Finally, Hunter was alone. The movers had headed back to Chicago, and in some ways he was sorry to see them go. He looked around the big empty house, all of its unpacked boxes and just-set-down furniture, and knew a lot of work still lay ahead. But already he missed the sounds of the moving men’s voices, their banter and laughter.
Beaumont House was beyond quiet; it was still. It wasn’t just the well-insulated interior of the house but the fact that it, and by extension, Hunter, was so removed from civilization. Although he had gotten used to them, there were always the sounds of traffic on Sheridan Road and waves on the shore of Lake Michigan in the background of the Evanston house. Here there was nothing.
It had been cold when they arrived, but it appeared the workmen he had hired to i
