Charming fixer-upper on two acres overlooking Diamond Lake
Built in 1860, and listed for the first time in over fifty years, this stately lake house boasts three levels, all with uninterrupted views of Diamond Lake.
This secluded piece of prime property is only a five-minute drive to the heart of Jewel Harbor, a quaint seaside village on the beautiful New England coast and only two hours’ drive north of Boston.
This is a must-see for investors, holidaymakers, or those seeking a sea change from the hustle and bustle of city life.
This priceless piece of history will not last long. Be quick!
Maggie scoured each photo one by one. Sure, it needed a coat of paint and a little TLC, but it was a steal and it had character. You couldn’t even consider buying something like that anywhere near Boston without spending a fortune.
The more closely she inspected the pictures the more her wistful smile grew. From the thicket of trees lining the boundary of the property to the blue shutters on the windows, to the two Adirondack chairs painted fire engine red and perched at the end of the small floating dock overlooking the water beneath a dusty mauve sky.
She had always wanted that. She wanted it with Tom. She wanted a place where the family could make memories. She wanted a place where she and Tom could continue visiting even after their boys had grown up and moved on. A place the boys could eventually bring their own families for the holidays. Maggie wanted somewhere she and Tom could grow old, a safe haven they could call their own until the end. But now things were catastrophically different. Tom was gone. And everything she once knew, once wanted, had all changed.
She stared at the illuminated screen, considering her limited options. Maybe she could still have it. Maybe she, TJ and Jack could create a safe haven, just the three of them. Their own private piece of heaven. Sure, Maggie would need to get a job. She hadn’t had one since she served coffee to kids in college. She had her high school diploma, but that was it. With two children and a husband going through law school, she’d never managed to go back and get her degree.
Stupidly, neither she nor Tom had a life insurance plan because it wasn’t something they’d thought would ever happen to them. Ignorance and naivety at its finest. Sure, they had savings, but not enough to spend on a holiday house they didn’t need, no matter how heavily discounted it was. With a resigned sigh she shook her head. It was all a dream then, and it would forever be a dream. Unattainable, but a nice dream to allow her a mental escape when she needed it.
Logging off, Maggie collected her empty mug and the discarded envelopes. As she continued out of the office, she was stopped in her tracks by a sudden and unexpected knock on the front door. She checked her watch. It was almost midnight.
Who in the hell? She hurried to the entrance as quick as her sock-covered feet could carry her over the polished hardwood, careful not to slip in her haste. When she pulled the heavy door open, her shoulders fell at the sight before her. There, held up by the scruff of his sweater by a very unimpressed looking Mr. Wilcox, Jack swayed unsteadily, pissed drunk.
“I believe this belongs to you.” Mr. Wilcox deadpanned.
“What have you done?” Maggie gasped, her eyes wide as she took in her son’s state. She looked at his best friend’s father and back again at Jack as he failed to find his balance.
“It seems Bill and Jack decided to take it upon themselves to consume half a bottle of Scotch.” Mr. Wilcox held up a near-empty bottle of liquor.
As she looked closer at the bottle, Maggie realized it was the same kind of expensive Scotch Tom had been collecting for the last few years. A rare bottle she was almost certain had been locked away securely in the cellar in their basement. She reached out, grasping the front of her son’s sweater. “Jack Morris!”
Jack simply muttered a few incomprehensible syllables, stumbling into her, his sheer size almost knocking her to the floor in the process. She struggled to hold herself upright, her imploring eyes begging Mr. Wilcox for assistance.
“I’ll get him upstairs, shall I?” he said before grabbing Jack and heaving him up, practically carrying her son’s uncoordinated body.
Maggie stood frozen at the threshold, watching idle as Jack’s semiconscious form flopped about as Billy Wilcox’s dad helped him upstairs.
Closing her eyes a moment, she took a few deep breaths in through her nose, desperate for a reprieve from the overwhelming anxiety that had suddenly started eating at her from inside.
