by Nicole Ellis
“The main room will seat two hundred people? And that’s the room overlooking the Sound?” He opened up the brochure I’d given him and rested his finger below the main room’s stats.
“Yes,” I said. “The main room is the old boathouse building and will easily hold two hundred people. We’ve had up to two hundred and fifty in there before, no problem.”
“Do you have on-site catering, or is there a list to choose from?”
“We have an on-site caterer, so all you have to do is choose your menu and everything will be taken care of for you.” I handed him the sample menu, complete with glossy pictures. “Here you go. If there is something you were looking for in particular, just let us know. We want every event at the Boathouse to be perfect for our clients.” I’d heard Beth and Desi go over the sales pitch so many times that I could recite it by memory without consulting my cheat sheet.
“This looks great. We’re actually going to be announcing the alumni foundation’s scholarship winner at the event, so the podium and sound system will be handy.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. Based on his outer persona of sleazy real estate developer, I’d expected his event to be merely a party dedicated to self-promotion, but there was definitely another side to this guy.
“That’s fantastic that your group is offering a scholarship to a student in need. I attended my university on a scholarship, and I couldn’t have gone there without it.” I’d grown up in a middle-class household and my parents weren’t able to help much with paying for college, so I’d worked on and off-campus while a student at the University of Washington. Combined with a partial scholarship, I’d been fortunate to graduate with very little debt.
He beamed. “It’s an issue near and dear to me. If I hadn’t been given a full-ride scholarship to Willowby College, I wouldn’t have been able to attend either. My mother and stepfather worked hard to house and feed us, but there wasn’t any extra money for education after high school. I’d always figured I’d enter a trade school or go into the army like my birth father, but I was extremely fortunate that Willowby College was endowed with a scholarship fund right as I graduated. I was the first recipient. In fact, I was all set to take the ASVAB when my high school guidance counselor mentioned the possibility of a scholarship to Willowby College.”
I followed his gaze to one of two pictures on his desk. The silver frame on one was tilted inward, but I caught a glimpse of a young couple. Elliott noticed my attention.
“Those are my parents, when they were first married.” Elliott picked up the picture frame. “My father was killed in a freak accident in army basic training soon afterwards. If I hadn’t received that scholarship, I never would have gone to college, gotten a degree, or become a successful businessman.”
“Now that you have my whole life history,” he said jokingly, “maybe we should get back to business.” We hammered out a few more details, and I promised him I’d have Beth send a contract over to him the following week.
I was surprised at how much I enjoyed planning Elliott’s event. It felt good to be back in the saddle.
“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand. “Beth will be in touch about your event.”
“Oh, you won’t be working on it? You had such a good understanding of what I was looking for that I’d really like for you to manage the event.” Elliott frowned slightly.
“I’m only filling in for someone who is out on leave. Beth handles most of the event planning.”
“Do you usually work in another capacity at the Boathouse?”
“No, this is temporary. I used to be in marketing, but I left the industry after my kids were born. To tell you the truth though, I had fun working on the plans for your event. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this type of thing.”
He regarded me thoughtfully. “You know, I may have a job for you.”
“Really?” I looked around. “Doing what?”
“I need someone to put together a brochure to advertise the building and then stay on as a marketing assistant. I think you’d be perfect for it. You’re organized, experienced, and familiar with the area. It would only be about four to five hours a week, so it might work for you to dip your toes back in the marketing pool. What do you think?”
“I haven’t done anything like this recently.” His offer was flattering, but when I considered it, my stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably.
“Really, the most important thing for me is that you’re a local. We’ve been getting some bad publicity on this project, and I need someone who knows the community to help us combat that perception. With the retail units on the first floor, this is going to be a boon to the downtown economy and exactly what Ericksville needs to bring it into the twenty-first century.” His passion for the project shone through in his voice, and I couldn’t help but be swayed.
