by Jones, Gwen
“Look,” she continued, “I spent years in public relations. Sometimes it makes no difference if it’s true or not, and denying it only makes the lies more real. But you’re in a good place now. Obviously your Richard’s a shit, and well worth getting out of your life, but if you have to bide your time until it all blows over?” She placed a hand on my arm and dropped her gaze dramatically. “Honey, I could think of worse men to bide time with than Andy.”
I couldn’t speak; I was absolutely comatose. When would it stop? This damage Richard had wrought. How much of a mess would he have to make of my life until his demolition of me was complete? Married? Had he been? Why hadn’t he ever told me? It made so much more sense now, how he couldn’t ever break his hold on Annika. All at once my head was splitting. I looked beyond the farm stand, wanting to bury myself deep in the woods where no one would ever find me. And then it hit me: wasn’t that what I was already doing?
“Uh-oh, look there,” Celia said, pointing to the two buses pulling into the parking lot. “Here come two busloads of little old ladies with lots of daughters to buy jam for. And who all need peaches to help them poop tomorrow morning.” She tugged my arm. “Come on, let’s get to work. There’s Social Security dollars to be snatched out of those pocketbooks.”
So I went. The rest of the day went by in a flurry of fruits, vegetables, and lots of sweat and car exhaust, and since I was still in the metro-Philadelphia viewing area, I had donned a big straw hat and sunglasses to keep my recognition down to a minimum. Although Andy’s eyes were questioning, we never had the time to talk beyond some pretty utilitarian conversation. Then late in the afternoon, I headed to the bathroom and, taking out my phone, trolled the local news sites until my one bar faded away and my irritation level kicked up to four.
Both Richard and Annika were keeping mum about the marriage thing, but that didn’t stop the gossip mavens from getting to the bottom of it. One had unearthed the six-year-old Maryland marriage license from which Richard and Annika had been married, when Annika was barely eighteen. Three weeks later, her parents had had it annulled. I blew up the image and nearly fell to my knees: it was the same signature I had seen gracing his cards, our checks, my contract. Then another site said they had never divorced and he was still married, leading to another headline that painted him a potential bigamist, which of course, had me looking the perfect fool. What kind of journalist could I be if I couldn’t even get the dirt on my own life?
The “official” story the station was floating was that I had left on sabbatical, saving them the embarrassment of admitting they had kicked me out first. Other sources said I was in Seattle chasing down Richard, while an anonymous source said my bank account had been frozen by my former fiancé, leaving me homeless and penniless. (Gee, I wonder who that was?) All of this seemed to attract either sympathy or scorn, depending on whether one backed Team Richard or Team Julie, but one thing was certain. The general consensus was I had left my faithful viewership high and dry, and that was an offense past forgiveness. The whole thing made me so ill I came this close to tossing the BlackBerry in the trash. Turned out I didn’t have to when it died. As I came out of the bathroom there was Andy, waiting for me.
“Ready to go home?” he said.
“They hate me,” I said, trudging past him to slump atop a picnic table.
“Who?”
I waved my phone in futility. “All of Philadelphia, it seems.”
He fell to his haunches before me. “Are you in Philadelphia now?”
“No,” I said, glaring at him. “But it also encompasses South Jersey and all of Delaware, and if you’re streaming, then maybe worldwide, too.” I laughed. “Every news site has me either as a victim or an idiot, and I have to tell you, neither is very flattering. I dropped my head to my hands. “Julie Knott’s Random Access is now Julie Knott—Random Ass.”
He sighed. A moment later my hands were in his. “Or how about something else? It’s yours if you want it.” He lifted my chin. “How about Mrs. Andy Devine?”
Somehow a tear had weaseled its way down my face, and I swiped it away. “Yeah, there is that.”
“Julie, I told you I’d never let anything happen to you, that I’d always take care of you. Do you believe me?”
On some fantasy level, I did. “Of course.”
“Then who cares what they think, what they’re saying? That was then, and what we have here . . .” He kissed my hand. “Is now.”
