I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my arm and clicked the sander on again. The pad whirring, I slowly began making concentric circles on the floor, eating away the old stain and damage and leaving beautiful, pristine oak. If I had just stained and refinished the patches to match the existing floor, it would never look right or even. So I was stuck doing the whole thing over again. After the floors were sanded and any stains removed, we would have to seal the wood, buff it, and then apply the varnish. And we would have to do all of that on a day when it wasn’t ridiculously humid, a rarity during a Lake Geneva July.
The repairs were moving quickly along, and the house was starting to take on her once-glorious appearance. The end was in sight, and needed to stay that way so we could find a buyer before Jack’s contingency clause kicked in.
A flash in the hallway made me jump and nearly sand a divot into the floor. I quickly switched the sander off and stood. The floors didn’t need to be any more uneven than they already were.
“Hello? Who’s there?” An image of the squatter I’d found in my last house made me grab the nearest weapon: a pointed plaster drivel. It likely wouldn’t even break the skin, but it looked threatening despite being only a few inches long. “I said, who’s there? This is private property. Get out before I call the police.”
I heard footsteps and I lifted the drivel, ready to stab downward, when Matt appeared in the hallway, his palms up.
“It’s just me. Don’t shoot . . . or stab,” he said. He took a step backward. “Or call the police. It’s just me,” he repeated. “Or would a criminal be more welcome?”
I dropped the drivel, and it clattered to the floor. “Funny. What are you doing here? Where’s Abby?” I bit my tongue back from asking if she was with Julia. Mainly because I didn’t think I could say her name without scrunching up my nose like I had ingested lemon juice.
“She’s with my mom, getting ice cream in town,” he said as he slowly looked around the upstairs. “Wow. This place looks great.” He slowly moved a palm across the newly plastered walls. “You can’t even tell there was a fire here. None of it seems to be damaged at all.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ve had about a million crew members here over the past few weeks to make sure that would be the case. You could only find evidence of the damage if you opened up the walls.” I reached back and tightened my sweaty ponytail. “That’s the thing, Matt. Some scars are easier to hide than others.” I laughed thinly. I meant for it come off as a joke, but my words hung in the air, lightly bouncing off the wood and lath. I thought of the last time we were alone together, in his kitchen, and my heart beat faster.
He didn’t respond, but just looked at me with a weary look, like he had run cross-country with a pickup truck on his back. I bit my lip, wondering what he might say. Before he could speak, I blurted out, “Why aren’t you with Abby and your mom?”
“I had some business to do at my office, some papers to deliver, so she offered to take her for an hour,” he said.
Papers to deliver. I wondered what kind of papers those might be. Good ones? News of a settlement, or maybe a favorable decision? Or maybe it was bad news, like a lawsuit or a divorce. Either way, he might have just been a lawyer, but the things he dealt with were far from the cut-and-dried nature of the law.
He looked down at the manila folder in his hand, something I hadn’t noticed before. He extended it toward me. “Here.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize the delivery was about . . . me.” I almost said us. “What is this?”
“Open it,” he said.
I tore open the envelope, half-expecting to find another legal document pertaining to our marriage, another piece of paper to remind me that we were divorced. But it wasn’t about us at all. It was about it. The Maple house. I scanned the document, not absorbing what it said. “What? I don’t understand. . . .”
He smiled, leaning against the door frame. “It’s all legit. As long as the fire damage is repaired, you’ll have historical status on the house. Well, provisional status, pending a city council meeting.”
“I’m sorry . . . what?” I said.
He simply nodded.
I stood very still, tears threatening to fill my eyes. “How?” I whispered.
“Oh, well. A few of my clients are city council members—who shall go unnamed, by the way—and I spoke to them about your situation. I had some help from some others.” His face slightly flushed, but he pressed his mouth into his serious, lawyer face that I had seen so many times.
I looked down at the document again. I reread the words: The town of Geneva Lake hereby grants the house at 4723 Maple Street provisional historic status.
“From who? What favors?” I said.
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “I called the historical society. The woman who is the director over there went to our high school and—”
“Shannon,” I finished. “She helped me find a photo of the house when I was there a few weeks ago.”
He nodded. “She mentioned that. She said that she knew all about you, and the house, and she gave me some key words to use in my appeal to the city council. She said because of the house’s age and its period details, it can be qualified as a historical icon. She also said she wanted to help, that you and she had some things in common.”
“Yeah, divorce.” I laughed. I shook my head slightly, reading the words on the paper again. My eyes welled up, tears drip-dropping on the paper. I thought of his business. “What about Waterview? Aren’t they going to be pissed off when they realize it was their own lawyer who undermined their prospect?”
He gave me a half smile and shrugged, his hands outstretched. “Probably.”
“Why? Why would you do this?” I said as I quickly wiped my face on my sleeve and brushed my hair back from my forehead.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He lifted his palms in the air and shrugged slightly. “I thought I could help. I wanted to help.”
