The Cottage Next Door

by Georgia Bockoven

  With stunning clarity Michael saw something in Leslie that he’d completely missed until then. “Friends don’t do what you did to me, Leslie. You had every right to say no, and every right to be angry, but you had no right to make me feel like the world’s biggest jerk for trying to show you how much I loved you.”

  Completely ignoring him, she went on, “Luke told me he loved me and I told him I wasn’t ready and he said it was because I was still in love with you and I told him he was crazy, that I had never really loved you, and he said that I was lying to myself and that I had issues I had to take care of before he would even think of coming back.” She stopped to blow her nose. “I don’t know what to do, Michael. Tell me what I should do.”

  He was too stunned to answer. Instead, he did what he should have done months ago and hung up on her. She called back. He didn’t answer. Next came a text. He ignored it. Then came another call, followed by another text.

  Michael put the phone on silent and laid it atop the wall beside him. He jumped down, stepping from rock to rock, as he made his way down the fifteen-­foot rock embankment to the sand below.

  It was a perfect night for running on the beach. Low tide meant that if he timed it right, he could ease past the cliff that guarded the south end of the cove and run all the way to Rollins Beach. Whether the tide was at ebb or flood when he made the turn would determine if he came back the same way or took the route through the housing tracts.

  He managed to make it to Rollins and back in time to see the first waves of the turning tide lick the base of the cliff. Instead of wearing him out, he’d come home feeling fired up and ready to face a morning that was still hours away.

  He stopped to check the damage he’d done to his bumper when he hit the wall. Luckily, it was only a minor addition to the scratch he’d left the last time he pulled into the driveway too fast, not enough to make a claim—­just enough to lower the resale value. Before going inside, almost as an afterthought, he remembered his phone was still on the brick wall.

  As expected, he’d been bombarded with calls and texts from Leslie. She must have been at it the entire time he was gone, thinking she could wear him down. Assuming no one but Leslie had called, he didn’t bother checking his messages.

  HESTER WAITED AN hour for Michael to call her back, finally deciding he must have gone to bed and that he would get in touch with her in the morning. Michael wasn’t the type to ignore her call the way she had thoughtlessly ignored his, even knowing how worried he would be when he couldn’t reach her. He’d always been caring and thoughtful, the kind of young man you hoped your daughter brought home.

  But morning came and still no return call. Knowing Michael always checked the voice mail at the gallery first thing in the morning, she left a message there, asking him to meet her for lunch at her house. What she had to tell him, she couldn’t do at work. And while it wasn’t fair to put him in the middle and dump everything on him, she couldn’t wait for Peter to come home, not with the new bookkeeper starting in three days.

  Staring at the envelope she’d propped against the mirror on the fireplace mantel, she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. Every breath was an effort as the crushing weight of what she’d done wrapped around her like a hungry python.

  There was enough money in the envelope for her to disappear. She could get on a train—­no one ever looked for someone on a train these days, it was all airports and rental cars—­and ride the rails until she found a quiet town where sixty-­three-­year-­old widows were accepted as part of the community, no questions asked.

  If she just walked away she would never have to see the disappointment reflected in the eyes of the ­people whose trust she had betrayed.

  But it wasn’t her money. It never had been. She’d borrowed it when she was desperate for a loan none of the banks would give her, refusing to consider how complicated it would be to pay back. All that mattered at the time was being able to pay the doctor at the cancer clinic. Without the treatment, any hope of a cure for David would be gone.

  What choice did she have? Her dear sweet David, the love of her life, the man who’d asked her to marry him despite her reputation as a hand-­me-­down from the football team, had flatly refused to sign the papers to get a second mortgage on their home. Selling it was out of the question. He refused to die and leave her in debt, and she refused to accept that he couldn’t be saved. All they needed was a final fifty thousand dollars beyond the money Hester had already given them when she stripped her and David’s retirement savings accounts and cleaned out their regular savings. She would have sold one of her kidneys to help him. Or, she would do what she did: risk spending the rest of her life in prison.

  The treatments they’d been assured would save his life gave him less than a year. A horrific year. She’d finally accepted that the footbaths to remove toxins were a sham. The constant colonic irrigations perforated his bowel. The bizarre diet of vegetables and raw liver left him in a constant state of nausea. The mysterious mixture of chemicals fed into his veins, touted as being an alternate, supposedly gentler form of chemotherapy left him so weak he needed help getting from the bed to a wheelchair. And still the tumors grew and spread.

  David begged her to let him go home so he could die in peace. Hester begged him to try a little longer—­a day, a week, and finally a month. For her. She couldn’t bear the thought of living without him.

  He gave in and continued the treatments. And died a terrible death with nothing peaceful or gentle about it. The doctor said it was David’s fault. Cures only happened when the patient had faith in the treatment, and David had stopped believing.

