by Flynn, Avery
I have never built anything in my life—besides Karl’s law practice, though that’s a different story. But if it means saving a few hundred dollars and also keeping the uptight jerk from across the street off my ass, then I’m all in. If there’s an app to remind people to breathe, surely there’s an app to teach them how to build stuff—hopefully a free one.
“Is that it?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time.
“For the outside, yeah.” He nods. “Except for the shutters, obviously.”
“What’s wrong with the shutters?” My stomach pitches as visions of voracious termites dance before my eyes.
He holds up a don’t-shoot-the-messenger hand that does nothing to comfort me, even as he says, “Nothing, technically. Your aunt must have had them redone pretty recently because the paint is in good shape and so is the wood.”
“Then why would I want to do something to them?” I swear, if he’s just trying to jack up the price on me, I’m going to… I don’t know what. Something terrible that involves putting a curse on his silky, flowing locks, that’s for sure. Or, you know, about three feet south of them. “I’ve got more than enough to do already.”
“Yeah, you do,” he agrees, a little too fervently for my comfort. “But I’ve done a lot of work on houses in this area, and I’m pretty sure…”
He drifts off like he expects me to fill in the blanks for him, but honestly, I have nothing. If he wants me to repaint perfectly good shutters, he better give me one hell of a good reason why.
I guess Mikey figures out that I’m not getting it, because he smiles sympathetically before saying, “The color, Mallory. You have to repaint because of the color.”
“What’s wrong with blue?” Frustration and fear make my question louder than I meant it to be. “It’s one of the most popular colors in the world—”
“Nothing’s wrong with blue,” he interrupts. “As long as it’s navy blue or grayish blue. What you have is—”
“Periwinkle.” I narrow my eyes and clench my teeth. Of course I know I’m fudging a bit with the color, but I just need a little break right now. A tiny one. Minuscule, really.
But Mikey has obviously missed the memo, considering his eyes are brimming with amusement. “If by periwinkle you mean violet, then yes, periwinkle. Which is—”
“Against HOA regulations in this area. Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though. I swear there is a part of me that wants nothing more than to set up a bonfire on the front driveway and burn every copy of the HOA regulations I can get my hands on. Most of the copies likely being digital doesn’t change my fantasy in the slightest. Nor does the fact that bonfires are most probably against HOA regulations, too. Honestly, an illicit bonfire seems like exactly what this uptight neighborhood needs.
God, I miss New York. And sweet baby Jesus, do I hate the fucking suburbs.
“Which brings me to the next point. I’m not sure you’re familiar with the rules but…” He hesitates before squaring his shoulders like he’s going into battle. “You’ll have to go through the HOA board approval process for the paint colors you choose before we can actually begin the painting. Could take up to a month to get approval, I’d imagine. So best to start that sooner rather than later.”
“Seriously?” I demand when I can finally see past the murderous red haze currently blanketing my vision.
And I have to admit, points to Mikey for not even wincing when it came out sounding more like a shriek than a word. Probably because he knows I’m not mad at him—he seems like a really lovely guy—but this entire situation is enough to make a good woman go bad in the anti–Hallmark movie kind of way.
“Does no one in this godforsaken suburb have anything better to do than get up in everyone else’s business? I mean, really? Is there no PTA for these people to terrorize?”
Mikey chuckles, an adorable dimple appearing in his left cheek. “Personally, I like the violet shutters. And after seeing the rest of the house, I’d say the neighbors should count themselves lucky they aren’t hot-pink zebra stripes.”
I bust out laughing, exactly as he no doubt intended.
“Part of me wishes they were.” Visions of my grumpy neighbor’s face bright red with the vapors when he spots my zebra-striped shutters make me giggle.
“Me too. I mean, if you’re going to rack up the violations, you might as well do it for a good cause, right?” He grins engagingly.
“Damn straight.” I think about the kitchen drawer full of violation letters I discovered last night, and the amusement slides away as quickly as it came. “So do you have an estimate on how much all this will cost? And a timeline for getting at least the outside done?”
Some of those violation letters are third or fourth notices. I haven’t taken the time to read most of them yet, but I’m nearly certain that means I’m on an even more truncated timetable here than the six months the probate lawyer talked about.
“First, let me say I’ll take ten percent off the top, since you’re a friend of Angie’s.”
I almost tell him that I’m not exactly a friend of Angie’s—or anyone’s for that matter—but the truth is my sad, gasping bank account and I both need every bit of a discount we can get.
“Thank you,” I tell him, even though it rankles that I need favors when Karl and his girl toy are living it up in Manhattan in my condo, at least according to his Instagram account—otherwise known as Karl’s Midlife Crisis—in full color. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course. Anything I can do to help, I’m here for. Angie’s my favorite sister-in-law, after all.”
“Favorite?” We start walking toward the garage door. “How many do you have?”
“Just one. But she’s still my favorite.” It’s a corny line—completely ridiculous and also completely endearing. Just like the rest of him.
Okay, maybe I can pretend I never heard that awful voicemail greeting. Not that I’m thinking about how h-o-t the contractor is, but snap judgments aren’t exactly the best, either.
