by Tish Cohen
At this, Elise slowed, incredulous. “Warren stopped by the barn? How often does he do that?”
“Hardly ever. Once, twice a year.”
“And you let him?”
“Elise . . .”
“I have a right to decide who I want in my life and who I don’t.” She continued down toward the shed.
“Yes, you do. But he’s been pretty respectful of you. Not every father would agree to let his sixteen-year-old daughter live at her crusty old riding coach’s farm.”
“He had no choice. I wasn’t going to move in with him and his . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“He totally had a choice. You were a minor and he could have had you legally removed and brought to his place.”
“I’d have run away.”
“Exactly. And you’d have been placed in foster care. He loved you way too much to make things any worse for you. I feel bad for him, Elise. You’re his daughter.”
“Was. I was his daughter.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s a changeable designation.”
She leaned down to pick up a fallen branch and tossed it onto the covered woodpile at the forest’s edge. “I don’t think Warren would agree with you there. Everything is changeable to that man.”
* * *
THE COOP LAY next to Roxborough, a leafy neighborhood in South Orange with curved sidewalks and gaslit streetlamps. Their house sat right on the boundary between two school districts: the run-down Camperdown High School and the elite but public, vine-covered McInnis Hall, its brand-new running track and all-glass library proof that public schools could benefit hugely from a moneyed parents’ association. McInnis was populated by kids whose Roxborough houses had indoor pools, housekeepers, and matched sets of thick plush towels.
Elise was about to start ninth grade. They had a decision to make.
Rosamunde had been against McInnis from the start—how would their daughter fit in? Besides that, McInnis was farther away. Elise could no longer come home for lunch. “Our daughter doesn’t need to be hanging out with her mother in the middle of the school day,” Warren said. “She needs to be building a life for herself.”
Warren was determined for Elise to attend the more illustrious school. With every passing year, her peers would matter more. If she was stuck with blue-collar folks her entire scholastic life, that’s where she’d feel most comfortable. But if she was surrounded by privilege and wealth—she would gravitate toward success. “She’s our only child, for Christ’s sake. Shouldn’t we do the best we can for her?”
The timing was perfect. He’d been given a promotion at work. They’d redecorated the living room. Replaced the kitchen cabinets with white melamine and ripped out the old linoleum floor to sand and stain the hardwood. Warren had leased himself a year-old, dark red Honda Accord. Rosamunde had to keep her Tuesdays and Thursdays at the “baby factory,” as Warren called Dr. Nadal’s office, but the Bleekers were upwardly mobile. And Warren wasn’t about to let his wife’s fears hold them back.
It was late August when they were to have their McInnis tour. The kind of sticky, airless day that Rosamunde complained made her blond hair frizz. She changed her outfit countless times before settling on a brightly patterned wrap dress she’d had as long as Elise could remember, with her trusty midheel sandals. No matter what Rosamunde did to her curls, they chose exuberance over compliance. She poodled the top section in a clip, lined her eyes in navy kohl, and spun around for her fourteen-year-old daughter.
“How do I look?” She adjusted her dress, her face damp and flushed. “I want to make you proud.”
There was simply too much of Rosamunde—too much pattern, too much hair, too much makeup. She would do exactly what Elise didn’t want her mother to do: stand out.
“You only ever make me proud.” Elise reached up to kiss her cheek, then smoothed her pink Polo shirt, and followed her parents out the door, praying none of them smelled like a henhouse.
In the car, Warren kept glancing at his wife’s outfit. “What happened to that navy skirt you used to have?”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“People don’t dress so flashy anymore. They dress more classic. Business casual is what they call it.”
“I’m not in business.”
Warren tilted the rearview mirror to look at the backseat. “How’s it going back there, princess? You ready to take on the world?”
Fairly certain she wasn’t up to the task after her singing nondebut, Elise gave him a halfhearted nod.
They pulled onto a maple-lined driveway and parked at the front of the school. At the top of the stairs was an attractive woman in jeans and a loose white button-down. She had glossy dark hair and a compact frame. The vice principal looked elegant and understated—so different from Rosamunde. She waved and introduced herself as Briony Lagasse.