“Why?” I said again, my voice barely audible.
He looked around the room, considering the walls and the trim and the floor again. We stood in the tiny room for those moments, before he said, “Because I know how important it is to you.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say, other than, “Thank you so much.” I looked down at the provision, skimming it again to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
Jack wouldn’t be happy about the historical status, since it would all but negate the deal with Waterview, but after I calmed him down with a libation of his choice, I was sure he would understand what it meant: that someone would buy the house that much more quickly. It was now a certified historic gem, recognized by the town.
“You’re welcome.” He gave me one more glance before he turned to walk back down the stairs, the wood creaking underneath his feet. “I’ll let you finish sanding.” He smiled. “You know, those floors at the house on Lawn Avenue would have looked great if you had gotten your hands on them.”
If. The word echoed in my head. If only we had lived there long enough for me to work on them. If only we had stayed together and restored that house. If only our marriage could have been sanded and stained, all signs of trauma removed.
“If only,” I whispered, wishing I could say more, that I could find the words to tell him how I felt, and what I might still want.
As he walked down the stairs, they creaked under his weight and I called down, “Thanks again. And—” My voice faltered and I cleared my throat. “Say hi to Julia for me.” As I said it, I realized I truly meant it.
The footsteps stopped. “Oh. Well—”
I held my breath and braced myself for some unpleasant news—that they were taking Abby away together, that things were getting more serious, or maybe, that he was going to propose to her. The air seemed to stand still as I waited for whatever bomb he was about to drop. The stairs creaked again under his weight.
“Sure. Will do,” he finally finished before the front door squeaked open and he left.
&
nbsp; I exhaled as I walked to the master bedroom and watched in the darkness as he got into his car and drove away. I imagined whatever sensitive news he had, he figured could wait. He would tell me after I allowed the softening of the historical status to set in, so my reaction wouldn’t be one of fire and brimstone. Maybe they were getting married and the house was the final gift to me before he started a new life.
I clutched the manila folder in my hand as his headlights illuminated the darkened street before disappearing.
CHAPTER 40
“Restoring History,” Traci said triumphantly as she crossed her arms over her chest. The lights of the carousel in the distance bounced off her face as the sun began to go down across the shoreline. We were in Reid Park, near downtown Geneva Lake, at the annual St. Daniel’s Festival. Held in mid-August, it was an annual fund-raiser for the local Catholic church, complete with corn dogs, a Ferris wheel, and games rigged to empty the pocketbooks of exhausted parents.
The lights from the games and rides reflected off the lake water and against the bottom of the boats docked on the piers, giving the illusion of fireworks exploding underneath the surface. I settled back against the bench next to Traci and smiled. “Restoring History,” I repeated with a smile. “I couldn’t have picked a more perfect headline.”
The article on my house had run in the Lake Geneva Regional Newspaper four days prior, complete with a glamour shot of the almost-finished house. I had staged the outside with potted impatiens, a porch swing, and an antique yellow mailbox next to the door. Of course, the inside of the house wasn’t quite as pretty, and we still had a lot of work to do before it was done, but the outside made it look like the crown jewel of the street.
The article detailed my preservation efforts, and outlined the provisional historic status on the property. The photo made the house look even larger than it was, like a warm, welcoming estate just waiting for a family. In the picture, Abby and I sat on the front porch swing, smiling at each other. It was perfect, better than any advertisement I could have run in a real estate catalog or magazine.
“And it’s almost done?” she asked.
“Just about,” I said. I shook my head slightly as I thought of that day’s challenge: Alex versus calcimine paint. I had started to paint the living room a beautiful blue-gray color, and paused for lunch. When I returned, I found the paint beginning to peel and bubble away on the walls. I immediately knew it had to be calcimine. It was a type of paint that was used in the early part of the century that was water-based, and usually made at home. It was inexpensive, so it was attractive, but it had to be washed off before another layer could be applied. As with most things in the house, corners had been cut, so layer upon layer had been painted on, causing a buildup and peeling.
To fix the problem, we had to steam off the old paint and scrape it before we could apply anything new. Of course, we could have just painted over it with an oil-based paint that wouldn’t react with the calcimine, but it would likely chip in a year or two. So, the steamer and I were best friends that day.
“How many calls have you gotten about the house so far?” Traci said as she craned her neck before she saw Chris, riding on the carousel next to Abby. His eyes were closed with a smile, his consciousness transported somewhere far away, maybe to a land where he didn’t have to sit on a carousel to feel like a part of the world. In contrast, Abby’s eyes were wide open as she clutched the gold pole of her white horse as it careened around and around.
“Four. I’ve gotten four calls about the house,” I said with a smile. Every one of the callers had asked that I let them know when it went on the market—or before, if possible—so they could come see it. Two of the calls were from Realtors who had been searching for historic homes for their buyers, but hadn’t found anything quite right.
