by Laura Wolfe
“Ha. Right. I’ll see you Wednesday night, then.” More papers shuffling. “Hey. Sorry, but I’ve got to get ready for this meeting. Can we talk later?”
“Sure.” I could tell he was distracted. “Good luck.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
My phone dropped to the bed and I pulled the covers over me, exhausted. I flipped over on my side, unable to find a comfortable position. A nagging sensation tugged at my gut, but I couldn’t pinpoint its source. Exhausted, I lay in bed with my muscles rigid and my eyes wide open. I didn’t sleep at all.
Nine
Gloria
Now
A silver SUV with a crooked front bumper rumbled around the bend in my driveway. As the vehicle bounced closer, patches of rust around the wheel wells formed like black eyes. A cloud of dried dirt billowed out behind it. My heart thumped at the sight of the jalopy, which I could now see was a battered Ford Explorer. I cursed myself for being so naive. Why had I agreed to meet a strange man all alone? What if he wasn’t really an artist? What if he was a murderer?
I glanced through the screen of trees toward the tiny house, but Beth’s truck was gone. She hadn’t returned from town yet. My fingers clenched, and I checked the time on my watch—3:05 p.m.
The Explorer lurched to a halt in front of me. I squinted my eyes, shielding them from the dust while trying to remember where I’d last seen my kitchen shears. Had it been in the dishwasher or the cutlery drawer? If necessary, I could make a beeline back into the kitchen and grab the weapon to defend myself.
The driver’s door creaked open as an unshaven bear of a man emerged. His sandy-brown hair was flecked with gray and needed a good cut, not to mention a wash. The whole mop was pulled off his weathered face into a greasy ponytail. A shiny thread of a scar slashed through his left eyebrow. His age was a mystery. He could have been a thirty-year-old who’d had a hard life or a fifty-year-old who’d been blessed with a full head of hair. I was stumped.
“Hi. I’m Joe.” He took two uneven steps toward me and held out his hand. I shook it.
“Gloria.” I forced a smile, reminding myself to give him a chance. Recent events had made me paranoid.
“Beautiful land you have.” He tipped his chin toward the pine trees in the distance. “I used to spend my summers up here, as a kid. Over on Walloon Lake. My aunt and uncle had a place.”
“Oh, yes. Walloon.”
The lake was situated a few miles from me. I nodded as if I’d been there, but my only knowledge of it came from the real estate fliers I sometimes picked up in town. I didn’t recall ever seeing a house bordering the lake priced under $3 million, and I wondered how this man had gone from summering on Walloon to renting a garage apartment from a lonely widow.
“Can’t afford to stay on Walloon now. Not with my artist’s salary,” he said, reading my mind.
“What kind of artwork do you do?” I asked.
“Oil paintings. Landscapes, mostly.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a card. “This is my website.”
I took the card and studied a thumbprint-sized image of a fiery sunset over a tree-lined lake. Although the painting was shrunken to the size of a quarter, the contrast of colors was breathtaking. Below the miniature painting was his name and an online address for an artist’s studio. The card matched his story.
Rolling my shoulders back, I realized I’d gotten myself all worked up for nothing. I’d misjudged him. Yes, he was a little rough around the edges, but most starving artists were. The man had an easy way about him, and his half-moon shaped eyes were soft and kind.
“The apartment is this way, above the garage.” I waved toward the exterior staircase that led to the second-story front door. Taking the steps slowly, I grasped the railing as I made my way to the open balcony. Joe followed a few paces behind.
“I bet you never get sick of this.” Joe stood next to me, looking out at the rolling meadow bordered by trees. He turned to the north, facing Beth’s trailer for the first time. “What’s that?”
From up on the balcony, we had a clear look beyond the line of scattered trees; a bird’s-eye view of the tiny house.
“That’s a tiny house,” I said, pushing my chest forward because I’d remembered not to call it a trailer. “I’m renting that field to a lovely young woman for the summer. She’s a travel writer.”