He was right, of course. And deep down, I knew that someday I’d prove them all wrong. But to do that then, I had to do this now. I snuffled away another tear. “Then get me out of here.”
He rose with me. “The truck is packed. Let’s go home.”
And for now, I did.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Lesser Homes & Gardens
SO I RETREATED to the woods, to hide and to heal, and to make a temporary go at this happy home thing. I desperately needed to keep from dwelling on my imploding life and keep my eyes on the prize; I had work to do, after all. And although Andy was generally the best diversion a girl could ever hope for, there was still the ghetto rest of our house, which we absolutely had to do something about and fast. I could put up with the rusty barrels, a broken-down tractor, rotting lumber, and other assorted remains from the estate’s glory days, but neither of us could abide a living room that’d bring on an asthma attack every time we entered it, and I was really tired of eating cold or off the grill every day. What I wouldn’t give for baked chicken or a mango smoothie, not that I could get either until a refrigerator and a working stove materialized. Until then it’d take a lot of hefting and hauling, some twelve-hour days, and of course, a forty-yard Dumpster.
“Rocky’s going, right?” I said, covering my nose as the front door swung open, the taxidermied raccoon wavering from the ceiling, where it hung upside-down. I recoiled from its malevolent, glassy-eyed glare. “Somehow this place attracts bad raccoon karma, and the sooner he’s gone the better.”
“No shit,” Andy said, his gloved hands yanking it down. “I’ll bury it in the woods.” Bucky followed, barking his head off all the way. I imagined he thought he cornered another of its rabid peeps, and no way was he letting this one go without a fight.
While Andy attended to Rocky’s internment, I took a few ginger steps into the living room. Andy had already ripped down the ratty curtains and dropped a sheet of plywood over the spot in the floor I had fallen through, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Although he had also removed most of the piles of various crap, he’d left me to decide which of the dozens of pieces of furniture in this much-abused room we’d keep. One thing it did have going for it, beside a gorgeous stone fireplace, was its wealth of windows, and I threw open every one of them on my way to the kitchen at the back.
Again, lots of windows, and like the rest of the house, full of junk. But at least it was sunny and there was, much to my surprise, another bathroom off to the side, with not only a sink and a toilet, but a washer and dryer. A serviceable utility closet lay just outside it, and along the back wall, a gas stove, a stainless steel sink, and a long countertop that bent with the wall to end at a space for a refrigerator. Opposite the closet sat what looked a sturdy wooden table, chairs, and a hutch. At least that’s what I could see under piles and piles of newspapers, old mail, flattened food boxes and, in a plastic milk crate, innumerable bottles of pills and vitamins. Then, underneath it all, I found a photo.
It was in color, but severely faded, so I took it to the window for a better look. What I saw was an elegant man dressed in a white blazer and a stunning woman, sitting at a table in most likely a café. Spent mussel shells lay on a plate at her elbow, a cocktail glass and cigarette in her fingers. And even with the aged fading, her eyes, cat-like and decidedly wary, shone a vibrant blue.
She had to be Andy’s mother. I turned the photograph over. Viviane Fontaine was typed on the back. Marseille-1983. Typed. How very odd.
“Where’d you find t
hat?” Andy said over my shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face.
“In this pile of junk. Is that your mother?”
He set down the wheelbarrow he’d brought in for the trash, taking the photo from me. He turned it over and back. “Yes.”
He seemed transfixed; who wouldn’t be? She was to rampant femininity what her stallion of a son was to male prowess. “She’s gorgeous.”
“She still is,” he said dryly. “My mother’s looks are simply part of her toolbox. As essential to what she does as a camera used to be to you.”
“I take it that’s not much of a compliment.”
He sniffed. “Take it as you want. It’s simply a statement of fact.” He flipped the photo to the counter.
“Who’s the guy? Your dad?”
“No,” he said flatly.
I took another look at the man; where Andy was raw masculinity polished at the edges, this man appeared the bon vivant, a hipster Mr. Smoothie perennially popular with the ladies. Much, it irked me to think, like Richard.
