by Maggie Dana
“Why not?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, which is just as well because I haven’t got a clue what to say. “Oh, I get it.” His face crumples into laughter. “My God, now all that nonsense in your kitchen finally makes sense.”
The door from the mud room bangs open. Molly and the dogs arrive on a tidal wave of energy.
“Grampy,” she says, flinging herself into his lap. “I’m going to misery school with Tyler.”
“You are?” Tom says. “Can I come too?”
Molly tugs at his beard. “You’re too old.”
Carrie slides sideways through the door with an armload of bags. Tom takes one from her, sets it on the counter. “Molly’s right,” he says, winking at me. “I’m too old. Much too old.”
I blush even deeper.
“And,” he goes on, with an air of complacency, “I shall go on growing older, disgracefully.”
“Dad,” Carrie says, “you already have.”
* * *
I race home along the beach because I can see Ed Bigelow’s truck bouncing down my dirt road for our two o’clock appointment. He sets up his ladder and climbs on my roof, pokes around lifting shingles and shaking his head, then delivers his verdict.
“You can patch it up and pray for mild weather, or play it safe with a new one,” he says.
Bloody hell. “What happens if I do neither?”
Ed whacks a stray shingle into place with his hammer, then another. Some are curled like slices of stale bread; others went missing in the Thanksgiving storm.
“It might last the winter,” he says, climbing down. “But if we get a couple of nor’easters like last year, you’ll be shoveling snow from your bedroom.”
Ed leaves me with a written estimate for a new roof—slightly less than I paid for my car—and tells me not to wait because once the weather gets too bad for his guys to work outside, I’ll be out of luck till next spring. Oh yes, he’ll have to repoint the chimney as well because if he doesn’t, it’ll probably fall down and my gutters are a disgrace. Do I want new ones?
Maybe I’ll move to Mongolia and live in a yurt. Do they require chimneys? Gutters?
Sighing, I tramp inside and pick up the phone. No sense procrastinating. The folks at Loans-R-Us are delighted to help and in less than five minutes, I’ve almost doubled my short-term debt.
* * *
Within a week, men with crowbars are ripping shingles off my roof. Hammers crash and boots stomp above my head. To escape the noise, I grab a coat and walk to the main road. Tom’s SUV idles at the curb while he empties his mailbox. He nods hello and leans against the fender, thumbing through a fistful of envelopes. I pull Christmas cards from my box, more bills with PAST DUE stamped on the front, and a letter from Beatrice’s biotech company. Probably that insurance form I’m supposed to fill out and return right away.
Tom throws his mail in the car, climbs inside and lowers the window. “Heard any more about your book?”
“Those last three editors are taking a long time to say no.”
“Have you thought about entering a competition?”
I glance at the Publisher’s Clearinghouse envelope in my hand. “Like a sweepstake?”
“No,” Tom says. “A writing contest.”
“I’m not ready for a Pulitzer.”
“Few people are,” Tom says, grinning. “But there’s an article in last Sunday’s paper about an award for children’s writers. If I can find it, I’ll bring it over.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s that agency been treating you? Any problems?”
“None,” I say. “Things are a bit slow at the moment.” A serious understatement. The work’s fizzled out and probably won’t heat up again till the spring, but I’m not about to tell Tom. Don’t want to sound ungrateful for his help.
“Then I’ll catch you later,” he says, and drives off.
I walk back to my cottage to find the hammers have ceased. The roofers are taking a break, drinking coffee and smoking. Styrofoam cups litter the driveway and cigarette butts sprout like birthday candles from a bucket of sand. Wood shingles and broken bricks lie in heaps on the lawn. My bushes sag beneath the weight of tarpaulins and bent gutters.
Ed’s foreman assures me his men will clean up the mess.
