All or Nothing

by Deborah Cooke

  Dinah winced. “It’s sold.”

  Jen was unable to fully hide her disappointment.

  Dinah smiled. “There’s a conditional offer, which is why the sign hasn’t been changed, but I’m pretty sure it will go through…”

  “Conditional upon what?” Teresa asked.

  Dinah straightened. “I don’t think I’d be breaking any confidences to tell you that it’s a financing condition. Obviously, the issue is that a lot of bank personnel are away for the holidays…”

  “If the buyer was certain the financing would go through, there would be no financing clause in the offer,” Teresa noted.

  Dinah studied her warily. “No, I suppose not. But I do think that it will go through.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No, I don’t,” Dinah said carefully. Jen could see her back rising.

  “And financing clauses do fall through,” Teresa insisted.

  Dinah flicked a glance at Jen. “That’s true. If you’re interested in the building, I can call you if that happens.”

  Jen wouldn’t have bet a nickel that that would happen.

  Teresa leaned forward. “We’ve just driven from Boston to see it. Don’t you think it would save all of us a lot of time if we saw the building now? That way we’d all know if we were interested, if the financing clause fell through.”

  Dinah sat back. Jen could tell that she wasn’t used to people playing as assertively as Teresa did. But she reached into her folder and pulled out a listing, sliding it onto the table between them. “Here’s the listing price,” she said, tapping a number on the page. Jen’s eyes widened but Teresa made no outward sign of surprise. “I’ll tell you that it’s higher than is typical for Rosemount, because the building is on the historic register and it’s structurally in excellent repair.” She glanced up. “It’s a premium property, and although it’s an estate sale, the family want their price.”

  Teresa was working her way down the listing, her fingertip pausing on the square footage and the description of the apartment. “One kitchen, one and a half baths?”

  “There’s a washroom with toilet and sink on the main floor, that Mr. MacCauley used to let customers use.”

  “The insurance will kill you on that,” Teresa noted. “How high are the ceilings?”

  “Twelve feet throughout. There’s a tin ceiling on the main floor, in the shop,” Dinah said, and Jen caught a glimpse of her enthusiasm for the space. “Hardwood floors throughout. The kitchen upstairs could use an update, but the plumbing and wiring were done in the seventies so should be okay.”

  Teresa was still reading. “And a full basement? How high is the ceiling down there?”

  “Nine feet. The foundation is stone, about three feet thick.”

  “And the basement is dry?”

  Dinah nodded. “It’s a premium property,” she reiterated. “Because it’s listed on the register, it won’t be possible for the new owner to make substantive changes to the building.”

  “We wouldn’t want to.” Teresa glanced up, drained her coffee cup and smiled. “Can we see it? Maybe now?”

  When Dinah hesitated, Teresa leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you like a back-up plan in case the offer does fall through? Seems to me you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Sure,” Dinah said, although there was little enthusiasm in her voice. “Let me get the keys.”

  “I think you could have been a little less pushy,” Jen said to Teresa when Dinah had left the table.

  “Why?” Teresa cast her a confident smile. “Time is precious, Jen. We came here to see it and we’re going to see it. No wasted trip for us.”

  “Unless it really is sold.”

  “Even so, you’ll know a Realtor here.”

  Jen watched the Realtor’s body language and wasn’t sure that Dinah would be calling anyone who knew Teresa Tucker anytime soon.

  * * *

  The three women went across Rosemount’s Main Street in silence, stamping their booted feet on the sidewalk as Dinah unlocked the old door.

  Jen crossed the threshold and lost her heart.

  The tin ceiling was gorgeous, intact and original. The transom over the oak door she’d already admired had the address etched into the glass, surrounded by etched curlicues. The main window had been replaced, simply because it was large and had been broken at some point in time, and now was double glass. Above it, the original stained glass window that was the same width remained.