I thought about it for a moment. I knew Beth would jump at the chance to watch the kids more often. But I wasn’t sure how I felt about working for the condo construction project. I didn’t like the precedent they set for downtown, but change was going to happen whether I liked it or not and he was right—this would be a good way to find out if I wanted to go back to work in marketing. It was only a few hours a week, so what could possibly be the harm in trying it out? If I hated it, I could always quit.
“It sounds like a great opportunity,” I said finally. “When would you like me to start?”
“Great! I think you’d be an asset to our team. How about if you come in a week from Monday?” He checked his Outlook calendar and made a note on it.
“Sounds good.” I stood and shook his hand again. “And we look forward to working with you on your class reunion at the Boathouse.”
On the way out, I saw Perry stride purposefully across the construction site, consulting a clipboard as he walked toward a pile of lumber. The black glasses I’d surmised were only a ploy to check in on his partner’s “personal business” rested on his nose. Maybe Elliott wasn’t the only person I’d been wrong about.
When I got to my minivan, my lips broke out in a huge smile. I had a job offer. It might not have been my dream job or place to work, but it was related to my previous career and could be a good stepping-stone to future jobs if that was what I wanted. For the rest of the day, I walked on air. I still didn’t know what I wanted my identity to be, but I was moving in the right direction.
4
The rest of the weekend crawled by, with Adam once again out of town. Monday morning found me performing one of my least favorite mom duties—gravedigger. Unfortunately, I knew where a lot of bodies were buried. Corky had been laid to rest almost a year ago, and Artie had passed away close to two years ago. Louie was the latest victim.
“Mom, do fish go to heaven?” Mikey asked, tears falling out of eyes exactly the same cobalt-blue shade as mine.
“Oh, buddy, I’m sure they do.” I wrapped my arms around his small body. Water seeped through the worn knees of my jeans from the boggy ground surrounding the gravesite. Somehow, every fish seemed to die in the spring, right after an all-too-frequent Washington rain shower. Adam had better be home for funeral duty the next time.
Together, we piled rocks on top of Louie’s final resting place. The azalea bush in the northwest corner of our yard served as a pet cemetery and now shaded three little groups of dirt-encrusted stones, a solemn reminder that life was fleeting.
The distinctive scent of recent rain filled my nostrils. A misting of morning dew covered the grass and soaked my sneakers. Everything in the Pacific Northwest was wet. April showers brought not only May flowers, but even more rainstorms. I should be used to it from growing up in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, but it was less than two months until June and I could hardly wait for the sun to come out. I assessed Mikey’s clothing with a keen eye. He still appeared presentable enough for school.
I stood up, wiped muddy fingers on my jeans, and pulled the phone out of my sweatshirt pocket to check the time. A quarter to nine already? If Mikey were tardy again, the Queen Bees of the
Busy Bees Preschool PTA would be after me again. Heaven forbid their three- and four-year-olds be distracted by a child coming in five minutes late. Last time we’d arrived past starting time, I’d received a lecture on getting my child to school earlier. Today though, I needed to keep to a tight schedule as I’d made an appointment for Ella’s six-month well-baby exam directly after preschool drop-off. Her pediatrician operated on a tight schedule, and if we were more than ten minutes late, we’d forfeit her appointment time.
We’d found Louie belly up in the fish tank this morning, and there was no convincing Mikey the funeral could wait until after school. A toilet bowl burial with a quick ‘out to sea’ flush was completely out of the question. No matter how hard I tried to plan our mornings, something always happened to make us late for school.
“C’mon, Mikey, go inside and grab your stuff,” I said, pushing Ella in her stroller over to the unlocked kitchen door. I contemplated changing out of my dirt-stained jeans, but there wasn’t time. He trudged over to the door and stopped.
“Do I have to go to school today?”
I shot him a ‘Mama means business’ look. He made a face and ran inside the house.
