Waiting for Spring

By R.J. Keller

© Copyright by the author 2008

Prologue

They say actions speak louder than words. Maybe. But words do a hell of a lot more damage. Even well-meaning words spoken by well-meaning people.

People like Sister Patricia Mary Theriault. She was my catechism teacher when I was seven years old. Until she ruined my life, I loved her more than anything, because — unlike the other nuns at Saint Isabel’s — she was pretty and nice and she always smiled. Her favorite subject was The Power of God’s Love. We once spent an entire ninety-minute class answering the question, When Does God’s Love Seem Most Real To You? Other kids talked about playing with their pets or spending time with their parents or waking up on Christmas morning. Not me.

“When I open up my big box of 72 Crayola Crayons.”

The other kids laughed at that, but Sister Patricia smiled and asked me why I felt that way. I said, “I don’t know,” even though I did know. She would understand, and I could tell her after class, but not in front of the laughing kids. The reason was actually very simple, even if they were too stupid to get it. There wouldn’t be colors called Burnt Sienna and Hot Magenta and Aquamarine if God didn’t love us. There would just be brown and red and blue.

My mother, raised to worship God with fear and trembling, did not approve of Sister Patricia. She called her the Hippie Nun, which, of course, made me like her even more. The first time I dropped acid, I had a vision of Sister Patricia holed up in her nun sanctuary bedroom, or at least what I imagined it to be: dark and dreary with enormous posters of the Blessed Virgin taped to her wall, glowering down at her, scary and accusing and bitter. Her one small window faced north, towards the cold, letting in only cold light, cold air, cold love.

In my vision, she was wearing a beautiful tie-dyed habit, kneeling on her stone floor, head bowed, praying to God. There was a light rattling, tapping, rustling sound at the window that startled her out of her meditations. She floated to the window and opened it up, and when she did, it let in a rainbow, pure and just as vivid as my crayons had once been. The beauty of it enveloped the cold, dreary room and filled it — filled her — with the love of God. I was nineteen — long after catechism classes and church and even prayer had been a part of my life — holed up in my one room apartment with some guy I’d met two hours earlier. I still can’t remember his name, but his hair was goldenrod and his eyes were sky blue.

But when I was still seven, before I knew anything about the wonders of psychedelic drugs and Pink Floyd and casual sex, I only knew that Sister Patricia was the coolest person I’d ever known. I felt that way right up until she taught us our final lesson for the year. It began innocently enough like this:

“Your heart is like soil. Love grows there.”

The parable of the sower planting seeds. The sower is God, the seeds are his word. They fall here and there, some on bad soil and some on good. She told us first about the good soil, where the seeds can take root and grow. That’s what she — what God — wanted our hearts to be like. Lovely and soft and fertile. Ready for planting. Just like spring. Every one of us knew what she meant, because there were lots of big, smelly, fertile farms in Brookfield, Maine, with acres and of acres of soil.

Then she told us about the bad soil. There was probably more than one type of bad soil in the parable that she explained to our class that day. In fact there must have been, because she talked about it forever. But the only bad soil I heard about was this:

“As the sower was scattering the seed, some fell along the path; it was trampled on and–”

Path. Trampled. Bad soil.

I thought of the path that my older brother Dave and I had worn down through the field beside our house that led over to where Dave’s best friend, Jason, lived. Years of travel, back and forth. Hard ground, packed tight. Grass and wild flowers grew all around it in the summer, tall and beautiful and untamed. But not on the path. Nothing grows on hard ground.

I came back around when she was saying, “‘– those sown on the path are the ones out of whose hearts the devil takes the word so that they will not believe and will not be saved.’ Don’t let your hearts become trampled down, children. Keep them soft and fertile so you can feel God’s love inside of you.”

Seven years old. And already I knew I was in some deep shit. The kind that even Sister Patricia couldn’t do anything about.

Backseat. My mother driving home. Irritated. Her hour and a half of freedom was over. Dave sat up front because he was nine. And because he was Dave. His first communion was only a week away, and my parents were very, very proud of him, because it’s a very big step. All it meant to me was that next year, he would get to stay home and watch Superfriends on Saturday mornings and I’d have to ride home from catechism all alone.

He was telling us what he had learned that morning from Sister Margaret. They had talked about Jesus’ trial and execution. It seemed to have touched something inside him, like the parable of the soil had done to me. Only Dave didn’t seem scared like I was, just angry. Because Jesus had been taken from his friends in the middle of the night, accused of a crime he didn’t do, and there was no justice to be found for him anywhere.

“Pontius Pilate was the magistrate and–”

“What’s a magistrate?”

“That’s sort of like a governor. But he’s like a judge, too.”

“Oh.”

“And he thought Jesus was innocent, but he let the crowd talk him into having him executed anyway.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Because he was weak, I guess.”

“Can I see your book, Dave?” The magistrate’s name sounded familiar.

He handed it to me. Pontius Pilate. Then I remembered.

. . . He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried. . .

Not Ponch’s Pilot. Not like CHiPs.

I liked it when things clicked.

I gave him back his book and looked out the window at the scenery as he rambled on about injustice. I didn’t want to hear about injustice. I was thinking about soil. Thinking about it, not talking about it. Because I knew she wasn’t going to ask me what I had learned that morning, even after Dave stopped talking.

Home. Play clothes. Walking to Jason’s house.

“What are you doing? We’re supposed to be there by now.”

“Planting.”

“You can’t plant anything there. It won’t grow.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m going without you, pest.”

I didn’t care. Well, I cared a little. But I cared more about proving that I was right. That I was alright. Good things could grow on the path; I knew it. All I had to do was make the ground soft and fertile, just like spring.

I scraped and scratched with my fingers, my fingernails, imitating the huge machines that graded our road every year. I uncovered a rock, just below the surface, the size of my hand. Couldn’t budge it. I took off my plastic forest green headband, my brown hair spilling everywhere, and used it as a shovel. It snapped in half, which was even better. I dug and dug and dug some more. Dirt wedged underneath my fingernails and crusted in between the teeth of the headband.

The rock came out. It left behind a gaping hole, a crater, and that was perfect. I just had to fill it up, fill it in. The beginning of June was too early for wildflowers, so I settled on grass and dandelions. Used my headband shovel, dug underneath the soil beside the path; good soil, good roots and dirt. Filled in the hole. Packed it down. There was no water nearby, so I spit on it. And spit again. Kept spitting until my mouth was dry.

That would do it.

I ran to Jason’s house and took turns doing swing set races. I lost. My legs were too short. Oreos and milk. More races. I lost again. Then the rain came, a light drizzle that would turn into a downpour. I ran back towards our house, right behind Dave, but stopped halfway.

