The Ladies of the Secret Circus by Constance Sayers (the little red hen ebook TXT) 📕

with Victor Benson.” She motioned with her head in the direction of the neighbor’s house. “I hear he’s a little…” She took a fake drink with her hand.

“Oh,” said Marla. “Is that so?” She waved her fingers in an effort to herd Abigail along.

Like parents waiting for children to clear the room before arguing, Ben and Marla were quiet until Abigail was out of earshot.

“How could you?” snapped Marla, her voice still low. “You’re such a coward, Benjamin Archer. Sending a real estate agent… and not even our neighbor, for God’s sake.”

“I didn’t think she’d actually come down here,” said Ben. “I was away from my desk. I’m sorry, Marla. Victor Benson did say the value of the house has skyrocketed due to your green thumb.”

“Did he?” Marla put her hands in the pockets of her white jeans. “It was all for the homes tour.”

How could Ben have forgotten? There had been hundreds of people traipsing through this house for the Summer Festival that had ended nearly two weeks earlier. Thanks to Marla, their house—and now their garden—was always included on the tour. She was also the official photographer of the festival, although most of those bookings still weren’t paying. “Might be a good time to sell, then.”

“We’ve been over this before. I’m not selling.” She put her hands over her face in exasperation and walked down the hall. While he didn’t feel he should notice such things anymore, he did think she looked great, refreshed even. He sank a little when he realized that it was probably because she was rid of him. She had on jeans with a flowing pink top. As she shuffled to the kitchen, the sound of her bare feet whooshed against the floorboards, her long, chestnut-colored ponytail bobbing behind her. “You aren’t coming in if you’re just here to talk about selling. This house belongs to me.”

Technically the house belonged to them—both Ben and Marla—but he wasn’t going to push it. Before them, it had belonged to her mother and had been in her family for years. Marla had been working as a photographer in Los Angeles when her mother had gotten sick. She’d moved home to care for the woman until she’d died, then found herself living in a dilapidated eight-room house.

The repairs needed on the house were bad, so Ben had refinanced the house before they’d gotten married and had fixed it up with money he’d been saving for years. They’d only dated about four months before he’d asked her to marry him, but Ben could feel the time on her running out for a place like Kerrigan Falls, so he’d made grand gestures like proposing and taking on the financial responsibility for the house, just so she’d remain there. He recalled walking into the house for the first time and thinking it was like a collection of old-fashioned mourning rooms with the curtains drawn.

And now it was like something out of a Southern Living spread. On the light-lavender walls in the dining room were examples of her work, black-and-white photographs with intricate compositions and striking uses of light. They were thoughtfully grouped, with smaller photos on the outside and one large photograph of an old roller coaster as its centerpiece. She’d been known for taking photos of abandoned places—malls, theme parks, airports. The entire collection was framed with dramatic white mats and thin platinum frames. The white woodwork and matching fireplace mantel were lightly glossed. It was a tranquil room that she’d agonized over.

In the ten years they’d been married, the house had become one of the most well-known houses in the Falls. They’d become a bit of a power couple, yet Ben masked the fact that Marla’s business had never done particularly well, and the historical society salary was more honorary than lucrative. He felt guilty making her stay here when she could have gone back—should have gone back—to Los Angeles and taken pictures of movie stars for magazines, like she’d dreamed of doing, so he hadn’t pushed her to sell at first.

“Maybe you could turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I’ve had enough of people,” she snorted.

“How so?”

“I took a group of twelve-year-olds white-water rafting.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Someone had to.” She just shrugged and poured herself a cup of coffee and didn’t offer him one. Instead, she leaned against the counter holding the oversize mug with both hands. Ben wasn’t even through the front door and already they were rubbing each other raw, like a rug burn. This is what they did.

“Look, I appreciate what you did for me with this house.” She took a deep sip of coffee. “You know that.”

“You’re welcome. Now I’d like to be free of it.”

“It? Or me?”

There was no way that Ben was stepping into this. She was twisting the business into something personal between them. It wasn’t. “You were the one who left me.”

“I threw you out.” She shrugged in reluctant agreement, like it was no big deal.

“I went of my own accord, Marla,” said Ben.

“You blubbered.” She picked at something on her cup, avoiding his eyes.

“I was emotional, yes.” He felt like a door had opened, yet this whole conversation felt like a trap. “Look, don’t you want to start over?”

“With you?” She seemed horrified at the question.

“No,” he said, a little too quickly.

She placed the mug on the counter and folded her arms in front of her. It was a power stance. “I do want to start over in this house. Tell me. Would you really take it from me?”

“Oh Jesus, Marla.” He perched on a counter stool and noticed that her eyebrow was raised a little, like he shouldn’t be making himself at home in a house he was still paying for.

“Well? Would you?”

“No, but I’d love for you to buy me out, just like our divorce agreement said you’d do.”

“I can’t do that yet. Business isn’t that good right now. I just need a little more time.”

“You keep saying that. How much more time?”

She looked like she’d