“Cool.” Joe surveyed the landing. “This porch would be great for painting. Especially with that landscape.” He pointed to the forest beyond my struggling vegetable garden and past the sprawling branches of the oak tree sheltering Charlie’s ashes. The grassy color of the new leaves on the deciduous trees popped against the darker green needles of the pines. Songbirds chirped and flitted about. The dense vegetation was an endless yet comforting boundary, surrounding me like a hug. Tree branches swayed, their leaves rustling in the wind like hands waving at me.
I wondered if Joe was talented enough to capture the majesty of my land in a painting. Now, that would be something. I tried to imagine how the final image would appear, and where I would hang it. This unshaven artist was growing on me by the second. Hopefully, he’d approve of the apartment.
“Let me show you inside.” Having left the front door unlocked on purpose this time, I opened it with an easy twist of the knob. I’d been there earlier to tidy up, turn on some lights, and spray air freshener. As we stepped inside, the aroma of vanilla and lavender wafted in the air. I swung my arm toward the couch, coffee table, and TV area. “Here’s the living room. It comes furnished. I wrote that in the ad.”
Despite finding the door wide open a couple of weeks ago, none of the contents had been taken or even moved, confirming my suspicion that a faulty lock was to blame, not a mysterious criminal. I’d examined every inch of the space, searching for clues like sticky fingerprints or missing furniture. Other than a loose window, I’d discovered nothing worth noting. I’d only come across some expired soup cans and stale boxes of cereal in the cabinet above the refrigerator and a few pieces of old mail Amanda had left behind in the drawer of the nightstand. The papers hadn’t looked important, just a few ads and bank statements. I’d tossed the food away but set the mail aside so I could return it to her next time I ate at The Tidewater.
Joe wandered around the room, glancing out of windows. “Very nice.”
“The kitchen is over here.” I stepped into the galley kitchen. The white appliances and ceramic tile floor were dated compared to the sleek design of Beth’s tiny house, but it was clean and fully equipped. “There’s a big storage space here.” I opened the door to a 10-foot by 12-foot walk-in closet.
Joe whistled. “Great storage. Perfect for my art supplies.”
“The bathroom is there.” I reached across the hall and opened the door so my prospective tenant could get a look. “And the bedroom is back here.”
“That’s a good-size room.” Joe nodded his approval. He wandered around for another minute, inspecting closets and windows. “What about a washer and dryer?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the Laundromat for that. There’s one right in town, though.”
Joe pressed his lips together. I hoped the laundry situation wasn’t a deal-breaker and debated offering up the washer and dryer inside my farmhouse.
“Can I move in today?” Joe raised his scarred eyebrow. “It’s June first. It’ll make the math easy.”
My body froze, delighted by his quick decision, but also taken off guard. He had a good point about the math.
“I promise I’ll stay out of your hair and I’ll be gone most weekends at art fairs.” He grinned, waiting for my response.
Crossing my arms and shifting my feet, I wished more than ever that Charlie was here to handle this.
“I’ll pay upfront like I said on the phone.”
I wiped my palms on the front of my pants, glancing through the window at the nearby oak branches bobbing in the wind. Ideally, I would have liked to get a reference from a previous
landlord and check out his website, but he seemed like a decent tenant, and I didn’t have any other prospects. Besides, if he was paying upfront, there was little risk on my end. Still, I felt an obligation to warn him about the lock. “There’s one thing you should know about.”
Joe stared at me.
“The lock on the door may not be secure.”
“Let me take a look.” Joe paced past me and rattled the metal lock with his thick fingers. He closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and pulled the handle again. The fixture shifted a hair, but the door didn’t budge. “Seems to get the job done. It’s a little loose, but nothing to worry about.”
My stomach reached into my throat. No faulty lock. Did that mean someone had broken in? Or had I forgotten to lock the door altogether? Maybe the wind had blown it open. My memory was jumbled.
“So, can I move in?” Joe asked, smiling.