My little garden was still there. I smiled at it. Because I was right. I was alright.

But the next morning, I went out bright and early before breakfast, before church, and my garden was gone. Just a hole, and it was half filled with sticky mud. The grass and dandelions had been washed away. Within three days, it was completely filled in, more dirt and pebbles, and by the end of the week, it was trampled down again. Hard ground. And I couldn’t tell that there had ever been a garden there at all. Couldn’t even see the crater.

Hard ground. Where nothing would grow.

Chapter 1

Nine steps from the door of the courthouse down to the sidewalk. Granite? Probably. Brookfield was too small for marble. They were some sort of grayish stone, and it didn’t really matter what kind of stone. They were solid, slick with ice in spots, crunchy with salt in others. I focused on that sound, my boots crushing the salt, because it was better than hearing the judge’s gavel echoing in my brain.

Coat pocket. I felt for my keys with mittened fingers, still crunching along. Twenty-one steps from the bottom of the stairs to the parking lot. Thirty-three more to the car. I turned the key in the ignition, switched on the front and rear defroster before I realized I hadn’t been gone from the car long enough for it to frost over. Even though it was only twenty-eight degrees outside. I looked at the clock.

9:17.

Eleven-and-a-half years of marriage. Took less than fifteen minutes to end it. And Jason hadn’t even bothered to show up. He was probably at work right now. Was he looking up at the clock at this very second? Waiting, nervous, wondering if it was finally all over? Only four and a half miles away from where I was sitting right now. Or maybe it was forty or four hundred. And a half.

I pulled onto the main road, headed towards Hillside Café for a coffee and a newspaper and — with luck — maybe a little pick-me-up.

I was in luck. The old marquee sign beside the road was lit.

The place was empty like I knew it would be mid-morning on a Wednesday. By lunchtime, it would be packed. Specials: turkey club, cheeseburger basket, spaghetti with meat sauce, and for dessert — of course — the latest gossip. Hot and juicy and fresh. I’d be gone long before then anyway, either asleep or floating on a cloud. Or both.

The shelves on the far wall were filled with basketball trophies, pictures of champions. Glory days. Jason was there, king of the champions.

He was everywhere.

“What the hell do you want?”

I jumped. Coach Poulin. Why was he here so early?

No cloud today.

“Black coffee. Newspaper.”

Hard eyes. Silver stare. And I was there alone. Small. He gave me a cold smile.

“You fucking whore. Go get it somewhere else.”

Too tired for rage, too empty. Too cold. Not even a flicker. And in that land of numbed unreality, a dispassionate realization. I did the backwards math.

He’d been waiting for eighteen years to say that to me.

Congratulations, Coach. Job well done. Another trophy for your shelf.

I turned away from the silver man, walked to my car. Lost count of the steps after sixteen. I drove to the Qwik Stop where curious stares greeted me, but no open hostility. I brought the paper to the car and snapped it open right there in the parking lot. A bold, black lettered headline on the front page read:

Murder in New Mills

I skimmed through the story, only vaguely interested because

Brutal slaying . . . small lakeside community shocked . . . home invasion . . . rampant drug problem among local teenagers . . .

while it was tragic, this wasn’t the reason I’d bought the paper. But one sentence jumped off the page.

The victim, Catherine Arsenault, 42, operated a local cleaning service . . .

Cleaning service. Small community. How many cleaning services could one small community support?

Section D. Classifieds.

New Mills: One bedroom apartment. Affordable. Rural setting. One mile from lake.

One more question. I opened my glove compartment and dug out my Gazetteer. New Mills was sixty-two miles from Brookfield. Sixty-two glorious miles. From my mother. From Jason. From everybody. It seemed like the closest thing to a sign from God that I could ever hope to receive. Sober at least.

I dug out my cell phone and dialed the number. An old man answered, very thick Downeast accent. “Ayuh. The apartment’s still available.”

He quoted the price. Cheap. Almost too cheap. What was wrong with the place?

“Nothing. It’s small, but it’s a good little house. Me and my wife raised our family there. Cut it in two after she died. Oh, ’bout fifteen years ago, that’d be now.”

Duplex? In the middle of nowhere?

“Sounds good, Mr. Baxter.”

“Charlie. I can give you a tour tomorrow. Can you be down here at ten-thirty?”

Sure could. Might as well, even though a tour was a formality. The only thing that would prevent me taking the place would be a rat infestation.

I hung up the phone and hurried back to my brother’s house. I’d been holding it down long enough, and I knew it was coming. Better to have the breakdown in private. At least, as private as I could with my sister-in-law at home.

Deep breath. That’s it. Good, you’re ready. Now, walk into the house. Just. Like. That.

“Hey, Kim.”

“How did it go?” Sympathetic eyes. Sepia eyes.

Will the baby get those eyes?

I shrugged and gave her a brief smile, then trudged on to the bathroom. I closed the door silently and leaned back against it, closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see Jason’s face. It didn’t work. It was still there, blond and blue, covered with the trim, gorgeous beard that I had always loved. I could still remember the way it felt beneath my fingertips, on my face, my breasts. Scratchy and rough and perfect and. . .

Oh, God. Here it comes.

I turned on the exhaust fan to drown out the noise, then dropped to my knees and

Divorced. And he didn’t bother to come to court. . .

vomited quietly.

I washed my hands, brushed my teeth and tongue vigorously, relishing the mint, then bleached the toilet clean and washed my hands again. Lavender soap. Mint and lavender. They danced together in my mind, the scents gradually giving way to colors, and that was even better.

I looked at my reflection, practiced my smile and walked back out into the living room. Kim and I talked for a few minutes about infant car seats, then I excused myself. I wandered to the guest bedroom, my home for the past five months, lay down on the bed and fell asleep in my clothes. Slept forever.

Chapter 2

“You’re not driving sixty miles on those roads.”

I sipped my coffee.

“Tess . . .”

I could do that, too. I cocked my head and gave a scowl. “Dave . . .”

“I mean it.”

I looked over his head, out the window. I’d slept for nineteen hours. During that time, a foot and a half of snow had fallen. Winter had waited until March to start. Global warming, probably. It was melting ice caps and making all the polar bears drown, so why shouldn’t it fuck with my life, too?

“I’ll call and reschedule.”

He nodded. Proud. Big brother, heap big man. Kim said nothing; only smiled.

“You’re not eating your breakfast.” His victory had made him over-confident.

“That’s because you made eggs. Eggs are an ingredient, not a meal.”