After tossing the junk mail, I set my bills to one side and open the cards. Angels in braces from my dentist, a reindeer with its leg in a cast from Zachary’s vet, and from Tom, a card with eight birds perched on telephone wires like the notes of a musical score. God nest ye merry gentlemen, say the words beneath. I smile and open the envelope from my future employer, read the letter, and—
What the fuck?
They’re sorry, but the position I interviewed for is no longer available and they wish me every success finding employment elsewhere.
That’s it?
Forget about us and good luck for the future?
My body slumps as if it’s just been released from a corset. I drop the letter and it lands beside a card from the bank wishing me a joyous holiday season.
Does Beatrice know about this? I call her office but she’s as baffled as me, and no, there isn’t a hiring freeze, as far as she knows. She’ll contact a friend in HR and try to figure out what’s going on.
Doors slam, someone laughs, and I hear the rattle and clank of men climbing ladders. The hammers start up again, pounding nails till my head hurts. I can’t deal with this. Hell, I can’t even think. I have an urgent need to do something, but what? Where do I begin? Where do I find another job? Another life?
The pile of bills on my table seems to double in size.
Is Lizzie home from work yet? It’s two o’clock, no three. She’ll be in her office. I punch in her number, leave a message, then sit down in front of my computer to surf the Web, track down yet more places to send my résumé. It’s too close to the holidays. I won’t find anything this side of the New Year. Probably won’t find anything the other side, either.
I lean back in my chair. Spin around twice, kick off my shoes. Now what the hell do I do?
Take in a boarder?
Sell my house?
Charming cottage on the beach. Fabulous view. New roof.
Should I mention bad plumbing?
Lizzie calls at four thirty. I’m still at my desk, turning over possibilities, trying to fight my way through this. I’m screwed. Totally screwed. I have no reserves, no place to go but down. Right now, if I could afford it, I’d drink myself stupid.
“You sound a bit ragged,” Lizzie says. “What’s wrong?”
“I lost the job.”
There’s a pause. “With the agency?”
“No, the one in New London.”
“Why?”
I read her the letter. She lets out a sigh. “Jill, I’m sorry. This is shitty bad luck.”
No, it’s bad planning. If I hadn’t been blinded by my own fantasies, my own foolish, middle-aged illusions, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’d still have a business and I wouldn’t be heading for bankruptcy.
“I really needed that job,” I say, in carefully measured tones, “because I owe the bank rather a lot of money.”
“Don’t we all?”
“There’s more.”
“Credit cards?” Lizzie says, sounding worried.
“Worse.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No, but I will anyway.”
“Oh, shit,” Lizzie says, when I’m through explaining about the loan shark. “There was a Dean at the college who borrowed money like this. She missed a couple of payments and the bastards terminated her loan.”
I take a deep breath. “What did she do?”
“Sold her house to pay them off,” Lizzie says. “Jill, don’t do anything rash. There’s got to be another way.”
Except, right now, I’m not seeing it. Everything I have is tied up in this house, but if I sell it and pay off my debt, how much will I have left? Enough to buy a condo? Not around here. Rent an apartment?
No, that’s worse than chucking money down the drain.
My cottage.
The one my ex-husband inherited twenty years ago from an aunt he never knew and could have cared less about.
* * *
For me, it was love at first sight, a dream come true, but Richard declared the cottage beyond redemption and insisted it be put on the market right away. “Why do we need a hovel with no bathroom when we can fly to Palm Beach and stay in a hotel?” he said.
One of the floorboards gave way under his foot.
Through the cottage’s broken window, I stared across a wilderness of weeds toward sand dunes shaped like portobello mushrooms. Beyond them, fringed by beach grass, lay the frosted blue water of Long Island Sound.
Buckets and spades, sandcastles, children playing in the surf.
My boys will love this.
“With the money we get for this dump,” Richard said, brushing the dust off his slacks, “I could buy that Mercedes I saw last week.”
I didn’t bother to point out his BMW was less than a year old. Instead, I watched a beetle crawl along what was left of the windowsill and calculated the driving time between our house and this quiet corner of Connecticut. Two hours, maybe less if the traffic wasn’t bad and my station wagon didn’t overheat and force me to stop along the way.