All thoughts of hundred-year-old lake houses, and beautiful red maples were suddenly drowned out by the reality of the nightmare that was her life.
***
With the cordless Dyson in her hands, Maggie waited a few moments, watching the seconds count down on her watch. TJ stood across the landing, leaning back against the balustrade, watching on with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. She hadn’t planned on him being awake yet. She really didn’t want to do this in front of her ten-year-old son, but she supposed it was good for him to see it now so that he would be less likely to consider getting obliterated drunk at the age of fifteen.
When the clock struck 7 a.m., without hesitation, she barged into Jack’s bedroom, pushing the door open with such gusto it crashed loudly into the wall, causing the lifeless body wrapped in blankets on the bed to sit bolt upright. But she didn’t stop with that. Switching the Dyson on to max power, she began vacuuming the floor, collecting anything and everything in her path. She knocked into the desk, the chair, anything she could as long as it made as much noise as it possibly could.
Over the loud whir of the vacuum she could hear Jack’s groans, but she ignored his objections, continuing. Her gaze flitted to her son, finding him hunched over, his head in his hands, quilt pulled over his head like the Grim Reaper’s cloak.
She’d been there, herself, many moons ago when she was an insolent teenager, but she chose to show no mercy because she also went on to fall pregnant and drop out of college. She intended on making an example out of Jack, regardless of his blatant pain and suffering. She could keep this up all morning. And if the vacuum wasn’t enough to break him, she would start hammering unnecessary holes into the walls. But thankfully, for the sake of the drywall, Jack broke first.
“I’m sorry!” he yelled, his voice raw and croaky over the Dyson’s motor.
Maggie ignored him at first, watching from the corner of her eyes as he shifted, tossing the bedsheets off his body and scrambling to the foot of the bed.
“I said I’m sorry!”
Switching off the vacuum, Maggie fixed Jack with a pointed look, her eyes blazing with anger that seemed to make him instinctively cower.
She released her hold of the Dyson, allowing it to fall to the floor with a hard thud. She stared down at him, racking her brain to think of what she might possibly say to try and get through to him. Not even a school suspension was enough to force him to wake up to himself. What hope did she have?
Jack’s bloodshot eyes searched hers, his gaze one of obvious pleading. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You didn’t mean to?” she repeated his words with stark exasperation. “So, you didn’t mean to sneak downstairs to the basement without me knowing?”
He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard.
“You didn’t mean to steal a bottle of Scotch from the cellar?”
He avoided her accusatory eyes, choosing instead to look down at his hands.
“You didn’t mean to hide the liquor … that you stole … in your backpack to take to Billy’s house?”
Jack blinked hard, his jaw clenching when he lifted his gaze to meet hers once again.
She continued, “I think you absolutely meant to do all that, Jack.” She shook her head. “And the worst part of all is that you only care now because you got caught.”
All he managed was a slight nod, his shoulders falling.
Maggie glanced over her shoulder to find TJ’s small frame in the open doorway, his face pale and eyes wide with worry. She sighed. A
lthough she knew she could scream bloody murder and yell until she had no voice left, she also knew there wasn’t much point. The damage was already done. All she could hope was that the pain Jack was currently feeling—both emotional and physical—would be enough to scare him away from hard liquor, at least for the time being.
“You’re grounded.”
Jack gaped at her; his eyes wide with incredulity. “For how long?”
His tone made something inside of her snap. “For as long as it takes for you to realize you can’t just go around punching people who look at you the wrong way,” she yelled, her hands thrown in the air in frustration. “For as long as it takes you to realize you can’t drink alcohol at fifteen years old!” Her voice was steely, scarily so as she leaned in closer, adding through gritted teeth, “For as long as it takes for you to stop being a selfish, unconscionable little brat!”
Jack stared at her, and she witnessed a flash of something in his eyes; recognition, perhaps.