“You need some protein. You’re pale.”

“I’m pale because I don’t eat eggs?”

He didn’t answer. Defeat. Can’t win ‘em all. He finished his coffee, wiped his mouth, then stood up. All six-foot-three of him. Then he left, with a quick kiss for Kim and another stern look for me. Off to battle injustice. He won most of those.

I showered, brushed my teeth, then joined Kim in the living room. She was lying on the couch, practicing her breathing. I poked her big, fat stomach and was rewarded with a kick. “How’s Hezekiah doing today?”

She glared at me. She hated being poked almost as much as she hated hearing me call her son Hezekiah. I couldn’t blame her.

“He’s restless. I wish he’d hurry up and come out.”

I shook my head. “He’s still cooking. Two more weeks?”

“Twelve days.”

“Ah.”

“Is your cell phone charged?”

I checked. “Yep.”

“Drive slowly. Please?”

I nodded. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

The roads were slick. The speed limit on the interstate was down to forty-five, and I set my cruise accordingly. Life sucked, but it was better than the alternative, and I felt better than I had in months. I knew why. Sleep. It’s like sex. You know it’s good, but you don’t know just how good until you’re not getting any.

I got into New Mills at ten o’clock. I was half an hour early, and the apartment was only five miles outside of town — if what I was driving through could be called ‘town.’ New Mills was, indeed, a small lakeside community. In addition to its apparent rampant teenage drug problem and a brutal slaying, New Mills was known for having once been home to a textile mill and a shoe factory. Hence the horrid name. Both plants had closed their doors, like most mills and factories in the state, and those jobs were now in the hands of people who lived south and east of town. Very far south and east. By people who spoke Spanish and Chinese and were willing to work for a few bucks a day.

Most of those former mill workers had lost their homes to foreclosure and back taxes. They’d been sold to foreigners who were only too happy to buy up a lovely, small Maine community so they could have a pretty place to spend their summers. Foreigners from south and west of town. They spoke English — if Massachusetts, New York and Connecticut accents could be considered English — and had surnames like Talbot and Caldwell and Pratt; but they were foreigners nevertheless. Still, former mill workers didn’t hire cleaning ladies. Talbots and Caldwells and Pratts did.

I glanced at the notes I’d jotted down twenty four hours earlier. Typical rural directions, very vague with only landmarks as a guide.

…turn left at the sand shed . . . another three miles out . . . turn right onto the road across from the big lake . . . about a mile, first mailbox on the right. . .

The place was hidden from the road by thick, bushy pines and naked maples. The driveway was a little rough but already plowed, which was a good sign. The house itself was white. Two-story. Small and very old. Old enough to explain the low rent. Enclosed porch with lots of windows. There was no garage or barn, but there was a decent-sized shed beside the house. It was white, too, but looked much newer than the house. And beside that stood a little orchard; five bare, snowy apple trees.

There were no other vehicles in the driveway. I parked facing the orchard, kept the car running. Stared out the window at the trees. The heater was running at full blast. I still shivered. I’d been shivering for five months.

No. I’d been shivering longer than that.

My heart was Titanium White. Arctic Wasteland. Hard, trampled soil covered with ice. The frozen orchard seemed to say that it always would be, and the tears came. Finally. Stinging and bitter, but quiet like always, and I looked away from the trees, looked down at the dashboard. Oil light flashing, neon red. I stared at it, tried to imagine my engine; tired, hot, low on precious blood. The neon light liquefied, blurred, floated as my eyes filled past the point of choking it all back. I glanced up to let them spill over, hoping I’d be able to dam up what would want to follow. Squinted my eyes against the tears.

And that’s when I saw it.

Bare, icy trees; eerie and still. They almost looked dead, but they were really only sleeping. Waiting for spring. The red light caught in the pool of tears; refracted, projected, and I could see it. I could see what the orchard would look like covered with blossoms. In the spring. Alizarin Crimson, Dusty Pink — starry, superimposed on the wintry scene. Like covering a photo with a clear sheet of plastic, then drawing on it with dried-out marker; shadowy and transparent. But real. So real.

God, I know it’s been awhile and I hate to ask, but . . . please . . . please let me be able to paint the orchard. The way it looks right . . . now. . .

Two streams, hot on my cheeks, and the blossoms disappeared. I wiped my face, took a deep, deep cleansing breath and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Cleaned up the makeup. Righted the mirror. Saw, coming at me, a big yellow plow attached to a bigger red truck. I took another deep breath, then practiced my smile. I thought about the orchard and the smile didn’t feel fake.

I hopped out of my car and examined the truck beside me. It didn’t seem possible that the clunker managed to hold onto its plow, let alone that it was strong enough to use it to push aside snow and ice. There was faded black lettering on the door:

LaChance Builders

And a phone number.

The driver got out and strolled towards me. I wondered how many of the calls he got were actually work-related and how many were local women hoping to reach out and touch someone. He was tall and sturdy. His eyes were Van Dyke Brown. So was his hair, and it almost touched his shoulders. Probably mid-twenties, twenty-seven at the most. He was good looking, and he knew it, but not arrogant; the same way a person knows they’ve got blue eyes or big boobs or straight teeth. Genetics. Luck of the draw.

He nodded his greeting. I nodded back and said, “Shit. I’ve got the wrong house.”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And then I saw it. Something other than Van Dyke Brown in the eyes. I recognized the something right away, and it made me smile again.

He smiled right back. “Tess Dyer?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

“Brian LaChance. I live downstairs.” He held out a hand, and I slipped off my mitten to shake it. Bare, warm, calloused. “Charlie’s running a little late, so he wants me to show you around till he gets here. Not,” he added, “that it’ll take that long. It’s kinda small.”

I liked his voice. Deep. Maine French. Probably called his grandparents Memé and Pepé.

He led the way. Cozy porch. Two doors. His was on the right, mine on the left. He unlocked my door, then looked back at me. “Don’t worry. I don’t usually have this key.”

I just nodded.

We clomped up the stairs. He was three steps ahead of me. I knocked some snow off my boots while he unlocked the top door. I heard it open and looked up.

His ass was right there. Right. There.

I missed the step, slipped, grabbed the railing. I hung on with both hands and got my feet underneath me. He reached down and grabbed my arm.

“You okay?”

I nodded, then tried to explain away my clumsiness with: “Icy boots.”

He helped me up the rest of the stairs, let go of my arm once I reached the top step, and I followed him inside. He was right. It was kinda small. Kitchen and dining area to the left, living room to the right. All open. Tiny bathroom. Small bedroom. But lots of windows and an extra storage closet. No tiny turds in the cupboards. No mold or mildew in the bathroom or on the window sills. Only one problem I could see.