“I’ve got a crew finishing up a job a couple of streets over. They should be done next week. I was going to give the guys some days off, but I can get them over here instead. We can knock almost everything out in a few weeks—the porch will take the longest but still only a couple of weeks.” He gives me another encouraging smile. “As far as the cost, I’ll send you a detailed bid later, so you can decide what you want to work on and when. But I’d give a rough estimate of $25,000 in repairs.”
As the blood drains from my cheeks, he steers me out of the kitchen and to a nearby couch, and we both sink down onto the floral fabric.
“Now, before you panic, I think the damage caused by the fallen tree might be covered by your homeowner’s policy, and that’s half the expense. If you can provide me with your aunt’s insurance carrier, I can make a preauthorization request, see what we can get covered. It’s a long shot but worth a try.”
“That would be amazing,” I say, already doing mental math, trying to figure out just how far I can stretch my meager savings. The exterior is going to cost a pretty penny, but if homeowner’s insurance covers half, maybe it’s doable? Not really. And that leaves almost nothing for the interior. “What about the rest of the house?”
“The rest of the house?” He shakes his head. “To be honest, from what I can tell, most of the interior is in pretty good shape. But I won’t be able to give you a real, comprehensive answer until you start clearing away the junk. There’s so much upstairs that some of the rooms are practically impossible to get into.”
He isn’t trying to be rude or confrontational, but his words still sting. Mostly because I know he’s right but also because I had no idea Aunt Maggie had gotten this bad. Sure, everyone in the family knew she was eccentric, but this level of hoarding is a mental-health issue. Guilt works like battery acid on my insides. Of all the people in our tiny fam
ily, I should have realized something was going on.
I always thought it was charming the way she gathered up the unopened fortune cookie papers “for souvenirs” after our monthly lunch or how she always asked for the cork from our bottle of wine after girls’ night. I didn’t know it was just more stuff she felt compelled to save.
How could I not have known? More, how could I not have asked? Or visited? She always said she wanted to meet in the city because it was exciting, and I agreed with her. The last thing I wanted to do was come back to the burbs or, more honestly, back to my parents’ criticism.
All of which adds up to it being twenty years since I was here last. Two decades when my favorite person in the whole world kept hoarding and hoarding and hoarding. She never made it to reality-TV bad—the downstairs is mostly clean except for the closets, drawers, and cabinets—but, like Mikey said, the upstairs bedrooms are piled with junk, junk, and more junk.
Knowing this was happening only an hour train ride from my place in the city makes me a shitty niece. More, it makes me a shitty person who took the path of least resistance because it was easier, made fewer waves, and deep down the idea of even a little confrontation makes my bones turn to liquid.
“If you want me to be able to give you a solid estimate on what needs to be done inside, I’d suggest getting a dumpster. You can have one delivered to your driveway, and you can add to it as you sort through each room. When you’re done, I’m happy to come back and take a look.”
“How much does a dumpster cost?” I ask, because even though I hate the idea of throwing away stuff that meant something to Aunt Maggie, I know I can’t live here like this.
“I’ll add it to my estimate. In the meantime, look into getting someone in here to deal with the tree and we’ll be in business to start as soon as you’re ready for us.”
“Sounds good.” I force a smile I’m far from feeling. This place is turning into as big a mess as my former life, and that sucks, especially considering how much it felt like a potential lifeline when Aunt Maggie’s will was read.
“Oh,” Mikey says as he turns to go. “One more thing. Stay off that porch until we can fix it. And post a few signs to warn everyone else to stay off it, too. No telling when it’s going to collapse completely, but if I were you, I wouldn’t tempt fate.”
Why do his parting words sound more like an omen than a suggestion?
Chapter Ten
I’m just about to start cooking myself dinner—a chicken breast with a side of roasted asparagus—when the full bid comes through from Mikey. Steeling myself with a large sip of wine from one of the bottles from the awesome collection I just found in Aunt Maggie’s basement, I’m not even a little embarrassed to admit discovering my aunt hoarded wine was the highlight of my year.
I open the email attachment and then squeeze my eyes shut before I can actually see any of the numbers.
And yes, I know this isn’t going to get me anywhere when I’m the only one around to look at them, but still…I’m scared. Since I walked in on Karl going down on his girlfriend, life has been coming at me extra fast.
No time to catch my breath.
No time to talk myself into whatever has to come next.
No time to hide, even for a second.
Just all crappy reality, all the time.
It’s fucking exhausting.
I take another big drink for courage—just because I have to deal with this mess doesn’t mean I have to do it sober—then peek one eye open. And nearly have a heart attack. There are more than a few numbers on that spreadsheet. A lot more. And none of them are good.
True to Mikey’s original best-guess estimate, the final bid came in at just over $26,500. He was kind enough to deduct that 10 percent friends-and-family discount, but still… It’s almost double what I have left in the bank. If insurance doesn’t come through like he thought, I’m screwed.
I shoot back the rest of the wine in my glass—I’m waaaaaay past thinking this bottle isn’t going to go fast—and force myself to look at the bid again to find something, anything I can actually afford to do without careful planning.