As I waited outside, I relished the brief moment of quiet in a sea of chaos; only the chirping birds and the far off whine of a lawnmower broke the silence. My yellow rose bush next to the driveway sported fresh buds, and the purple pansies Mikey and I had planted last weekend hadn’t yet become food for the local slug population. Down the hill, the Willowby Island ferry maneuvered toward the dock, full of cars and passengers commuting to the mainland. I broke out of my reverie. While refreshing, the quiet had lasted too long. What was my son doing?
“Mikey, where are you?” I called into the house.
“I’m getting my backpack,” he replied.
I reached for my keys so I’d be ready to lock the door as soon as Mikey came out. When the door opened, sixty-plus pounds of energetic fur tried to bowl me over. Ella giggled and made a grab for the dog’s tail as he shot past her into our yard.
Mikey appeared at the door and peeked outside.
“Mommy, Goldie got out.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, help me grab Goldie before he gets out in the street.” There would be hell to pay if our closest neighbor, Samuel Westen, saw the dog before I could get him back in the house. The thought crossed my mind to let Goldie run rampant in his pristine backyard to retaliate for his treatment of Desi, but I nixed it quickly. I knew Desi planned to circulate over the weekend her petition for making the lighthouse keeper’s cottage a historical site. Any altercation with him now would make the situation worse.
We ran after the now-muddy dog. The golden retriever saw us chasing him and gave two short barks before jogging off around the side of the house. Luckily for me and the ticking clock, Goldie never seemed to remember which side of the yard was fenced.
I nabbed him by the collar as he neared the fence line and brought him inside along with the kids, quickly cleaning him off as well as I could with a dish towel. Our long-haired tabby cat, Fluffy, saw us. She alternated between eyeing her food bowl and meowing loudly in our direction. When she realized we were drying Goldie off, she ran off for the furthest corner of our house lest we planned to bathe her too.
Mikey had given our pets their unoriginal names. I would forever be grateful that Adam and I had chosen Ella’s name, rather than allowing Mikey to name her, or we would have been stuck with a daughter named Baby Sister.
The Disney calendar on the kitchen wall caught my eye. Blue x’s indicating Adam’s out-of-town trips clouded the corner of almost every square. What I wouldn’t give for him to be home more often or—dare I hope for it—a week-long couple’s trip to the Caribbean. My eyes lingered on the small calendar of June at the bottom of April’s page. We’d gone to Jamaica on our honeymoon and often talked about going back. The law firm where Adam worked owed him some vacation days, and we could definitely use a vacation without kids. I closed my eyes for a second and imagined the warm tropical sun kissing my skin.
“Mom! I’m ready. Let’s go,” Mikey said. Reluctantly, I traveled mentally back to the soggy Pacific Northwest.
I herded the kids out of the house, firmly closing and locking the door as we left.
My phone beeped once to notify me of a new voicemail. The call log revealed my former colleague, Gena, had called while we were wrestling with the dog. Last week, in a moment of optimistic bravado, I’d put out feelers about going back to work. I hoped that was the reason she’d called. It would put me another minute behind schedule, but I couldn’t wait to check the message. Of course, the moment I hit play, an aging car badly in need of a muffler replacement—the only car I’d seen all morning—drove past, and I had to replay the voicemail twice before deciphering what Gena had said.
“Hey, Jill, it’s Gena. I think I may have a lead on a job you’d be perfect for. Call me back as soon as you can. I’ve got a volu-mandatory work social tonight, but I should be home by nine if we don’t connect before then.”
A thrill shot through me, followed by a sense of unease. Was I ready to go back to the workforce full-time? The part-time job with Elkins Development Group was one thing, but a full-time job with travel was quite another. I wished I’d answered the phone when she called.