“How does he feel about his tenants painting the walls?”

“Well, you can paint ‘em any color you like. As long as you like white.”

It’s what I’d figured. Jason and I had been forced to keep the walls in our apartment beige. Beige was even worse than white.

“He’s a good guy, though. Pretty easy going about most things. Oh, come here.”

I followed him over to the living room closet. He closed the door and pointed to the wall. There was a gash there from the doorknob.

“You show him that. Tell him you’ll fix it, and he’ll let you in without a security deposit.”

“I don’t know how to– ”

“I’ll do it for you. Slap on a coat of mud, let it dry, sand it. It’ll blend right in. Piece of cake.”

“Ah. Well . . . I’ll think about it.”

He nodded, and his gaze fell to the brooch that was pinned on front of my coat. He examined it for a few seconds then said, “Do you know you’ve got a stone missing?”

“Yeah.”

He stared at me for a few moments, waiting for an explanation, but I didn’t feel like giving him one. Fortunately, I was rescued by a heavy clomp, clomp, clomping from the staircase. Charlie Baxter, huffing and puffing. He looked about seventy and had a red face, white hair and a big pot belly. Bigger than Kim’s.

Ho ho ho.

“Sorry I’m late, Mrs. Dyer.” I shook his hand and debated on whether or not to correct the Mrs. The reasons for and against such a correction were actually only one reason, and he was standing right behind me.

It’s only been twenty-four hours, Tess. Don’t fuck the nice neighbor boy.

Twenty-five hours. And a half.

I left the Mrs. uncorrected.

Brian tossed Charlie the key and left us to dicker. I decided on the no-security-deposit plan and wrote him a check for first and last month’s rent. Yes, white was the only acceptable wall color; yes, I could move in this Sunday; and yes, I could plant a flower garden in the spring, so long as I kept it weeded.

Charlie left and I looked around the apartment again. Alone. Damn.

I trotted carefully down the stairs. Brian was loitering on the porch.

“So. We’re gonna be neighbors.”

“Yep.”

“Need any help moving in?”

“Oh. Uh . . . ”

He’s wondering about the Mrs.

Well, he’d find out sooner or later. Why not sooner?

“I’m living with my brother, Dave, right now. He has a truck, and most of my stuff’s at his place anyway. My dad’s not really up to lugging shit upstairs — ”

Completely untrue. But if he came, then my mother would come.

“– but I think Dave and I can manage okay.”

I could see him tallying the score. Brother: check. Dad: check. Husband: nope. Then he gave me a big smile. I gave him one right back.

Twenty-six hours, Tess. Cut it out.

Then he looked at me a little dubiously. “What are you? Five-foot-three?”

I scowled. Almost literally. “Five-five.”

With my boots on.

“Yeah. Tell your brother I’ll be here to help him Sunday morning.”

I walked out the door without answering. My car was frosted over just a little. I started it, turned the defroster on high and stepped outside again for another view of the orchard. Bare and icy.

Not for long, Tess. Spring is coming. . .

On my way back through town, I stopped at every business I came to, full of sympathy over the recent loss of their beloved cleaning lady, Mrs. Arsenault. I handed out three pages of references at each one. The doctor, a real estate agent and an insurance company all hired me on the spot, happy to have me start cleaning their offices next week. Because, naturally, all my references were glowing ones.

I might be Brookfield’s town whore, but I could sure scrub the hell out of a toilet.

Chapter 3

All of my worldly possessions — aside from my easel and artwork — fit neatly in the back of my brother’s truck. It wasn’t a fact I was proud of. My mother surveyed it all with cold, blue eyes as Dave and my dad covered it over with a tarp. I braced myself. Clenched my jaw. My hands. My stomach. . .

“You should have kept the bigger table, Theresa.”

You should have worked things out with Jason.

“That one wasn’t mine. It was his before we got married.”

I don’t take things that aren’t mine. Or keep them when they’re not mine anymore.

“You should have bought a new table for yourself, then. A bigger table.”

Too bad you don’t make enough money to buy yourself some decent furniture.

“My new apartment’s too small for a bigger table.”

I’m not a materialistic bitch like you.

“Then you need a bigger apartment.”

You really are pathetic.

“Just so I can have a bigger table?”

It was weak, but it was the last word, and that, at least, was something. Because that’s when Dave said, “Ready to go, Tess?”

You’re goddamn right I am. “Uh, yeah. Let me just go say goodbye to Kim.”

She was in the living room, sitting on the rocking chair. She was a beautiful woman, even though she was puffy with pregnancy weight. Black hair, olive complexion and eyes that always reminded me of old-fashioned photographs. . .

I hope the baby gets those eyes.

She stretched noisily and grimaced. “Everything packed?”

“Yep. Back hurting again?”

“Not again. Still.”

“Only nine more days.”

She groaned, struggled to her feet and looked at me silently for a few moments. I knew what she was thinking. She said it anyway.

“Dave’s worried about you moving so far away.”

“He shouldn’t be. I’m thirty-four, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know, but . . . just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

So he doesn’t have to.

I nodded and let her give me a hug, even though I hated being hugged. When I turned around, my dad was there. I didn’t have to worry about having to endure a hug from him. He was the very personification of New England reticence. Even so, I could see that he — like Dave — was Worried About Me. He waited until Kim, recognizing her cue, left the room before he said, “How are you for money?”

“I’m all set.” I wasn’t, of course, and Dad knew it. Jason and I had spent more than thirteen years together with nothing tangible to show for it. No kids or pets. No real estate or anything of actual value. All we’d had, really, was our joint savings account; several thousand dollars that we’d saved towards a down payment on a house. No house in particular. Just, Someday We’ll Buy A House. Because there’s always Someday. Except that, of course, there wasn’t.

Instead, there were lawyers and papers to be signed. Things to be divided. A savings account to be split. And that’s where things got tricky. Because I wouldn’t take a penny of it, even though I had contributed nearly half. My lawyer could never understand why. It had puzzled even Jason, who sent me frequent messages — through the lawyers — that I should quit being so stubborn and take the damn money. But I was firm. I didn’t want money. I only wanted what was mine. Not his. Not ours. Mine.

“Tess–”

“No, really. I’ve been living with Dave rent-free for five months. He wouldn’t even let me give him anything for food or–”

“I still want to help.”

“I appreciate it.” I said it, even though I really didn’t. “But . . . I’m all set.”

He said nothing, just stared at me with tired, pale green eyes. They were the only things he’d ever been stingy with, letting my brother and me inherit blue from our mother. Well, he’d been stingy with his affection, too. But he was still a good man. And you can’t have it all.