“I guess that would be fine,” I said, pushing away my tangled thoughts. At least I no longer had to worry about repairing the door.
Joe clapped his hands together.
“I’ll need an extra month’s rent as a security deposit.”
“Thanks, Gloria,” he said. “Do you take cash?”
“I do.” I rocked back on my heels, my body stretching tall with the ease of someone ten years younger as all doubt about Joe’s intentions vanished. The apartment was rented. Maybe I’d get those new windows, after all.
I slid my chair closer to the Formica counter of my breakfast nook and studied the pages of my Thirty-Day Life Coach workbook. I’d met Beth less than forty-eight hours ago, but she’d already helped me. In fact, I’d written her name in the Number Two spot as a “catalyst for change.” Charlie’s death filled the Number One spot, but the workbook suggested both positive and negative catalysts for change. Someday I’d have to tell her how she’d inspired me.
This workbook was making a believer out of me. It was pushing me to step outside of my comfort zone and create my best life. I’d taken some risks and now the rewards were paying off. For the first time since Charlie died, I’d have some extra money.
The stack of cash from Joe lay on the counter next to me, its inky aroma swirling with possibilities. I’d have to run to the bank tomorrow to make another deposit. Having all this money lying around made me nervous.
My fingers flipped to a dog-eared page of the workbook. It was my “Action Plan,” which was really nothing more than a glorified to-do list. I checked the box next to “Rent garage apartment for the summer.” The last item on the list stared back at me, the checkmark missing from the box: “Call Ethan.”
A bubble formed in my throat and I hunched over the workbook trying to envision what I’d say to him and exactly which words I’d use. Our last phone conversation had been nearly a year and a half ago. It had been a disaster, even though I’d apologized to him straight away for keeping the pamphlet.
He’d let out a long sigh. “Are you still hanging out with the women who gave it to you?”
“Only once in a while. I see them at Bible study.”
“You have to choose. It’s them or me.”
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the phone. “Of course, I choose you. I’d still like to go to Bible study though.”
Ethan coughed out a laugh. “That’s what I thought. You can’t have it both ways, Mom.” He hung up the phone so abruptly it felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. I called him back in the days that followed, but he didn’t pick up. My calls had been going to voicemail after that. Eventually, I stopped leaving messages. More recently, I’d stopped calling altogether.
I bought my first self-help book on a whim a few weeks after Mary Ellen Calloway had left me off the decorating committee and I’d abandoned Bible study for good. I’d skipped my regular trip to the IGA and, instead, traveled the four extra miles to Walmart for my groceries, eager for an excuse to stay out of the house a little longer. The shiny book with a sea-green cover and yellow lettering had been laying on top of the clearance bin: Twelve Easy Steps to Positive Thinking. The title had drawn me toward it, in the same way the Little Traverse lighthouse might have guided a sinking ship through a storm. For $1.99, the book was an affordable remedy for a desperate lady who’d lost grasp of every positive thought in her head. As shoppers shoved their carts past me toward the checkout lanes, my hand lifted the book from the bin and opened to a random page. The heading of the chapter jumped toward me and grabbed me by the shoulders: When given the choice between love and hate, choose love. I read it again. And again. The store dissolved around me, so only that sentence and I remained, a statement that so obviously referred to me and Ethan.
Was it really that simple? What were the odds I’d stumble across this book on top of the clearance bin? And to have opened it to that exact page? Surely, it had been some sort of divine intervention, a sign from God, as if the book had found me and not the other way around. But my wonder had quickly been squashed by the sinking feeling in my gut. I’d made the wrong choice with Ethan. It had been my duty as his mother to show him love. I’d failed. I’d saved the pamphlet instead of throwing it away. I’d sided with the unforgiving opinions of a few zealots over my own flesh and blood. No wonder Ethan had left. No wonder he hadn’t answered my calls. I should have tried harder.