  The store interior was surprisingly bright, even without the electric lights on. The store occupied the whole floor of the building, one corner at the back blocked off for that small washroom. The high windows across the back wall had been replaced with glass blocks, which let in more light. In the middle of the space, a stair went up to a locked door at the summit, and beneath it, a door that could be locked led to the basement.

  The old counter was there, also made of oak, its surface polished smooth from countless transactions. The counter was j-shaped and wrapped around the space claimed by the staircases. Telephone jacks and wiring seemed to have been passed through the building in the stairs.

  There was crown moulding around the ceiling, wood moulding which was carved into the furling shapes of acanthus leaves. The floor looked original too, and was made of wide planks of oak. Jen could smell the beeswax used to polish it and she could see the square heads of the old nails used to hammer it down.

  “It was the general store a hundred years ago,” Dinah said. “Mr. MacCauley, who ran the bookstore here for ages, tried to keep it as original as possible.”

  “He did a good job,” Jen said, unable to resist touching the smooth surface of the counter. “It’s beautiful.”

  Dinah studied her. “Are you from here?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you find out about the listing? I didn’t put it on the internet.”

  “I was here, visiting with friends, and saw it. I’m looking to open a shop and it just seemed perfect.” Jen turned away before Dinah could ask any questions about who Jen’s friends might be. “Can we see the apartment?”

  The apartment desperately needed an update. Teresa grimaced at the kitchen and bath and muttered something about needing to gut it that obviously offended Dinah.

  “The layout is good,” Jen said of the kitchen. “I could paint the cabinets, lay a new linoleum floor, maybe put in new counters, and it would look great.”

  “The bathroom, though,” Teresa said, gesturing with one finger as if she was afraid to touch anything.

  “I like the tub,” Jen said, admiring the claw foot iron tub in one corner. “Again, I think paint and new tiles would make a world of difference. I don’t think it needs that much work.”

  Dinah smiled at her.

  The apartment had wonderful big windows as well, three facing the street from what would be the living room and three facing the modest back lot. Two were in the bedroom and one was in the tiny kitchen. There was an alley that serviced the parking spaces behind each of the buildings. She sighed and glanced around, admiring the hardwood floor and the banister that coiled at the summit of the stairs.

  “It’s great,” she said, listening to the comparative quiet outside. “I love it.”

  “You’re one tough negotiator,” Teresa teased.

  Dinah almost smiled, but then her cell phone rang. Jen and Teresa strolled to the back of the apartment to give Dinah some privacy, although her voice echoed in the empty space. “I think there’s room for a garden,” Jen said.

  “A couple of chairs and cooler,” Teresa said. “You might be able to make a patio without checking with the historic preservation people.”

  “I’d think you could lay some stones for it. It wouldn’t be permanent and would look nice. I’ll bet if you open the windows, you can hear the sea.”

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t get a date in this place, if you walked down Main Street naked,” Teresa said with a sigh. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

&nbs
p; It wasn’t exactly what Jen wanted, but it was the closest approximation she could make on her own. Maybe, just maybe, she’d meet some small town guy with similar values to her own.

  Maybe she’d already done that.

  “Yes, it is. It’s perfect,” she said to Teresa just as Dinah came back.

  “Sorry to give you bad news,” she said, not looking overly sorry at all when she glanced at Teresa. “The condition has been cleared: the building is sold.”

  * * *

  Jen wasn’t in a good mood when she got home. She was feeling as if everything she wanted was just coming close enough to tempt her, then was being snatched away by unseen forces. She was annoyed and tired and looking forward to going back to work at Mulligan’s that night, even if it meant singing to an empty pub.

  She’d be singing, anyway. Motown music always cheered her up. Having a shift meant that there was no time to have dinner with Teresa, but they were going to hang out at Teresa’s on New Year’s Eve together.

  “Call us a couple of wild spinsters,” Teresa said when she dropped Jen off. “Bring your knitting and I’ll pick up the bubbles. No guarantees that you’ll keep gauge once we start on the champagne, though.”