“Dad, I need to go.”

He nodded his goodbye. And I nodded right back.

I pulled out of the driveway, smiled as I saw my mother shrinking in the rearview mirror. We had to pass by Hillside Café on our way to the interstate, and I noticed, with sudden longing, that the sign outside was lit up. I couldn’t stop, though. Even if there was no Coach to worry about, there was a Dave right behind me.

No cloud today.

Once we hit the interstate, I divided the time pretty evenly between glancing at the road and watching the miles tick by on my tripometer. At mile thirty-one, exactly halfway between Brookfield and New Mills, I pulled into the passing lane to let a string of cars merge into traffic. They were coming from Westville, population eighteen thousand, the closest thing to a city this part of the state had. Its highlights included a Walmart, a McDonald’s, a bar, a hospital and a state police station. Everything an area swarming with displaced workers could possibly need.

Another thirty-one miles and we were there. I pulled in beside Brian’s truck, and Dave backed up close to the porch steps. He met me near the tailgate, and we untied the tarp. Then he nodded towards the clunker.

“You didn’t tell me this guy’s in construction.”

I coiled the four short pieces of yellow nylon rope around my hand, tied them tightly together and tossed the wad at Dave. “I told you he’s about as tall as you and wouldn’t have a problem helping you carry my shit up the stairs. What else did you need to know?”

The first question people insist on asking a new acquaintance is: What do you do for a living? I hated that. Insecurity, probably, because I’m not a lawyer or a doctor or any of those other professions that make people say, “Oh. . .” in that reverent, awestruck way. And anyone unlucky enough to ask me that fatal question without preceding it with at least two others — for example, what books have you read lately or who’s your favorite ballplayer — was answered with:

“I’m a lumberjack.”

Because any person with a greater interest in what it is I do to earn enough money to afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans — rather than in the fact that I think Bill Lee is the coolest guy ever to climb onto the pitcher’s mound — deserves to think I spend my days in the woods cutting down trees.

The porch door slammed shut, and the man in question trotted over, zipping up a red hooded sweatshirt. He gave Dave’s truck a quick once over. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“Hello to you, too.”

He grinned. “Why, hello, Tess. I sure hope you had a nice drive down.”

“Oh yes. It was lovely.”

“So . . . that’s all you’ve got?”

“Yep.”

Dave cleared his throat. I made the introductions and held my breath. He reached for Brian’s outstretched hand, gave him a long, hard stare, then fixed me with one. The look on his face was identical to the time when, at the age of twelve, he solved his Rubik’s Cube half an hour after he brought it home from the store. I gave him a sideways kick and said, as sweetly as I could, “Dave’s a lawyer.”

Brian raised his eyebrows, awestruck, and said, his voice appropriately reverent, “Oh.”

“So, Brian. Do you own this place?” Dave was in full Big Brother Protector mode, and I did my best not to laugh at the image that was probably haunting him.

Hey, Mr. Landlord, I’m afraid I’m a little short on the rent money this month.

That’s okay, baby. I’m sure we can work something out. . .

Brian saw it too. “I . . . uh . . . no. No, I don’t. I just rent the bottom . . . the downstairs. The apartment downstairs.”

Dave gave him a grim nod, then turned to open the tailgate. They had, maybe, a half hour’s work ahead of them. With Dave in his present mood, I decided it would be kind to throw Brian a lifeline. I got his attention and mouthed, fishing. Did my best cast-a-rod impression, in case he misread my lips. He nodded, grateful. I grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from my trunk and made my escape upstairs.

They made three trips up and down before Brian noticed what I was doing. Told me all about the recently departed Cathy Arsenault. Charlie had hired her a week before she died, and she’d cleaned the whole place. Kitchen, bathroom, floors . . . everything is spic and span, Tess. Nothing to worry about.

That interested my brother.

“She died?”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “Last week. A couple of teenagers broke into her house. She was home sick with a stomach flu, and when they found her home, they freaked out and . . . uh, killed her.”

I wrung the dirty water out of my rag and prepared myself for the onslaught.

“You moved to a town where they’re killing cleaning ladies?”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. A cleaning lady. It’s not like there’s a Clorox Serial Killer roaming the streets of New Mills.”

Brian laughed. “You’re a cleaning lady?”

“Shut up.”

“No. . .. I just mean . . . is that why you moved here? Because you heard about Cathy?”

I shrugged. “We all gotta eat.”

“Yep. That’s true enough.”

Dave was ready to get us back on topic. “They broke into her house and killed her?”

Brian nodded.

Brutal slaying. How had she died? The newspaper hadn’t said. Had those kids shot her? Beaten her to death? Stabbed her? Did she live long enough to know what was happening to her? Already miserable from a stomach flu that was bad enough to keep her home from work. Lying on the couch, watching “The Price is Right.” Then . . . the door bursts open. Or the window breaks. Then there’s fear. Pain. Calling for help; her husband, her mother, calling for anyone. What about her family? Had her kids discovered her body? Get off the school bus, run to the front door. Expecting hot chocolate and a how was your day and some help with homework. And there she is. Dead. Brutally murdered in their own home.

Is that the last thought that floated in front of her before she died? Please, God, don’t let my kids find me like his. . .

I looked up at Dave. He was glaring at me. I hated that. Then he looked at Brian.

“They were on drugs. Right?”

Brian nodded again. “They tried Cathy’s house because her husband died of cancer a month or so ago, and they figured she’d have some Oxycontin left over.”

“You moved into a town where there’s a drug problem.”

“‘A rampant teenage drug problem,’” I quoted.

He glared even harder. We are not amused.

“Dave, please point me in the direction of any town where there isn’t a drug problem. I’ll be very happy to settle there instead. Besides, New Mills is a pretty small town. How bad can it possibly be?”

I looked over at Brian for support and saw something else instead. The truth. It was pretty bad. He tried to come to the rescue anyway.

“Those kids leave us alone over here. They’re usually too busy breaking into the camps on the lake looking for stuff they can sell.”

I chuckled. “Well, at least that’s something I don’t have to worry about.”

Dave said nothing to that, because what can you say? He just shook his head and went back downstairs, with Brian on his heels. By the time they were done unloading the rest of my stuff, the kitchen was clean. And Dave was ready to leave. I knew why, even though he didn’t say it. Even though I’d spent the morning trying not to think about it.

Jason.