Now, I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, eyeing my phone and aware of my fingers squeezing the edge of the workbook. It was time to make amends with my son. I tried to think of the right words to say if he answered, words that wouldn’t make him shut down or hang up. Drawing a blank, I calculated the time difference between Michigan and California.
A couple of solid knocks at the front of the house caused me to jump. I tossed the workbook aside and stepped toward the doorway, peeking through the peephole. Beth wavered on my front porch with her hands in her pockets. I opened the door.
“Hi.” She shifted her weight. “I didn’t recognize that car in the driveway and I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“Oh, yes. I’m fine. Thank you.” I ushered her inside.
“Sorry, it took me a little longer in town than I thought. There was so much to look at.” She pointed toward the garage and cocked her head to the side, confused. “Is the guy who looked at the apartment still here?”
“Yes. He agreed to take the place for the summer.” I smoothed down my khaki pedal pushers with my palms. “He’s a painter. A little rough around the edges, but very nice.”
Beth nodded but her eyes clouded over. I sensed her disappointment, which caused the temperature of my body to rise like the thermometers on the cartoons Ethan used to watch, heat collecting in a big red ball on my face. Had I made a mistake by renting the apartment so quickly and without getting Beth’s approval first? Joe would be her next-door neighbor, after all. That thought hadn’t occurred to me earlier. I hadn’t even considered her feelings. It was no wonder I didn’t have many friends.
I cleared my throat. “He said he won’t be around much due to the weekend art fair schedule.”
Beth scratched her elbow and nodded again. “Okay.” She adjusted the shoulder strap of her multicolored fabric purse. The bag appeared to have been assembled by kindergartners but somehow looked stylish on her.
She shrugged. “My house is parked far enough away. It doesn’t make a difference.” Her voice was flat, though. Unconvincing. She picked at her fingernail. “What did you say his name was again?”
“Joe Miles. He does beautiful oil paintings. Landscapes, mostly.”
“Okay.” Beth motioned outside. “I need to unload a few groceries.”
“Alright. Have a nice lunch with Amanda tomorrow if I don’t see you before then.”
She raised her hand in a wave. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” Beth opened the door and let herself out.
I hovered in the foyer, my previous elation at self-help progress deflated. Beth was miffed because I’d rented the apartment to a strange man. She was too nice to say it outright, but I could tell. Ma
ybe she’d feel better after meeting Joe. Then, she could see for herself that he was nothing more than a giant, unkempt teddy bear. Or maybe I could do something to make it up to her.
My eyes traveled to the cluttered office nook that extended from the living room. I’d set up my home computer there years ago, although I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used it. Perhaps I could pull up Joe’s website and show Beth some of his paintings. I stepped toward my makeshift home office, noticing for the first time its utter disorder, my breath feeling thick as dishwater in my throat.
The area was a hodgepodge of rescued magazines, old tax returns, collected recipes, and scraps of paper containing grocery lists and phone numbers. Amanda’s forgotten mail lay on top of the chaos. Piles of holiday cards sorted by year lay stacked on the limited desk space. They were from old friends back in Grand Rapids and some of Charlie’s former co-workers. I hadn’t had the heart to toss them out, the cards and pictures being my last glimpse into the friendships we’d once shared with their senders. I set the cards down, promising myself I’d find a better spot for them, and pushed a pile of papers off the keyboard. The computer made a humming sound as I turned it on, the screen flickering for a moment before the background appeared. Ethan had set it up for me when he’d been back for the funeral. It was a photo of me, Charlie, and Ethan on the beach in Florida from our trip at least fifteen years earlier. That had been a great day.
Remembering what I was doing, I sat down and clicked on the blue “e” to connect to the internet. I placed Joe’s business card in front of me while I waited. Instead of the homepage I expected to see, an error message appeared: No internet connection found. Check your connection. Below that was a list of troubleshooting ideas, none of which was helpful or made any sense.
I blew out a puff of air and slunk back in my chair. Honestly! This outdated computer caused me nothing but headaches. It was worthless.