“Is he the ship’s captain?”
He peered at me, almost as if he were loath to say. “Right. The ship’s captain.”
“Do you want to tell me about it? Like, how they met?”
“They met in a bar. She met my father in a bar. Actually, it’s pretty commonplace. I’ve met a few ladies in bars myself.” When he finished with the table, he pushed the wheelbarrow to the counter, tilting it up to scoop more papers into it. I snatched the photo from him just in time.
“But did you ever think I might want to find out a little more about the family I married into? I think I have a right to know where you came from.”
That got his attention. He set the wheelbarrow down and looked at me. “What do you want to know?”
“How should I know? Every time I ask about your family you’re either vague or you change the subject.”
“Maybe because I don’t find them as fascinating as you do.” His eyes narrowed. “Or as interesting a topic for your book.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but the book is supposed to be about my experience, not about your crazy family.”
“And what would that experience be without me?”
“What a colossal ego! If I didn’t know better I’d say you set this whole mess up for plot!”
He stretched his arm across the doorway. “But you don’t know better, do you? And if it’s not about my family, then why do you keep asking about them?”
“Are you saying I have an ulterior motive?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned in. “Do you?”
Damn; I didn’t have a logical thing to answer with beside a frustrated, “Ooooh!” I shoved an armful of junk mail into the barrow.
After a few moments of this he intercepted. “Julie, stop,” he said, his hand staying my arm. “Stop—listen to me.”
“What?” I said, shooting him my iciest glare.
He pulled me to him and I hardly resisted, the warmth of his chest like some burly siren song. I breathed him in, no longer conscious of clutter and dust, but only of his scent, becoming as familiar as my own. I sighed, closing my eyes.
“It’s just that I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “Except for that bar in Elizabeth, I haven’t seen my father since I was thirteen. I mean, you can ask me what you want, but I don’t know if I can help you. He’s pretty much a stranger to me.”
“Which is a shame, because you should know where your roots are.” Lord knew I heard enough about my own. “You should know where you come from.”
“I come from here. And after I left . . .” He paused. “It’s like I didn’t exist here anymore. Anyway, if I need any more roots, I’ll grow them with you. Now.” He kissed my forehead, letting me go. “Is there anything else you need to know?”
How could I answer that? My head swirled with a thousand more questions. All of which I’d probably have to figure out on my own. “Hey, I thought you said you didn’t do the whole ‘meet chicks in bars’ thing.”
“Well, not for a potential wife anyway.”
“Then for what?”
He eyed me, as if obvious. “What do you think?”
I dropped my jaw, feigning outrage. “You slut!” I cried, flashing a breast.
He laughed out loud. “Tu es méchant!”
“I have no idea how that translates, but if it means—”
“It means back to work.” He twirled me around, sending me on my way with a slap to my behind. “I’ll be bringing in a load of lumber from the truck.”
“As if I need more wood,” I said, rubbing my rump. Andy snorted over his shoulder as he tromped into the yard.
BY THE END of the afternoon we managed to clear the living room, kitchen, and a bit of the second bedroom (which seemed to serve as dump for most of Iron Bog) of the surfeit of trash, recyclables, dead appliances and furniture left in the house. As for what I’d keep, the dining set in the kitchen seemed fine, if not crusted with years of neglect, much like the grease-coated knotty pine and wallpaper that covered most of the walls. Andy assured me the set was solid maple and nothing Murphy’s Oil Soap and a good polishing wouldn’t cure. Much to my absolute delight the stove fired right up, but the bottled gas that fueled it ran out as soon as it proved its worth. Andy’d replace it on the next run into town. Of course, being adverse to E. coli, I’d have to scrub free the ossified pasta, indefinable vegetables and meats, and the bubbled remains of several failed attempts at baking before I could use it.