He was at the house waiting for Dave to get back. Or on his way there. Because they had repair work to do, the kind they couldn’t do during the winter when they’d really needed to. Not with Tess the Pest hanging around. So I smiled. Thanked him for the help. And then I paused. The great debate. Because what I wanted to say next was:

Make sure you ask him why he didn’t come to court. Didn’t even show up. Couldn’t spare a goddamn half hour from his busy fucking schedule. He’s the one who ended it. And he couldn’t even show his face. Couldn’t see the thing through to the end.

But there are some things you just can’t say. Not to your brother and not to anyone. And so I was stuck with:

“Don’t forget to call me when Kim goes into labor.”

He gave me a halfhearted smile and said he wouldn’t forget to call. Thanked Brian for the help. Then he lingered at the door. Finally looked me in the eye and I saw what Kim had warned me about. Worry. More than that. He was nearly frantic. I could almost feel it coming off of him. But he said only, “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Of course I’m not okay. It’s all new. Everything. And I’m all alone now. For real. . .

But I couldn’t say that, either. He’d already told me not to leave so hastily. There’s no rush, Tess. Stay as long as you need. And I knew that he’d really meant, Stay here with us, where you’re safe. Or at least stay close by. Where I can watch you. Where I can keep you from messing up your life. Because he knew, of course, that I probably would. But I’d said, Nope, it’s time to leave now. And it was, really. He’d protected me from myself for five long months. He looked it, too. He and Kim needed their home back. Their life back. So. Here I was.

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t, of course. And he knew it. He looked over at Brian again and then back at me. Because he knew something else. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. So he said, “Well, I’ll see you later.” Then he closed the door before I could say goodbye.

And so I was alone. For real.

Well, not really. Not yet.

I turned towards Brian but couldn’t look him in the eye. Not right away. Because I knew what he’d see in mine. And I knew that it was pathetic. Knew that I was pathetic. I took a deep cleansing breath, like the kind I’d been practicing with Kim, and it worked. I looked up at him and managed a smile. He smiled back and said:

“First baby?”

“Yeah. First grandchild in the family, too.”

“You guys must be excited, then.”

I only shrugged.

Silence. But he still didn’t leave. And that meant it was my turn to make a contribution.

“Sorry about the way he acted when we first got here. He can be a Neanderthal sometimes.”

“I’ve got a sister, so I know where he’s coming from.”

More silence. He looked at the boxes littering the floor.

“Want some help unpacking?”

“No, I’m all set.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Not much here, really.”

There wasn’t, really, and I couldn’t let this guy rummage through my coffee mugs and underwear. But I didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to be alone. So I let my gaze fall on my stereo and speakers. The television. The cheap, unassembled pressboard entertainment center I’d bought only days before, still in the box. Then I looked back at him. Because I knew already.

Mr. Fix It.

He smiled, took off his sweatshirt and went to work. I left him to it and started on the kitchen boxes. But before I was halfway through my precious collection of coffee mugs, I heard him laughing. I turned around to see why. He was looking inside a plastic shopping bag. Inside it were the wires to all the electronic gizmos. Each of them was neatly coiled, held together with a little bread-bag twist tie. I always saved those things because you never know when one might come in handy.

“Why is that funny?”

“Oh, it’s not. It’s not funny at all.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t, of course. He talked while he worked. A lot. About skyrocketing property values and how unfair it was that people whose families had lived in New Mills for generations couldn’t afford to buy a decent home. About a television show he’d seen recently about paparazzi photographers who stalked celebrities and how there oughtta be a law against that sort of thing. But he seemed most upset about an article he’d read in the paper the day before about campaign contributions, and he wondered what had happened to the principles of having a government that was of the people, by the people and for the people rather than of, by and for big corporations.

I nodded a lot and made very intelligent replies like yeah and uh huh and nope while I unpacked my dishes. Finally, he said, “Well, I’m all done here. Bring me a CD and I’ll adjust the sound levels for you.”

My music collection didn’t impress him.

“Everything in here is at least twenty years old.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is.”

I shoved Neil Young at him.

“Uh . . . no.” He looked through the box again and settled, without any real enthusiasm, on Bob Dylan. Once the music started, he busied himself, pushing buttons and adjusting levers. “Does that sound better?”

It didn’t sound any different to me than it had before he’d made the adjustments, but I nodded anyway and said, “Sounds great.”

He shrugged. “You can’t do much to it with this kind of music. You’re gonna need something with lots of bass and a beat to really do the job.”

I had never listened to anything with lots of bass and a beat. I didn’t need to start now.

“You can’t really dance to this, either.”

“I can’t dance, so it’s just as well.”

He smiled. “I bet you can and you just don’t know it.”

I stared at him. At his eyes. They were fucking gorgeous, but it’s not why I stared. There was something there again, a something that scared the shit out of me. The words, of course, were an invitation. I knew that. I’d been waiting for it. It just wasn’t the invitation I’d been expecting. Because his eyes didn’t say why don’t you just forget about these boxes for a while so we can fuck all afternoon. Not that dance. They said something else.

The other dance.

I looked away, because I knew what it was my eyes were saying. Then I forced my mouth to say, “I’d better go unpack the bathroom.”

He wasn’t deterred. “Are you hungry?”

“Nope.”

“Liar. I’m meeting some friends for lunch in a few minutes. You should come with me.”

“I’ll eat later. I’ve got too much to do right now.”

He nodded. Looked around the room. “Maybe. But I don’t think any of those boxes have any food in them. Are you planning on eating packing peanuts or what?”

“I’ll run into the market in a little while.”

“Great. You can do it after we eat.”

I really was starved. What was left of the coffee and toast I’d eaten for breakfast wouldn’t be enough to keep me going long enough to finish unpacking. But.

That dance?

I looked at him again and sighed. Food. Meet new people. Groceries. I did need all of those things. And so I followed him into town.

Chapter 4

His truck sputtered and stalled but somehow managed to make it into town. We drove right past two restaurants that were both very sorry for being closed for the season and pulled instead into a diner called Fran’s.

He opened the door for me and I walked inside, feeling assaulted in every possible way. The air was heavy with the smell of pizza sauce, deli meats and fried things, and there was a general commotion of kids screaming and laughing, arcade games beeping and, most noticeably, a loud jukebox pounding out the beat of an unfamiliar pop tune, the exact sort of music that would never find its way into my CD collection. My empty, growling stomach was the only thing that prevented me from making a beeline for the door.

A thin, petulant girl who appeared to be in her late teens stood behind the counter. Her dark brown hair was streaked with white-blonde chunks and pinned up into an intricate up-do. It made me more self-conscious than ever about my own sloppy, grey-rooted locks. Brian gestured to her and whispered, “That’s my sister.”

