that Hudson can see it and he can feel as though he’s accomplished something.
    â€œOkay,” he tells her, picking up a screwdriver to pry the lid off the nearest paint can, “just give me a little while to get started and you can come back in and see how it looks.”
    Hudson looks at her watch—a gift she requested for her last birthday and wears daily. “But I have to go right now.”
    â€œGo where?”
    â€œDaddy! Where do you think? School!”
    â€œWhat? Oh—right. Guess I lost track of time. You know, maybe I need to start wearing a watch around the house on my days off. That, or we need a couple more clocks around here. What do you think?”
    â€œI think you