At least the water worked, both hot and cold, though the sink itself was barely recognizable as stainless steel with all the food gunk, grease, bugs, and bottles crowded together with POISON! XXX marked on them. Hands gloved, I cautiously pinched them out, letting Andy haul them off to wherever one disposed of chemicals that were not only toxic but HIGHLY COMBUSTIBLE! or carried the warning, USE ONLY WITH PROPER VENTING! or the graphic of a hand being eaten away by acid. Needless to say, I didn’t argue the advice, DO NOT DRINK!
The water also worked in the sink in the half-bathroom off to the side. The toilet, though, was clogged with something that appeared . . . furry. Ever since the raccoon’s burial, Bucky had attached himself to my hip, and after spying whatever occupied the toilet bowl, he went into a barking frenzy. I quickly dropped the lid, but he kept on barking.
“It’s okay, boy,” I said, tentatively petting his head, “Andy will get rid of it—okay? Now, quiet. Quiet, boy . . .” I scratched him behind the ear and he whined, giving me that toothy doggie-smile before he licked his chops and sat, pressing against my leg. It surprised me how soft his fur really was, and how happy my petting seemed to make him. Maybe he really liked me. Or maybe he was just hoping I’d fry another omelet for him to steal. I turned back to the washer and dryer, Bucky rising to follow.
The kitchen cabinets I left for last, where I was rewarded with some decidedly new-looking crockery. After I waded through a five year supply of tea, coffee, and condiments, I found some rather dusty Emile Henry plates, bowls, and cups, a simple, everyday pattern in a perky yellow shade. Surprisingly, not a single piece was cracked, chipped, or stained, which amazed me since mostly everything else showed at least a modicum of hard use. There were place settings for eight and upon further inspection I even found serving pieces, including a lovely soup tureen which Andy caught me examining.
“Last thing I’d expect to find here,” I said, thumbing off a bit of film to reveal a shine beneath. The effect made me feel like a kid on Christmas morning. “Will you look at this, Andy? Just like new! I must say, your father had the oddest taste.”
“These were my mother’s,” he said, lifting a plate. “From what I remember, we only used them on special occasions. Not that there were lots of them.” He set it back with a tiny clink.
I found some little dishes shaped like scallop shells. “Why? No holidays in the deep Piney woods?”
“Sure, but it’s not so much the deep woods as the deep woodsmen.” He took my hand. “Come on, I w
ant to ask you something.”
I followed him into the living room and nearly lost my breath. I’d been so immersed in the warren that was the kitchen, I didn’t pay attention to what Andy had accomplished. With the curtains gone and the bright light streaming in, unencumbered by greasy rugs, fishing gear, and stuffed raccoons, I could almost see what the living room truly was—a sunny, rustic space full of possibilities. Except, of course, for the myriad broken and filthy furniture.
“I’ve divided it into three camps,” Andy said as I regarded the three groupings. “Keep, repair and Dumpster.”
I eyed the keep pile: two pine end tables and a matching coffee table, dirty but relatively scratch-free; a free-standing lamp and a table lamp; a short, square stool that fit near the hearth. The next group consisted of an overstuffed sofa with clawfoot legs, one of which was lay on the cushions which left it leveled by a cinderblock; a carved rocking chair missing a rail; and a corner china cabinet stuffed to the gills, whose front glass had cracked. The last contained something that had once been a recliner, but now resembled a chaise lounge; a pair of very uneasy-looking chairs; a half-dozen tables, folding and otherwise; and some completely unidentifiable stuff.
“Anything you don’t agree with?” Andy asked.
“No . . . I think you did a pretty good job. Though I think even the “keep” camp is wishful thinking.”
He slapped his hand into the sofa’s blue embroidered cushion; a plume of dust wafted out. “Look at that etching around the top. Top quality, and probably an antique.” Then he gave the arm a punch; it resounded with a deep thunk. “See? Solid. Celia told me about an upholsterer over at Dulles Corner who does really nice work. We can have it restuffed and get the leg fixed. Then a good shampooing and it’d be like new.”
I eyed it dubiously; I had a feeling Celia also had champagne taste. “If you say so.” I looked to the scuffed and filthy wooden floor. “I’m glad you got rid of the rugs, but what about this? It’s falling through.”