I looked at her more closely and nodded, noting the resemblance. She caught sight of us walking towards her and rolled her eyes. They were Van Dyke brown, like her brother’s, but so hazy and bloodshot that I had to wonder how she’d made it into work. She raised an eyebrow at Brian and said, “Don’t you ever cook?”

“Nope. Jeff and Laura here yet?”

“Nope. Zeke’s out back in the bar. He wants to see you.”

“How come?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

He examined her eyes closely. “Uh huh.”

“Just go talk to him and get it over with.” She nodded towards me. “Can’t you see I’ve got customers to deal with?”

He sighed and gave me a quick, “I’ll be back in a sec.” Then he walked down a long hallway and through a set of double doors.

She grabbed her pen and notebook from the counter. “What can I get for you?”

“Veggie Italian. Diet soda.”

She shuddered, hollered back my order and took my money. And stared. I hated that. When she gave me my change, I pocketed the coins and shoved the bills into her tip jar. I’d been on her side of the counter so I knew: You can’t live on minimum wage. That cheered her up a bit, and she managed a real smile as she said:

“You’re Tess.”

I glanced at her nametag. She’d pinned it on upside down. “You’re Rachel.”

She glanced back towards the doors her brother had disappeared through and asked, “So, what do you think of him?”

The question caught me off guard, even though it shouldn’t have. I stumbled through a variety of vowel sounds before managing, “He’s . . . I think he’s nice.”

She laughed loudly at that. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing at me or if everything was funny to her in her present condition. Once she recovered, she gave me a smirk and said, “‘Nice.’ Right. I’m sure ‘nice’ is the first adjective that popped into your head.”

I knew this game. I returned the volley with, “Actually, the first was wicked hot . Then came sweet ass. So I guess that makes nice number three.”

That got another laugh. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.”

Home: 1. Visitors: 0.

She handed me a ticket, number 76. Just like the Bicentennial. I shoved it into my pocket and headed for the restroom. I inspected the toilet and decided I could wait until I got home. Washed my hands and examined my hair. It sucked. I shook it out, twisted it into a half-hearted ponytail, then opened my purse to debate my lipsticks. Red or pink. I looked up at my tired reflection and settled for Chapstick instead, then heaved a great sigh and entered the arena again.

Brian was leaning back against the counter upon my return, but Rachel was nowhere in sight. “Howdy.” He said it just like a cowboy.

“Hi.”

“My friends are here.” He gestured towards the corner booth. His posse waved. “I’ve already told them all about you.”

All about me? What did he know? Cleaning lady. Foul mouth. Big tits. Big, obnoxious brother. Can’t climb stairs. “Lead me to them.”

He guided me through the obstacle course of the dining area. Red and white checkered plastic tablecloths, white and brown plastic salt and pepper shakers, families out for a nice lunch. He nodded a greeting to nearly every table, singled out husbands and kids, diplomatically ignored staring wives.

Then, his table. He introduced me to his friends, the Burkes, and I took turns shaking their hands. They were dressed up, probably came to the diner right from church. Jeff had sandy hair and was big enough to be a football player, but wore dark-framed, deliberately nerdy glasses. The contrast made me like him immediately. Laura was skinny and pale, but very pretty, like a porcelain doll. Lots of wavy hair that was too auburn to be natural and her makeup was Just So. She seemed genuinely friendly, like someone who was used to working with the public and liked it. I took off my coat, slung it across the back of my chair and sat down.

Brian looked around the room. “Their daughter is running around here somewhere. Where is the little pinhead?”

Laura said, “She’s playing video games in the other room.” Then she turned her attention to me. “So, how do you like New Mills?”

“It’s a pretty town.” I hadn’t been here long enough to add anything of substance to my review.

“It’s a lot smaller than Brookfield, isn’t it?”

“Brookfield isn’t exactly a huge town.”

Jeff laughed. “Maybe not, but your boys still manage to kick ass in the basketball tourneys every year.”

I managed a ‘We sure do’ that made it sound like I was sufficiently proud of the Hometown Heroes. Basketball was a sore subject with me, but Jeff had no way of knowing that. He was just making polite conversation with the woman who’d been forced on his family’s lunch.

We continued on with the small talk, because that’s what you do when you make a new acquaintance. Jeff sold cars at his dad’s dealership in Westville. He could give me the names of some businesses he knew of there that hadn’t yet found a replacement for the recently departed Mrs. Arsenault. I thanked him and nodded, because it was a nice gesture, and didn’t tell him that I wasn’t interested in traveling that far for work if I could help it. I didn’t want to set the world on fire. All I really cared about was making enough money for rent and music and beer and food and jeans. Maybe enough to save aside for the oil bill in the winter.

But when Laura told me she worked at a hair salon right in town that was still looking to hire someone to clean, I was interested in more than just the work. The salon back in Brookfield was Gossip Central, and I’d avoided the place all winter long.

“I’m so overdue for a trim.”

She cast a quizzical eye over my hair, and I could see she agreed wholeheartedly. She handed me a business card that had her hours written on the back and told me to pop in. Soon.

Rachel’s voice boomed our order numbers over the loudspeakers. I stood up, but Brian waved me back down. “Me and Jeff’ll get it.”

I gave Laura an awkward smile and tried to think of something to say. She returned the smile, apparently as inept at small talk as me. After about thirty full seconds of silence, she turned towards the counter and I followed her gaze. Brian and Rachel were in the middle of what was obviously a heated exchange. Laura and I turned to each other simultaneously, relieved that a topic for conversation had presented itself.

“Zeke — that’s Rachel’s boss — told Brian that he’s going to suspend her for a couple days if she comes in stoned again.”

I didn’t ask why the boss had bugged Brian about it, only nodded sympathetically. Brian was still upset when they returned a minute or so later, accompanied by the Burkes’ daughter. She introduced herself as Cassidy Rose Burke. She was eight years old and very proud of it. She had auburn hair that proved Laura’s to be natural after all, and something about her was familiar. Not just because she looked like her dad. It was something else, someone she reminded me of, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Brian handed me my sandwich with a shudder. “Veggie Italian?”

“Shut up.”

And then things were quiet for a few minutes while we ate, at least as quiet as they could be inside a crowded family diner, until Cassidy pointed to my coat. “Your pin is broken. Did you drop it?”

I finished chewing a cucumber and said, “I bought it that way. Last summer at a yard sale.”

“You bought a broken pin on purpose?”

I nodded, unfastened the brooch from my coat and handed it to her to look at more closely. It was an odd-looking piece of costume jewelry, oval-shaped with four pieces of round, cut glass. A fake emerald, fake amethyst and fakes of whatever gems were naturally orange and light blue. One stone was missing. I liked to think it had been a fake ruby.