Turning away from him, she collected TJ on her way out. “Come on, Teej. Let’s go make pancakes.” She threw a withering glare over her shoulder at her eldest son. “This room had better be cleaned up before you even so much as think of showing your face downstairs.”
Chapter 7
Maggie tucked her hair behind her ear for the tenth time before placing her fidgeting hands on her lap. Nerves pecked like starving scavengers at her insides. When she’d received the call from Mr. Wylie, the bank manager who had looked after her and Tom for the last ten or so years, confusion flooded through her. She wasn’t sure if it was normal protocol for bank managers to personally phone customers on the weekend and ask them to come in first thing on a Monday morning. Ever since Mr. Wylie’s call, her stomach had been knotted painfully and she’d been on edge. Something was wrong. It had to be.
“Maggie?”
Looking up from her hands, Maggie spotted the rotund man dressed in a suit a size too small, smiling kindly, his eyes watching her over the top of his wireframe glasses. He waved her into his office and she stood, gripping her handbag tight as she crossed toward him.
“How are you?”
“I’m okay,” she managed in a slightly higher pitch than normal. The truth was she wasn’t okay. She was nervous, and she didn’t know why. The only time she’d even been to the bank in person was when she and Tom initially applied for a mortgage on their house. And again with Jack and TJ when they wanted to open a junior savings account with their birthday money a few years back.
The inside of the office was cluttered and old, and minimal daylight broke in through the timber shutters. The occasional ray of sun highlighted the dust particles floating aimlessly through the stale air. Maggie sat on the chair opposite Mr. Wylie as he took his place behind the desk. Squaring her shoulders, she smiled when he glanced up from the haphazard stack of papers in front of him.
“Thank you for coming in at such short notice.” He shifted a little awkwardly, averting his gaze, looking anywhere but at her.
“It sounded quite urgent over the phone,” she noted, her eyes wandering to the documents in his hand. She assumed whatever was on them was the reason she was there. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Wylie?”
The man removed his glasses, and, with his stubby thumb and forefinger, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut tight as if he had a headache. Then, those weary yet kind eyes landed on her and immediately, with just one look, her suspicions were confirmed. This was not good news.
“I don’t know an easier way to say this,” he began through a resigned sigh, dropping the papers onto the desk. “So, I’m just going to have to come out and say it.” He speared her with a serious look, folding his hands together. “The last four mortgage payments have bounced.”
Maggie quirked a brow. She hadn’t been expecting that.
“Due to the nature of your … delicate situation and the fact that you and Tom have been long-standing clients of my bank, I managed to pull some strings with corporate and have had the payments paused. But, unfortunately …” He trailed off with a pained expression. “They’re unwilling to continue with any further grace periods.”
Maggie stared at him.
“So, I took it upon myself to investigate what the issue was, and …” He stalled, unable to continue for some reason, his discomfort glaringly obvious.
Maggie blinked, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about. We don’t have a mortgage. We paid it out three years ago. I remember. Tom stuck the final closing statement to the fridge.”
The man’s face fell, his shoulders sagging, and he rubbed his hands together, clearing his throat. “Tom took a … a mortgage out on the property a little over a year ago.”
“He what?” she guffawed. “What for? H-how much? Why didn’t I know anything about this?” Panic was coursing through her.
Mr. Wylie looked down at a piece of paper in his hand, and read aloud, “Two hundred and fifty thousand. It says here it was to put in a swimming pool and to purchase stocks and bonds.”
“A swimming pool?” She snorted.
His gaze lifted over his glasses, settling on her. “You didn’t know about this? Is that, there, not your signature?” He held the document up so she could see.
“Yes it is, but I …” She shook her head, racking her brain to try and remember what had happened a year ago. Surely, she would remember something as serious as taking out a quarter of a million dollar mortgage on their home for stocks and a goddamn swimming pool.