Growing up, both of my parents had been teachers; my mother taught middle school social studies and my father taught elementary P.E. I’d loved having both of them home during summer and school vacations, and we’d spent a lot of time together as a family. We’d camped all over the West in the summers and gone sledding over Christmas break, all memories I cherished. I didn’t think I’d be able to create anything close to that for my kids if Adam and I both had demanding jobs. However, I did miss working outside the home and interacting with adults on a daily basis.
My phone’s calendar alarm rang, and I pulled myself away from thoughts of future career plans. We had twenty minutes to make it to Mikey’s school before he’d officially be tardy.
I pushed Ella in the stroller, and Mikey plodded along beside us in the Spiderman rain boots he’d insisted on wearing. We made our way down the hill toward the preschool, walking so slowly I feared inchworms would beat us there. Through past experience, I’d found it quicker to walk the six blocks to downtown Ericksville than to wrangle the kids into their car seats and then search for parking near the preschool. Today, driving may have been the better choice.
“I want to push,” Mikey said, inserting himself between me and the stroller.
“Ok, but be careful of your sister.” I hovered over him, ready to grab the handles if necessary. Arguing would only put us further behind.
The front wheel hit a crack in the concrete and rolled over the edge of the sidewalk and into the neat line of rocks bordering Mr. Westen’s prize flower garden.
Of course, he was standing in his driveway at the time and poked his head out from the back tailgate of the Jeep Wagoneer he’d probably purchased new in 1980. Pollen didn’t dare sully his car, even though he habitually parked the vehicle under a maple tree in his gravel driveway. The rear of the vehicle was crammed full of intricately stacked camping paraphernalia, like a giant game of Jenga.
“Hey, watch it, kid!” Mr. Westen walked toward us, his gait surer than I’d expect for a man in his late seventies. I knew he was deceptively strong because I’d seen him lug concrete pavers around last summer for a construction project behind his house.
Mikey shrank back instinctively and pressed himself against my leg. I put my hand on his head.
“It’s ok,” I whispered. I stroked his head and made a mental reminder to get him in to the barber soon.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “He only hit the rock, and he’ll be more careful next time.” I smiled and hoped feminine charm would work on him. Adam and I wanted to install a fence across the back of our property so we could let Goldie out to play in the yard, but city laws
required a neighbor’s permission to install such a fence on common borders. Mr. Westen had refused our request, saying a chain-link fence was an eyesore, even though his view of it would be blocked by a row of junipers we’d planted for privacy. In hopes that his opinion would soften, we planned to petition him and the city in a few months with a proposal for a different type of fence. I didn’t want to anger him before we even had a chance to ask. Beth had told me yesterday how he had pushed his agenda to sell the BeansTalk building through the town council, and after hearing that I wasn’t positive about our chances to get the fence approved.
My smile had no effect on him. He looked like the proverbial old man about to shake his fist at the young neighborhood whippersnappers.
“Keep your kids and dog out of my yard.” He gestured to our lawn, which was visible through the trees at the top of his sloping property. “Don’t think I didn’t see that dog running loose up there. I’m leaving for a week-long fishing trip and if I come back and find my flowers dug up or dog crap in the yard, I’m calling the cops on you.” He turned back to his vehicle and roughly shoved a fishing pole on top of a red Coleman cooler while muttering something about leash laws.
“Old coot,” I whispered under my breath as I pulled Ella’s stroller out of the dirt. He turned and cocked his head in our direction as though he’d heard me. I avoided making eye contact with him. He may have been a cranky old man, but he could still instill fear.
“Let’s go, Mikey.” I nudged my son, and we quickened our pace until we were well away from Mr. Westen’s house. I had no idea how he’d seen Goldie loose in the yard for the brief period of time the dog had escaped. It wasn’t like we let Goldie roam free on a regular basis. My childhood dog had been hit by a car, so I was fanatical about always having Goldie leashed when outside. With all of his concerns about the dog getting into his flower beds, you’d think he would be more amenable to a fence between our properties, but his opposition to the fence was purely spiteful. I prayed I wouldn’t be that crabby when I grew old.