  Hester was numb for months and then woke up. First she dealt with simple anger. Within a month the anger turned to fury. She filed a complaint with the Medical Board of California and followed it through the investigative process. She’d spent the entire past week, when she should have been at work preparing for the new bookkeeper, at the agency’s district office attending hearings.

  Feeling confident she’d done what she could to guarantee no one else would be scammed by the doctor or his clinic, she turned to the debt she owed Peter and Katherine. She was counting on Michael to help her. He would be kind because it was his nature. And he would do what had to be done because that was his nature, too.

  She’d picked up the check for the sale of her house at the title company the day before. There was enough to cover what she’d taken, plus interest. It was the part where she had to admit what she’d done, where she had to look Michael in the eye and see the disappointment that would haunt her the rest of her life that she feared the most.

  She’d planned it this way. It was cowardly, but she simply couldn’t face Peter and Katherine. Not now. Maybe later when their disappointment had developed a protective shell of anger. They’d always treated her like family.

  And this was how she’d thanked them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MICHAEL STEPPED FROM the shower and did a quick dry off before he wrapped the towel around his waist. The phone rang in the bedroom at the same time he was taking his razor and shaving cream out of the cabinet. Unless Leslie had started up again after being ignored for two days, he was fairly confident it wasn’t her, which meant he probably should check.

  He flung himself across the bed to reach the phone on the nightstand before it went to voice mail. Seeing who it was gave him a curious sense of foreboding.

  “Hester—­,” he said, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “Finally.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch, Michael. Did you get the message I left this morning?”

  “I haven’t called the gallery yet.”

  “I wanted to know if you could come by my house later today.”

  “Of course. What time?”

  “Lunch?”

  He had a meeting with another vendor who hadn’t been paid. “Around two would
be better.”

  “Two?” She hesitated. “That would work.”

  She sounded exhausted, the way she had when David died. “I’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll make you those chocolate cookies you like. The ones with walnuts and powdered sugar coating.” The words were followed by a hiccuped sob.

  “Are you all right?” Of course she wasn’t. “Do you want me to come earlier?”

  “I’m fine. And two o’clock is perfect. If I’m going to get those cookies made I better get to the market.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Hester. I’m fine without—­”

  “Please, let me do this.”

  She’d been gone an entire week and instead of offering any explanation, she focused on some friggin’ cookies? “Okay. I’ll see you then. Do you need me to bring anything?”

  “No,” she said softly. “All I need is . . . Never mind. I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  DIANA STOPPED RUNNING and stood with her hands braced on her knees, gasping for air while her calves screamed in pain. Running on sand, even the wet packed sand along the shoreline, was a lot harder than circling the high school track at home. And it didn’t help that she’d put in twice the distance she usually covered.

  She took a drink from one of the bottles of water she wore on her belt. Next time she’d make sure Coconut was available. A dog that wasn’t used to running on a leash would be a distraction and bound to slow things down to a more reasonable pace.

  Despite her determination not to, Diana scanned the houses sitting at the top of the embankment, seeking the one with the brick retaining wall that she’d decided belonged to Peter. She was looking for Michael. She hadn’t heard from him in two days and feared she knew why, she just didn’t know what to do about it.

  A summer fog had rolled in that morning, blanketing the beach and sending the usual sun worshipers inland to find other ways to spend their day. According to Jeremy, the fog would burn off by noon and the tourists would return. But for now, it was just her and the seagulls.

  She started to leave when she caught a movement at the house she’d been watching. Even from this distance she could see that it was Michael. He was dressed for work in a brown suit and light blue shirt. The way he moved—­showing confidence but no ego—­took her breath away. She imagined him holding her and closed her eyes to prolong the feeling. Maybe this ache to be held had nothing to do with Michael. Maybe she just missed the feeling of having a man’s arms around her.

  She sighed when she saw him get into his car. He hadn’t even sent a glance in her direction. She was invisible.

  She wanted their relationship to go back to the way it had been in the beginning, uncomplicated. She hated the dance they were doing, where they concentrated more on making sure they didn’t step on each other’s toes than getting caught up in the music.

  WHEN DIANA ARRIVED at the cottage, she wandered from the kitchen to the living room to the back porch.

  As she had done since she’d first arrived, she stood at the window and stared at the world outside, a world that seemed different viewed from here than from any of the other rooms.

  No surprise, she found herself thinking about Michael. He confused her. No, it was how she felt about him that confused her. Everything about him was wrong.

  Since eighth grade, bad boys were the ones that had turned her on, the ones that made her care whether she was wearing underwear from Victoria’s Secret or Costco.

  Fluttering wings swept by the window. Seconds later a male house finch landed at the feeder. Instead of sorting through the seeds, he hopped to the edge of the tray and waited. A second bird joined him. A female. Diana smiled as they greeted each other and the male stood guard while the female ate.

  Attributing kindness and caring to the interaction was considered anthropomorphism by ­people who simply couldn’t accept animals had feelings. Diana refused to believe what she saw wasn’t real. Even in a world of survival of the fittest, there was room for love. And there was room to feel loss.