Had she signed something without realizing what it was? Tom wouldn’t do that to her. There was no way. He was a lawyer. He wouldn’t … Well, at least she’d like to think he wouldn’t have done that to her, but she never would have thought he’d cheat on her either.
“Two hundred and fifty grand,” she whispered with a sigh, watching helplessly as Mr. Wylie began shuffling through the papers in front of him, turning them over one by one, scanning each document. And then, glancing up at her, he hesitated before reluctantly sliding one over.
She pulled it closer, looking down at it. It was an annual statement. Their savings account which was linked to their checking account. The opening balance looked about right. Most of what they had managed to save over the years since Tom had finished his internship and had started as a junior associate. It wasn’t a lot, given the cost of living, but a decent chunk nonetheless. Her gaze zeroed in on the closing balance and she couldn’t contain a gasp. “What the hell?”
They rarely accessed the savings account. It was for emergencies only. At least, that’s what she’d thought. Scanning each and every line item on the linked checking account statement, it went back to well before Tom died, and all she could see were debits of ludicrous amounts glaring back at her. Jewelers. Hotels. Lingerie stores. Cash. American Express? They didn’t even have an American Express … Thousands and thousands of dollars at a time, all gone. With the lavish outgoings, and little to no deposits, the bottom line—the balance on both accounts, and every last cent Maggie now had left to her name—was less than a few thousand dollars.
“But this … it doesn’t make sense.” She glanced up at Mr. Wylie, meeting his sympathetic gaze from across the desk. “Where did the settlement of that so-called mortgage go? And where are Tom’s salary deposits?”
The man cleared his throat, shifting again before pulling another document from the stack of papers. He hesitated before handing it to Maggie, pity evident in his eyes. “I’m afraid it looks like he had a separate account for his salary, but … well, it’s all gone, too. On the same type of frivolous spending, I’m afraid.”
Maggie glanced down at the second statement, and her throat started to close up on itself as the conclusion settled in her belly like lead. Tom had been siphoning money from her, from their children, for the last twelve months before his death. He’d pissed it all away on his lavish, secret life with his mistress, taking her to five-star hotels, buying her lingerie and Chanel handbags, all while
paying her credit cards and her goddamn rent. Now, it made sense why he had a key to her apartment; he was paying for it.
She felt sick. She couldn’t breathe. She was so stupid. Tom had managed their finances and she’d let him, she hadn’t thought anything of it. She’d trusted him and he’d fleeced her for all they had. Ignorance at its finest; she only had herself to blame.
Maggie looked around for something, anything, she didn’t even know what. But, thankfully, Mr. Wylie did know, and within seconds he was standing by her side holding out a chilled bottle of water.
“I can’t—” She stopped herself to consider her words. She searched for something to say but she had nothing. Literally no words. She looked at the man, her voice trembling with fear, “I don’t know what to do. There’s no life insurance. We have nothing. The bills and living expenses … the boys’ college fund … and this mortgage.” Her hands shook as she glanced down at the statements. “I can’t afford—” A sob bubbled up the back of her throat, causing her voice to crack. “What am I going to do?”
Mr. Wylie frowned. He reached for the box of Kleenex on his desk, plucking a few and handing them to her. She took them from him, tearing anxiously at the delicate paper as she stared straight ahead at nothing, dread settling low in her stomach.
“Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but …” He crouched down, placing a kind hand on Maggie’s forearm. “Might I suggest you consider selling the house? The market is strong at the moment. At least you’d walk away with enough to pay out the mortgage, and have a decent amount left over for a sizeable down payment on another property.”
“There’s no way I’ll get approved for a bank loan. Not on my own!” Tears stung her eyes when she met his kind gaze. “Besides, that’s our home. My boys’ home. I can’t—” She snapped her mouth shut, placing a trembling hand over it. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words. There was no way she could move her kids out of their home. Not now. Not after everything they’d already been through.
The Long Way Home Page 5