A feeling of warmth moved over my shoulders as I thought of showing the house to the potential buyers, of seeing the looks on their faces as they pictured themselves in the house. Yet as I thought of the moment when I turned over the key, a sadness pricked at my happiness. The house had been a part of my life for the past few months and, like with anything special and important, moving on would be bittersweet.
At least I knew that Jack and I likely wouldn’t have to sell to Waterview. The house would remain standing, and I would find a buyer well before my sixty-day deadline.
“You look happy. Finally,” Traci said with a smile.
I nodded. “I am. Finally.” I looked at Chris again. “He looks happy, too,” I said.
She gave me a half smile. “He is. For the moment.” She leaned back on the bench and put an arm on the back, shifting toward me, and looking around in the trees. “Cicadas are almost gone.”
I nodded. Their numbers had started to dwindle considerably in the past few days, and their deafening buzzes had dulled to low background music. All of the newscasters and papers said that within a week, they would be gone for another seventeen years.
“Seventeen years,” she said slowly. “Can you imagine where we’ll be the next time they arrive?”
I considered her question as I looked out over the lake. The water was calm, and I could see only two boats out, bobbing in the water. I turned back to her. “No, I can’t. But I feel like I’ll be . . . okay. For the first time since the divorce, I feel like the future isn’t this thing that has to be endured. Feared. Mistrusted, if that makes sense. I feel like there might be hope yet.”
She nodded. “I get it.” She looked at Chris again and smiled. “Thank you so much for letting him help on the house. He really loved it, and it gave a sense of purpose to his day.”
“Of course. He was a hard worker. We’d love to have him back on the next project.” Even though Eddie or I had to repeat instructions to him a few different times, and in very simple terms, Chris worked harder than most of the crew. He was always the last to drop the broom, and the first to arrive on-site.
“You know, we came up with a plan for him. For when we’re gone. We found this really great living situation.” She looked down and laughed. “Let’s call it what it is—a group home. But a good one. One where he’ll be safe and have friends. Shit, that’s all we want, you know?”
I nodded and gave her a sympathetic look.
“Me, too,” I said quietly.
“What about Elsie? Any hits on that situation?” Traci asked. The carousel came to a stop and we rose, waiting for Chris and Abby at the exit. His large frame lumbered next to her, as he clapped his hands and hummed while walking over to us. She skipped along with him, eventually grabbing his hand and leading him toward us.
“No. Nothing yet,” I said with a frown as I reached for Abby. A sidebar had accompanied the article, like we had asked, but it hadn’t gotten us any closer to finding Elsie’s daughter. While I had received calls on the house, the phone was silent on Elsie’s daughter.
“What do you guys want to do next?” Traci asked Abby and Chris.
“Funnel cake! Funnel cake!” she said and gave a little bounce up and down.
“Funnel cake! Funnel cake!” Chris repeated.
We followed the overpowering sugary smells of the funnel cakes and patiently stood in line for one of the sticky, dense creations sprinkled with powdered sugar.
Abby barely sat down at a picnic table before she stuck her fingers into the center and began pulling it apart. Chris slowly began to dismantle his, Traci carefully watching and hovering over his shoulder.
“Slow down,” I said to Abby.
She wiggled sticky white fingers at me. “Help,” she said.
“Napkins,” I muttered as I glanced over my shoulder toward the other food vendors. “One second. Don’t move.” I grabbed a stack of napkins off the corn dog stand and headed back toward our table. My eyes flashed to the beer truck, and were about to return to Abby when a familiar flash of blond hair made me stop, causing a couple behind me to nearly run into my back. “Sorry,” I muttered to them as I tried to quickly look away from the truck, but it was too late.
Julia pretended that she didn’t see me, either, and turned her back toward a group of attractive friends, all varying copies of her. They were dressed in bright pinks and greens and wore white jeans with metallic wedge heels. Long, sparkly earrings dangled to their tanned shoulders, and they clutched plastic cups of wine with perfectly painted nails.
I thought of Matt’s olive branch, and took a deep breath. “Hang here,” I said to Traci as I walked over to Julia and her friends. They pretended they didn’t see me until I was practically on top of them, a comically awkward avoidance strategy.
“I don’t want to bother you, or intrude, but I just wanted to come over and say hello,” I said.
Julia gave me a questioning look before she slowly nodded. She looked over my shoulder and waved to Abby at the picnic table. “I’m sure she’s having fun here.” Her tone was measured, cautious.
“She is. Like I said, I don’t want to bother you. . . .” I trailed off, but none of her friends so much as smiled. “Although it seems that I am, so I’ll get out of here.” I turned to leave, my face flushing in discomfort.
“Good luck with the house,” she said.
I turned back. “Thanks. Matt’s help really made a lot of difference.”
At the mention of Matt, Julia’s friends all looked at each other before turning their collective, angry gaze on me. Julia looked like she had been slapped, and then her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure it did.” She turned her back to me, leaving me on the outside of the circle.
I was about to walk away, but the irritation building in my chest made me tap her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, did I miss something?”
Cicada Summer Page 24