“We’re extremely proud of our extracurricular activities.” Briony led them into the echoing foyer. “We offer tennis, fencing, lacrosse. We have an after-school equestrian program at a stable over on Grange Road, at the edge of South Mountain Reservation.” She turned to Elise. “Have you ever heard of dressage?”
* * *
* * *
STILL ON THE call with her coach, Elise opened the shed door and stuffed the flowers into the dusty trash can, then leaned against the doorway, phone still pressed to her ear. “I’m sorry, Ronnie. I shouldn’t be lacing into you.” She pushed stray hairs off her forehead and looked skyward. “Matt and I are fighting. Plus, there’s this woman next door . . .”
“Don’t apologize. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Wait, before you go. Here’s the thing. If I’m going to keep this marriage intact, I can’t leave Wednesday. I’ll come home Friday.”
As she climbed the mossy slope back to the cabin, she passed Cass’s wash line, boys’ T-shirts, socks, and striped briefs fluttering in the breeze. The only item not belonging to a young boy was a pale tan bikini made of suede—the top of which had, to Elise’s mind, cups so roomy a small barn cat could curl up in each. Use it as a hammock.
Sorry to keep your husband up so late.
“Friday?” Ronnie did not sound thrilled.
“I gotta go.”
After looking around to make sure no one was watching, Elise unclipped the bikini and took it inside.
– CHAPTER 10 –
Matt walked across the yard, dead grass pricking his bare feet, ice-cold bottles of Heineken already sweating in his hands. The roofers he’d hired, Andy Kostick and Lyman Williams, had been working for hours and the thermometer said ninety-five degrees—and that was on the ground. Up on the black shingles, it had to feel like sitting on the roof of hell.
The bushes beneath Kostick’s ladder, Matt noticed, were bowed down with debris—decomposed shingles, splintered planks of rotted wood. Matt moved closer to see rusted nails scattered throughout the garden bed, the grass. Weren’t roofers supposed to tarp the working areas? Was that not standard?
He found the guys sitting in the back end of the van, legs swinging as they ate sandwiches wrapped in foil and drank from Coke cans beaded with sweat. Andy had a wet towel draped over sunburned shoulders. Lyman’s shirtsleeves were now rolled halfway up his biceps, his dreads tied neatly at the back of his neck.
“Hey,” Matt said. “Thought you both might appreciate a little hydration.”
“Hot as hell up there.” Andy leaned forward to accept a bottle and twist off the cap. “Don’t mind if I do.”
When Lyman waved the beer away, Matt set it next to Andy with a wink. “More for you, then. Just don’t lose your balance up there.” Matt glanced back toward the house. “So, yeah. I was wondering. . . . Would you mind tarping the bushes and the grass below where you’re working? I don’t want my wife or daughter coming across any nails if they come out in bare feet.”
Andy looked toward the debris and took a long, sorrowful swig. “Don’t have any tarps with me.”
“Is there any way to go grab a few?�
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“Afraid not.”
Matt stared at him. “I’m sorry—why’s that?”
“We lose half a day easy by the time I stop everything, go get tarps, clean up midday. I squeezed you in on a Saturday, like I told you. Now you want us to go running around town, things could get expensive. I’d have to charge you overtime.”
This was how the Kosticks of the world—or at least the world outside the city, where there are more tradespeople to choose from—got you by the balls. You need them more than they need you, and they know it. Then there was “great camp pricing,” overbilling for weekenders. No way was Matt willing to put up with that. The Sorensons went back a century around here. They should be charged like locals.
“So you’re a big Manhattan lawyer, I hear,” Andy said.
“Well, I’m a lawyer. In Manhattan . . .”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Not even close, Matt didn’t say, glancing at his shrubbery.
Lyman had started reading a well-worn copy of Cormac McCarthy’s Child of God, as if Andy and Matt weren’t there at all.