And the answer is simple. The dumpster. I can afford the $500 a week for the dumpster, even though my HOA doesn’t actually give a shit about what the inside of my house looks like. Just the outside with its $12,000 front porch estimate and all the rest.
Fuck it.
I drop my phone on the counter and reach for the bottle of wine. This time I fill my glass all the way up to the tippy top and drink it down in three large gulps. Then I fill the glass up again before wandering into my aunt’s family room and up to the old stereo she had, complete with turntable and CD player, under the TV.
When I was a kid, Aunt Maggie used to turn on her favorite Beatles albums and we’d dance and dance and dance around the room before having an elaborate tea party, complete with scones, finger sandwiches, and gorgeously decorated petits fours from the bakery down the street.
When Karl and I got married, I used to dream about having a child—or children—to throw tea parties for.
A daughter to dress up in sparkly dresses and whirl around the room to a special playlist I’d made just for us. A son I could use cookies and cakes and his favorite songs to bribe into dancing with me. Having kids isn’t for everyone, and that’s totally cool. But I have always wanted to be the mom version of my aunt Maggie—fun, supportive, encouraging, and basically everything I rarely found under my own roof growing up.
But Karl wanted to wait, wanted a little more time before we started a family. And now, here I am—broke, almost divorced, jobless, and childless.
Definitely not how I planned to spend my thirty-fifth year on this planet.
Then again, nothing that has happened in the past several months was how I expected my life to turn out. I used to have big plans—law school, partnership in a major firm by the time I was thirty, a solid marriage, kids to spoil with trips to the theater and the beach and maybe even Europe. I refused to settle for less.
I take another long sip of wine, even though I definitely feel the last cup kicking in. Then I open the sliding door that leads out to the patio to let in some fresh air before I drop down on the floor in front of my aunt’s incredible and extensive vinyl collection and start searching through it for our favorite album. Part of me expects it to be right in front like it always was, but it isn’t.
It’s buried deep, about a hundred albums back, behind Cat Stevens, Harry Chapin, and, randomly, a Queen album. I almost put on that iconic album but instead pull out Abbey Road—the best Beatles album ever, no matter what the internet says—with reverent hands and slide it onto the turntable. But before the needle gets to “Come Together,” my phone rings in the kitchen.
I’m halfway to ignoring it—I’m not expecting a call from anyone right then anyway—but the ringing continues, so I grab my wine and jog into the kitchen. My mom mentioned she wasn’t feeling very well when we talked yesterday. Maybe she’s feeling worse.
But it isn’t my mom. The Caller ID shows the last man in the world I would ever want to talk to again, but years of ingrained habit has me answering.
“Hi, Karl.” I hate the way my palms get damp as I wait for him to answer, the way my stomach clenches in dread. He’s just a man. Just a total asshole of a man who I used to love.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters.
“I could hang up if you prefer and you could call back,” I say, barely recognizing my own moxie. “I’ll try to answer more quickly.” Or not at all, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Why exactly would I do that?” he demands.
“I just thought—”
“Never mind.” He talks right over me. “I only have a few minutes, but I was calling to tell you that I’m having the divorce waiting period waiver couriered over. The courier has instructions to stay. Sign the papers immediately and
send them right back. I’ll file them and all this unpleasantness can be behind us once and for all.”
Unpleasantness? That’s what he calls our ten-year marriage? Unpleasantness? Even though I did everything in my power to make him happy while, it turned out, he was running around with whatever woman would have him?
The anger from earlier drowns under a wave of regret. Not because our marriage is over—good riddance to bad trash and all that—but because I wasted so much of my time, of myself, on a man who so obviously never gave a shit about me.
It makes me feel naive. More, it makes me feel tired. And small. And sad.
I worked so hard to make him happy, worked so hard to make it work, and now it’s just…over. A phone call, a swipe of a pen, done. And all I can think about is that if I’d worked so hard at my marriage only to have it fail so completely, what makes me think I have any chance at all of keeping Aunt Maggie’s house?
I slide down the kitchen wall while Karl’s voice pours into my right ear, then land with a hard thud on the linoleum floor, all the fight extinguished that damn fast. All I can hear—all I can think about—is him saying that I need him. And maybe, just maybe, he’s right.
I have a list of repairs I can’t afford. A shitload of junk that needs to be sorted through and thrown away. Property and inheritance taxes that I don’t have the money for. And reality starts to really seep in—like it always does when I’m around Karl.
It absolutely sucks, but my father was right. I need to move back in with my parents, sell the house, and use the money from the sale to pay the inheritance taxes and get back on my feet.
Is it what I want to do? Not in the slightest.
Is it what I have to do? Yeah, it is.
It’s the only logical solution. And I’m nothing if not logical—isn’t that what Karl always said about me? Boring, logical Mallory who doesn’t have an exciting bone in her body? It’s exciting to think about keeping this place, about building a life worthy of the great-aunt who used to pick me up at school on a random day once a year and take me to Bloomingdale’s to pick out an un-birthday present.