  How could she have had such a low opinion of herself that she’d felt lucky when someone like Howard chose her.

  Chose her? She wasn’t the love of his life, she was his meal ticket, until someone better came along. He’d cost her her home, her pride, and her dignity. Worst of all—­she’d been a willing accomplice to it all.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE Michael was due, Hester parted the curtains in the living room to look outside. He was never on time, he was always early. Almost compulsively so.

  She rearranged the cookies on the silver serving tray that David’s mother had given them as a wedding present forty years ago. After today it would go into the box of household treasures she’d promised her daughter. Her friend, Josie, had tried to talk her out of giving everything away, telling her that she should wait at least a year before she did anything she might one day wish she hadn’t.

  Josie had actually cried when she learned Hester was selling the house that she and David had lived in their entire married lives. Her friends all believed she was leaving Santa Cruz because it held too many difficult memories. In one breath they said they didn’t blame her for wanting a fresh start, in the next they insisted she should wait a year or two before taking such a drastic step.

  She could and should go to jail for what she’d done. Nothing separated her from someone who broke into a bank or a house. She was a common criminal.

  It wasn’t right, but she’d counted on Peter’s forgiving her once she returned the money.

  If she was wrong, at least she was prepared.

  Of course none of them knew the real reason she was leaving. She couldn’t face them if they did.

  Michael pulled into the driveway. Right on time—­ten minutes early.

  DIANA DROVE THE length of Ocean Avenue in Carmel twice looking for a parking place. Next came the side streets that were a reasonable distance from the gallery. Finally she caught a Mercedes inching its way out of a spot on San Carlos. There were benefits to driving a small car with dented fenders: she could get into tight places and no one parked close enough to pin her in.

  She got out, looked around at the Mercedes and Jaguars and BMWs and decided it was wasted energy to lock her car. Because she wasn’t in a hurry and no one was expecting her, instead of cutting across at Sixth, she wandered back to Ocean Avenue and looked at the shops.

  With few exceptions, Carmel was not a tee shirt and ceramic mug kind of souvenir city. The one-­ and two-­story business and homes looked Hobbit inspired. Quaint, picturesque, charming—­all applied.

  She wandered into one clothing store, and then another. This would not be the place she went to replenish her wardrobe. There were galleries and restaurants and wine shops and jewelry stores—­all of them aimed at the upper middle class and above.

  She was about to give up when she found the shoe store of her dreams. In addition to really cute shoes, there were handcrafted bags and scarves, some actually in her price range.

  If she spent just one lunch hour shopping, out of the two days a week she would be working in Carmel, it would be fifty-­five minutes more than she needed to get into trouble. Slowly, purposefully, she wandered back to San Carlos Street to the gallery.

  The building was old brick and tan stucco, with a heavy wooden door painted a dark burnt orange. Mullioned windows were outlined in the same color. Pink and red and blue flowers spilled out of planters on either side of the walkway, and a simple brass plate embedded in the stucco contained the only indication that the Peter Wylie Gallery was inside.

  As subtly as she could, Diana removed her phone and took a picture to send her mother. What was on the website really didn’t do the gallery justice.

  A bell chimed when Diana opened the door, triggering a smile from a middle-­aged man sitting at a desk working on a laptop. He stood. “Good afternoon. Please feel free to look around,
and let me know if you have any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Diana said. “I was hoping to see Michael, if he’s available.”

  The man frowned. “Was he expecting you?”

  “No, I just thought I’d stop by.” She smiled. “I’m the new bookkeeper.”

  “Ah—­Miss Wagnor.” He held out his hand. “Thomas Hardy—­no relation to the writer. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Diana, please.”

  “Diana it is.” He nodded. “I’m sorry, but Michael didn’t say when—­or if—­he would return today. He’s at a meeting. I’m afraid you may have come all this way for nothing.” When she didn’t say anything right away, he went on, “I could call him for you, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want to disturb him.” More disappointed than she wanted to let on, she moved to leave. “Would it be all right if I looked around?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Could you show me where I’ll be working?”

  “Of course. I should have suggested it.” He led her to the back of the showroom and into a small, thoughtfully decorated office. To make up for the lack of windows, hidden lighting poured from behind the cleverly constructed crown moulding. The walls were painted a soft yellow, with pillows covered in vibrant blues, greens, and pinks propped on the two oversize chairs opposite the desk. Two file cabinets, one a bright yellow, the other a soft gray, sat side by side on the back wall. The office was a world apart from the cubicle she’d worked in for the past six-­and-­a-­half years.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Can I try the chair?”

  He hesitated before answering. “I’ve been told not to say anything to any of our vendors, but since this directly involves you, it seems foolish to make you wait to find out.” He cleared his throat. “Hester has decided to leave early. Basically, the job is yours to start at your convenience.”