“Last time I drove down to Manhattan had to be a dozen years ago. Couldn’t pay me to go back—all that traffic and noise and people everywhere. Cabbies honking all night long. Had a film on my skin that took forever to wash off.” Andy slid the towel off his shoulders, pulled hard on his bottle, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Not for me.”
“Believe me. There are days I feel the—”
“Give me my little slice of heaven is all.”
“Right.” Matt turned to go. “Anyway, appreciate you guys coming on so little notice. Animals crawling through the house isn’t exactly something we can deal with.”
“I hear you. Had a few squatters in the fishing lodge I opened just up the lake. Pulled out an old bathtub and found a possum family living right there beneath the floorboards.”
Lyman looked up from his book and smiled, shook his head. “Better than snakes, I suppose.”
Matt couldn’t hide his surprise. “You opened a fishing lodge?”
“Reopened, I guess you’d say. Place had been left to rot about fifteen years. Nothing fancy. Main office and a handful of cabins on a few acres. Fixed it up a bit, then opened for walleye and pike in May.” Andy reached into a box behind him and tossed over a brown T-shirt. Matt held it up against his chest. The logo was classic vintage Adirondacks: a curved pike with KOSTICK & SONS FISHING LODGE in block letters above and EST. 2015 below.
“This looks great,” said Matt, handing it back.
“Nah.” Andy waved the shirt away. “Keep it. Wear it around town. Having a Sorenson walking around advertising can’t be a bad thing.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Andy slid off the end of the van and stood. “Always been my dream. Cabins are small but have flush toilets, a cold-water sink, and a single bed. Your oven is your fire pit. I figure next year, I’ll put in a small tackle shop, sell lures and bait. Snack foods.”
Matt found himself with twinges of jealousy. To have a business out here, the wind carrying the smell of the water and the pines through your office window all day. “Sounds idyllic.”
Andy shrugged. “Just a place where guys can come up and forget work, forget the mortgage, forget the wife. Just have a few beers, shoot the shit on the water, that kind of thing. I’ll be moving into the biggest cabin this week. Been waiting too long to spend my time anyplace else.”
Matt pointed to the company name on the side of the van: KOSTICK & SONS ROOFING. “Guess you’ve got your sons to carry on.”
“Nah. There aren’t any sons. Or daughters. I don’t have kids. That’s . . . whatever. Marketing hook.”
Matt nodded. “And what does your wife think of moving to man paradise?”
“Never wanted a wife and too old to start now.” Andy looked sideways at Lyman. “This fella could use one, though. I keep saying you’ll never find a wife if you spend all your time with your nose in a book.”
Lyman barely looked up. It was clear the man’s white button-down had started out the day nicely ironed.
“You two work together a long time?” Matt asked.
Lyman put down his book, finished the last of his lunch, and balled the foil. Shot it into an open trash bag at the road’s edge. “Nope.”
“Lyman moved into his sister’s apartment right next door to mine. Store-top in town,” Andy explained. “He grew up here, then came back home after a few years in Albany. I needed an assistant while I got the lodge set up, and Lyman needed the work.”
“What’d you do down there?” Matt asked.
“Prof at UAlbany.” He opened his book again. “English lit.”
This was getting stranger by the minute. Lyman had a story that he wasn’t the least bit interested in telling.
“Lyman’s family’s been here longer than yours.” Andy looked at his assistant. “Mid-1800s, isn’t that right?”
“We don’t have a fancy sign, but we go way back.” He turned the page.
“Anyway. Local, is my point,” said Andy.
Ah. Here we go. “Remember,” Matt said with a grin. “I’m local, too. So none of that great camp pricing you give to city people.”
“Shit.” Andy leaned back against the van, shaking his head. “You’re about as local as Prince Charles.”
“What are you talking about? My family’s been part of this place for nearly a century.”
“That doesn’t make you people locals.” Andy held his bottle up to the sun, then finished it off. “I hear you don’t come up much anymore. Can’t really call that being local, no matter what your grandpa was up to.”
Up to? Matt searched Andy’s face for subtext.