  Jen smiled and waved and tried not to think of Zach trying to divert her from killing him by offering a glass of champagne.

  Natalie’s house was empty, no one answering when she yelled. There was a note propped up beside her mug. ‘Gone to water Cin’s plants,’ her mother had written. ‘Drink this.’

  The green leafy stuff in Jen’s mug smelled more like anise this time. She smiled and filled the kettle, uncertain she’d drink this stuff either. The phone rang and she answered it without thinking. “Hello?”

  “Is Guinevere Maitland there, please?”

  Jen sat down heavily. She knew this woman’s voice and was not particularly glad to hear it. “This is Jen.”

  “Hi, Jen.” The woman’s voice warmed. “This is Dr. Levittson.”

  Jen’s voice didn’t warm as much. Maybe that was because she felt as if she was suddenly in freefall. “Hello, Dr. Levittson.”

  “I’m glad to have caught you at home,” the oncologist said. “I came into the office this week to catch up on paperwork and your mammogram results are here.”

  “Yes,” Jen said, closing her eyes in fear. She thought it unlikely that Dr. Levittson would call to chat about a clear mammogram result. The kettle began to boil but she ignored it.

  The doctor cleared her throat. “Jen, there’s something I don’t like the look of in your right breast. It’s small, it might just be a calcification or a cyst, and really, if I was talking to another woman of your age with no personal or family history, I would just keep an eye on it. The fact is though, Jen, that I want to be proactive here, given your history.”

  “I understand.”

  “Listen to me, Jen. I don’t think it’s anything, but I want to be sure. You must remember that we talked about the fact that recurrence is most likely in the first two years after the initial diagnosis.”

  “I do,” Jen said, her eyes filling with tears. Not again. It couldn’t come back again. It couldn’t steal everything from her again, not when she was finally finding her stride again.

  But cancer could and Jen knew it and that was why she was so very afraid. She clutched the phone cord in her fingers, barely noticing how cold they had become.

  “I’ve called the lab,” Dr. Levittson said and her matter-of-fact tone was reassuring. What Jen had liked about Dr. Levittson was that the woman always gave the impression of having everything under control. Whether it was true or not—and it couldn’t be true, really—her assurance and confidence had always been reassuring to Jen. “Unfortunately, they’re backed up in January, what with the holidays and all, but there’s a cancellation on the tenth. I want to do a fine needle biopsy and I’ll be there myself to make sure we get a sample from the area in question. Can you possibly make that date? It would be at 2:30, otherwise we’re into February.”

  Jen couldn’t even imagine declining this appointment. She’d do whatever was necessary to know the truth as soon as possible.

  “I’ll be there.” Her voice was small and tight and she sat curled on the stool by the phone. Her guts were writhing into knots.

  Dr. Levittson cleared her throat. “Jen, I don’t want to frighten you. You know that mammogram equipment is very sensitive and we have many more false positives than was once the case.”

  “That’s what they said last time,” Jen acknowledged and Dr. Levittson sighed.

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “I’ll see you on the tenth,” Jen said, wanting only to get off the phone.

  “Yes. Try not to worry.” Dr. Levittson’s voice lightened as she used an old joke they had shared. “And eat your veggies, Jen. Those leafy greens are good for you.”

  Jen tried to laugh lightly but failed. The kettle was boiling, but she had no time to pull it off the stove. She ran in the other direction and barely made the bathroom before she vomited.

  She knelt on the tile floor and cried as her body emptied itself. It was back. Or maybe it wasn’t. Never mind the financial burden: she was sure the uncertainty would kill her as surely as the cancer could.

  Jen wiped her tears, knowing they wouldn’t help. She couldn’t put her family through the ordeal again, not without knowing for sure. Jen decided she’d say nothing until—or unless—Dr. Levittson said the big C really was claiming real estate in her right breast, too.

  Maybe not thinking about it, or not talking about it, would diminish the boogeyman’s power.

  Or maybe not.