So, while my husband flew off on business trips, the boys and I drove east to a shack with an outside toilet and a leaky roof. We explored the beach at low tide and I taught them the Latin names for blue crabs, ospreys, and quahogs. We collected driftwood and shells, and reveled in sunsets shot with mauve, pink, and pewter no painter would ever dare copy. Then, after timeless days spent camping out, we’d roll up our sleeping bags and return to the pristine house in the neighborhood my husband had picked out where I’d bathe the boys in the first hot water they’d experienced in over a week, have a quick shower, and be ready with a tray of drinks when Richard came through the door. He rarely asked about our trips to the cottage; he also never got around to selling it, thank God.
* * *
And now, I contemplate the home I created from the shambles of my divorce, this shack I rescued from a wrecker’s ball. For months, the boys and I suffered splinters from walking barefoot on plywood floors. We coped with a cantankerous toilet and took showers outside while I learned to use power tools, drive a straight nail, and mix cement. I tore down walls and rebuilt them. I caulked windows, installed light fixtures, and hung doors. My hands bear the scars of mistakes and success, and I savor the hours, the years I’ve lived and breathed in this space, raising my sons and watching them turn into men.
By myself.
I was ready, finally, to share it with someone special.
An elaborate cobweb stretches from my bookshelf to the curtain rod. A large spider crouches at its center, one of those hairy jobs with racing stripes and hobnailed boots. Colin would’ve had a fit if he’d seen this. “Every smudge has eight legs,” he’d said, “when I’m not wearing my glasses.”
My heart sinks, but my hands aren’t quick enough to catch it.
Outside, I hear the guys pulling ladders off my roof, shouting to each other as they climb into trucks. Going home to wives and girlfriends, watching TV, putting kids to bed. My stomach grumbles, so I heat a can of baked beans, pop two slices of bread in the toaster, and plug in the kettle for tea.
Comfort food.
Chapter 39
Sands Point
December 2011
I fall asleep on the couch and wake just before midnight. Something rustles outside. Is it the wind, fumbling around, chasing leaves and twigs across the front porch? I hear a thump. Must be the rope swing I’ve yet to take down. Feeling stiff and disoriented, I wobble into my kitchen and peer out the window, catch glimpses of light coming toward me, down my driveway. A flashlight? Would a burglar carry one of those? Yes, but he wouldn’t wave it about like a kid with a Jack o’Lantern.
Where the hell is my cat? Outside or in? Can’t remember, and I have a fleeting, improbable image of being defended by Zachary, fangs bared, claws extended, in full attack mode. I hesitate, then back away from the window and I’m about to reach for the phone when a face looms out of the dark. I scream. The face stiffens, captured in a cone of light from beneath. Hooded eyes, hairy cheeks. Heart pounding, I’m ready to scream again, when a voice calls my name. I race into the hall and yank open the front door.
“I could kill you for this.”
Tom steps inside on a blast of cold air. “Hey, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, but—”
“It’s midnight,” I say, still shaking.
“Ah, but your light’s still on,” Tom says, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Here’s that article I promised.” He clears his throat, begins to read. “The Bessie Walker Award for New Voices in Children’s Literature is open to unpublished writers in Connecticut. Deadline, December thirty-first.”
“Hey, I appreciate this, but it sounds a bit too fancy for me,” I say. “Archibald’s not exactly Alice in Wonderland or The Hobbit.”
“Be fun to enter, though.” Tom hands me the clipping. “Why not give it a try? The judges include agents and editors in New York.”
What the hell. I’ve got nothing else to do.
* * *
On Christmas Eve, the boys and I drive out to Harriet and Bea’s new house on a rise overlooking a pond at the north end of town. The sprawling ranch, with its vaulted ceilings and plaster walls, has antique pine floors, a retro kitchen full of pink and chrome appliances, and a basement rec room with track lighting and wall-to-wall shag carpet.