“All right.” Lyman stuffed his book into his back pocket and started toward the house. “Better get back to it.”
“If you have any other jobs need doing over the summer”—Andy pulled on a greasy Rangers hat—“give Lyman a call. He’s had a rough road. Parents thrown out of their own house. Homeless one winter, and his baby sister suffered terribly—lost a leg from the knee down to frostbite. She worked at the bank just fine all these years, then had a bad fall. Now she’s laid up, so Lyman came back to care for her. Guy’s working like hell to sock away his money. You have a sister hurting like that, you want to make sure she’s okay if anything happens to you.”
“We’re not actually here for long. Just doing up a few things before we list.”
“Huh.” Andy looked along the tree line toward the lake and pushed his hat back. “You severing or selling as one piece?”
“Selling it all. Seventy acres, give or take.”
Andy contemplated this. “Not often a big piece of land like this goes on the market. Not on this lake, anyway. You’ll get one of the big resort chains interested.”
“We’ll see.”
In the distance, they heard the warbling call of a loon and both waited, silent, for another call. None came.
“It’s a nice quiet lake, this. Always has been. Folks around here are going to hate to see that change.” Andy reached for his tool belt and buckled it beneath his belly. “All right, Mr. Manhattan. Break time over.” He slammed the back doors of the van shut. “Let’s get this job done.”
“I was wondering. . . . How long do you think this’ll take?”
“Quick as we can. Two days tops.”
Two days for a repair to a bit of roof above the kitchen and another in the rear. In New Jersey, you could get your whole roof replaced in twenty-four hours. With tarping.
“We’ve got our daughter here—makes things a bit more complicated. We need to get this place listed before we get too far into summer and people’s heads get wrapped up in back-to-school stuff.”
“I hear you. We’ve got another job Monday morning anyway.” Andy sauntered back toward the house, hammer bouncing against his thigh as he walked. “Local family needs a repair around a skylight, and we’re in for a whole lot of rain next week. Nice people.
” He grabbed the ladder’s edge and started up, the ladder creaking and bowing with each step. “Unlike some.”
Matt stood, staring after him. He’d caved in every way a homeowner could—right down to agreeing to wear the guy’s T-shirt. What could Kostick possibly have against him?
“Hey!” From the roof’s edge, Andy called back, “Don’t forget to wear the T-shirt.”
– CHAPTER 11 –
The pipes shuddered overhead as Elise turned off the shower, which continued its drip, drip, drip into the rust-stained tub. She pushed aside the curtains with a squeak and stepped onto the mat. Grabbed a towel to pat herself dry.
Cass’s suede bikini top lay on the counter. Imagine spending money on a bikini made of suede. You’d never be able to get it wet, even. Or sweat in it.
Elise picked it up, held it to her chest and looked in the mirror, fascinated that a person could have breasts of such magnitude they could fill these cups. Elise was almost staunchly small-chested. She wore bras but had always been proud that she’d never really needed one. Large breasts were matronly at best, vaguely bovine at worst.
She’d always thought eternally girlish was the better way to be.
Equal parts curious and ashamed, she slipped on the bikini bottoms, then the top. She set the cups in place and tied the suede strings in back. Inspected herself in the mirror.
That she was disturbed was disturbing. Elise Sorenson was an athlete. She and her body had an agreement—they served each other well. To be disappointed in her physicality now felt traitorous.
She looked like a prepubescent boy in a bikini.
On Elise, Cass’s cups weren’t just tents collapsed in the rain, they were empty tents collapsed in the rain. In tragic proof that at thirty-eight Elise was a failure as a modern woman, she folded two washcloths into each cup and turned sideways to assess herself in the mirror, squinting until her silhouette appeared real. Realish.
If her primary goal was sex, then sure. This shape might rocket her to the top. But her primary goal wasn’t sex—not to malign the pastime in the slightest! How would she even ride a horse if she were built like Cass? How would she run? Then again, maybe that was what bothered her most. Cass wasn’t built to run. She was built to stay.