  Either way, this time she was going to drink the tea her mother had left for her. Jen didn’t figure she had a lot left to lose.

  * * *

  The box was delivered on the tenth of January.

  Jen was heading out the door, panicking about being late for her needle biopsy. She’d been dawdling, worrying about which prosthesis to wear, which was the least of her troubles. The truth was that she was terrified and avoiding what frightened her most seemed like good sense. She hadn’t told anybody, which had left all of them ignorant and confident, and seemed to have only increased her own terror.

  She opened the door to find a courier on the doorstep, wearing a baseball cap pulled down low. He had his hand on the bell but hadn’t pushed it yet.

  Before she could say anything, he offered a small box to her.

  It was addressed to her, but it was from the Holland-Mercer Art Gallery. The address for the gallery was downtown, and Jen was sure she’d never been there.

  “Are you sure this is right?” she asked.

  “Package for Jennifer Maitland,” he said.

  His voice sounded familiar.

  She looked up at him for the first time. Her heart stopped cold when she met that dancing green gaze, then galloped off to distant horizons. “Zach?”

  He grinned and cocked a finger at her. “Gotcha.”

  “Not really.” Jen felt herself blushing. The man shouldn’t have been grinning at her, as if he was glad to see her. She certainly shouldn’t be glad to see him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making a delivery.”

  “For this gallery? This is what you decided to do with your life?”

  Zach laughed. “No. I have a better plan. Maybe I just wanted to see you again.”

  “Why?”

  “The usual reasons.” He bent and stole a kiss, his smile fading as he gave her a considering look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Jen lied. “I’m late, that’s all.”

  “Liar,” he said. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

  “Oh, well, working too hard, I guess.”

  He considered her for a moment, then gestured to the box. “Go on, open the package.”

  “I can’t right now. I’m late.”

  “Then bring it with you and open it on the way.” He was practically bouncing, doing his Tigger imitation
again, and Jen knew he was itching for her to open the parcel.

  “I don’t think that will work…”

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to. Come on. Where are you going? Early shift at Mulligan’s?”

  “No. Look, you can’t drive me. You can’t.”

  “If you’re late, you won’t get there on time on public transit. Besides, I’m playing courier today. I’ll happily courier you wherever you want to go.”

  “But…” The truth was that Jen didn’t want to tell Zach where she was going.

  “Jen, unless you’re going to Timbuktu, it’s not a problem. Come on, you’re not putting me out. I’m offering.” Zach strode toward the red Neon, which Jen now saw was parked at the curb. Roxie was in the back seat. She saw Jen and barked. “That’s the bark of joy,” Zach said. “You can’t let Roxie down now.”

  Jen locked the door behind herself, knowing she’d lost. She’d get him to drop her off close to the clinic, but not right at the door. It would save her time and wouldn’t give her secret away. It was a rationalization and Jen knew it. She could use a dose of Zach’s irrepressible optimism.

  She spoke to Roxie through the back window—which Zach had rolled down for her—and nearly got licked to death. Zach opened the door for Jen and she got in, laughing as Roxie nuzzled the back of her neck.

  “She likes you,” Zach said as he got in.

  “I hope so. It would be a bit weird if this was how she greeted people she didn’t like.”

  He laughed and Jen felt better. “Go on, tell me that you missed me. That you’re not sleeping nights because you’re pining away for me.”

  Jen scoffed, because she knew he expected it. “If I admitted that, it would only encourage you.”

  “And we’ve agreed already that I’m incorrigible,” Zach said with false solemnity. “Should I sing?”

  “No, please don’t.”

  He clucked his tongue, making a chicken sound, and Jen found herself glad to be in his company again. The car seemed full with the three of them, because it pretty much was. She gave him an intersection, lied about being late for a class, and he didn’t question her. Once they were en route and he’d scolded Roxie for steaming up the windows—which had no discernible effect—he tapped the box with a fingertip. “Go on, open it.”