“Eclectic,” Jordan says, nodding approval. He runs his hand over the burled maple dresser in Harriet’s front hall. “Beautiful wood.”
I turn away to hide my smile. Is this the same boy who grew up living out of laundry baskets because putting clothes in drawers was too much trouble? Harriet catches my eye and winks.
“We have a little work to do here,” she says.
After touring the house, we settle down to exchange presents by the fire. Anna unwraps my gift—a wooden stegosaurus—and begs Alistair to help her assemble it, and as I watch his agile fingers fit the pieces together it’s easy to imagine them chipping at layers of rock and brushing away dirt to reveal the prehistoric treasures underneath.
Bea whispers in my ear. “I found out why you weren’t hired.”
“You’re gonna love this,” Harriet says. She refills my glass with champagne and settles on the couch beside me.
I look at Bea, then at Harriet. “I am?”
“Your old boss, up in Hartford, gave you a bum rap,” Bea says.
“Renee Dodd?”
Bea nods. “The bitch.”
I’m not sure which shocks me the most. Bea’s uncharacteristic language or her revelation about Renee. What could she have said? That I blew off work for two days because I was at the hospital helping a friend cope with her sick child?
“I think we may have a case,” Harriet says.
“A case? What do you mean?” I turn to Bea. “What, exactly, did Renee say about me?”
She hesitates. “That you were unreliable. Dishonest.”
I inhale a mouthful of champagne and choke on the bubbles
Harriet thumps me on the back. “We can sue her company for this,” she says. “And why the hell didn’t you tell us you were fired?”
I shrug. “Didn’t seem important.”
“Well it was.” Harriet shoots me a wolfish grin. “Finally, I get to pay you back for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Pay me back?”
“I owe you,” Harriet says. “Big time.”
“Idiot,” I say. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
“Are you forgetting my skiing accident?” she says. “If it hadn’t been for you, God knows how I’d have managed.”
Three years ago, while test driving a pair of parabolics at Killington, Harriet hit a patch of ice and collided with a rather stout tree. She broke
her nose, busted three ribs, and shattered her left ankle. I took care of Anna till she got out of the hospital. Then I took care of them both until Harriet could walk again. Three months, more or less.
“Anyone would’ve done the same,” I say.
“My family didn’t.”
“Yeah, well.”
She leans over and hugs me. “Will you let me handle this case?”
“You’re mad,” I say. “The judge will toss it out the window.”
“He won’t have a chance,” Harriet says, “because I plan to settle out of court.”
“How much?” Bea asks.
Harriet rubs her hands. “I’ll go for sixty and settle for forty. That okay with you, Jill?”
“Forty dollars?”
She laughs. “Forty-thousand, you numbskull.”
* * *
Well, after that, I drink far too much champagne and for a few hours I allow myself to think everything’s going to be okay. Forty-thousand dollars? Just because Renee Dodd lied about me? I mean, come on. Is this ridiculous, or what? But, as Harriet reminds me, people sue for much flimsier reasons and sometimes they win. She reckons we have a fighting chance.
After dinner, I sober up and tell Harriet I appreciate her concern, but I’d rather she didn’t tilt at windmills on my behalf. What’s the point? She isn’t going to win. Not against a huge insurance company. She argues, so I tell her I’ll be okay. Really.
Liar.
Harriet has no idea I’m all tapped out. Nobody does, except Lizzie and I swore her to secrecy. I haven’t even told my boys. This is my problem. I created it, and it’s up to me to find a way to fix it.
I’ll call a realtor and put the house up for sale next week.
Exclusive listing. By appointment only.
No way is Elaine Burke getting her hands on my cottage.
* * *
The day after Christmas, Boxing Day in England, Sophie rings up. She always does, or else I call her. “The boys are about to leave,” I say. “Hang on a minute. I’ll be right back.”