“Why did you buy it if it’s broken?”

“Because the lady I bought it from told me a cool story about how it got broken.”

She bounced in her seat. “Ooh! What’s the story?”

I was exhausted and not really in the mood for storytime. But she looked so excited, and she was so damn cute. And she reminded me of someone. Who the hell was it? I wiped my mouth, took a sip of my diet soda and cleared my throat.

“The lady I bought it from, her grandmother had just died and the pin belonged to her. She got it when she was young, back in the thirties, from her boyfriend–”

“Didn’t they call them beaux back then?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Scarlett O’Hara called her boyfriends beaux.”

That didn’t go over well with Jeff. “How the hell do you know anything about Scarlett O’Hara?”

“Grammy let me watch ‘Gone With The Wind’ at her house last week.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and shot Laura a look. She only shrugged. I waited a few seconds before I went on with the story.

“The beau bought the pin for the girl because he knew she liked colorful things, and she loved it. More than anything. Time went by and they got engaged, but a month before the wedding, the beau lost his job.”

“Did he get fired?” Cassidy asked.

She probably didn’t know what the Great Depression was, unless Laura’s mom had let her watch “Grapes of Wrath.” I didn’t want to go off on another tangent, so I told her that the mill where he worked closed down. She nodded to let me know it was a concept she was familiar with.

“The girl’s parents wouldn’t let them get married until the guy got another job. So he packed his suitcase and headed to New York City to look for work. The poor guy was only there a week and he got mugged. He didn’t have a whole lot of money to begin with, and they took what little he had left. So there he was. Stuck in New York with no money and no job and no place to live.”

That sounded fair to Cassidy. “That’ll teach him to go where the Yankees live.”

“The girl’s parents apparently thought so, too, because when they found out about it, they made her break the engagement and set her up with someone else, some guy they’d wanted her to marry all along. And in the meantime, the first guy, the beau–”

It really was the silliest word in the English language, but she literally squealed with delight every time I said it.

“–found out about his fiancée marrying another guy, and he became determined to get rich. Just to show the woman and her family what was what. And that’s just what he did.”

I took another sip of my soda. I wasn’t used to talking quite so much.

“He got a job at a furniture store in New York. And he worked really, really hard, and after many, many years, he opened his own store. And that got bigger and bigger until finally he had lots of stores all over the East Coast. He was very, very rich, and he got married to a really rich woman–”

“I’ll bet he didn’t really love her,” Cassidy said, her eyes gleaming merrily. “Rich people never marry for love.”

“True. Anyway, he came back to Maine with his new wife so he could say–”

Fuck you and the horse you rode me out of town on. It’s what I would’ve said.

“‘How do ya like me now?’ And by that time, the woman’s husband had died, but when her beau came back into town, she was–”

Pissed because she missed out on the gravy train.

“–broken-hearted that he was married to someone else. And that’s when she knew: They’d never be together. Ever. And so she grabbed that pin right out of her jewelry box and flung it against the wall. And it busted right . . . there. And the fake ruby fell out.”

If I was going to tell this story, I might as well do it right.

“She burst into tears when she saw what she’d done and tried to fix it, but she couldn’t. But she kept it anyway so she’d always remember her beau.”

It really did sound better than boyfriend.

“She hid it in a shoebox along with a diary and a bunch of letters he’d written her. And her granddaughter found it, and that’s how she learned The Story of the Broken Pin.”

It was a little anticlimactic, and I wasn’t the world’s greatest storyteller, but it made her smile anyway. Every freckle on her face seemed to pop right off. And that’s when I knew.

Anne of Green Gables. That’s who the kid reminded me of.

“So,” Laura asked, “who was the beau?”

“Beats me. Just some rich furniture guy. It couldn’t have been anyone famous or she would’ve sold the pin to a dealer somewhere instead of sticking a three-dollar price tag on it for her yard sale.”

Brian laughed. “You only paid three bucks for it?”

“Nope. A dollar. I talked her down.”

“But it’s an antique.”

“Well, yeah. But it’s broken.”

“So you like it because it’s broken, but because it’s broken, you only paid a buck for it.”

“One buck, three bucks. It’s all the same. I talked her down because it pissed me off that she was selling it. She should’ve kept it and handed it down as a family heirloom or something.”

I went back to my sandwich. I’d neglected it, and now the bread was a little soggy from the oil. I choked down a bite anyway.

Cassidy gave me back my pin. Then she asked, “Are you Brian’s girlfriend?”

It had been a long time since anyone had made me blush. I snuck a quick peek at Brian. His face was burning up, too. I cleared my throat. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s too bad. Because you’re nice.”

Laura gave her a kick underneath the table.

“Well, she is.”

“Uh, thanks. I think you’re nice, too.”

I finished my sandwich quickly and stood up to leave. Muttered a sincere ‘It was nice meeting you’ to the Burkes and a ‘See you later’ to Brian. He only nodded.

. . .

Small town market. Narrow aisles. Customers who appraised me with expert eyes. Nice coat, but not new. Old boots. Worn-out, inexpensive jeans. Verdict: She’s from out of town, but she’s not From Away. And then they’d nod. That meant approval, a novel thing for me, so I nodded right back. I had a clean slate here. Best to take full advantage of it.

Checkout counter. I stood behind a young woman and her son. He was maybe five or six years old. Both of them were dirty. Smelly. Old, ripped clothes. Her groceries: a candy bar, a gallon of milk and a half gallon bottle of Allen’s Coffee Brandy. I clenched my teeth, because I knew. Even though it’s wrong to judge. Even though I’d been judged — unfairly — too many times to count and knew better than to do it to someone else. I judged her anyway.

And I was right.

I’d never had a problem with the concept of state aid. Food stamps or MaineCare or even welfare. Because sometimes people fall on hard times. Sometimes people work hard and still can’t afford health insurance. Sometimes they roll out of bed one morning and find that their job has been shipped south or east. And that’s when they need a helping hand. A little something to see them through the rough spots. I’d been there myself.

Then there were people like this woman.

She paid cash for the twenty-dollar bottle of liquor. Used her food stamp card for the candy bar and the milk. The milk that wasn’t for her son. He wouldn’t drink it with his supper tonight or dip any cookies in it for dessert or pour in onto his breakfast cereal in the morning. He looked up, gave me a huge smile, and I smiled right back. He had greasy blonde hair and big blue eyes. Probably the kids picked on him at school because his clothes were dirty. Because he smelled. Because his front two teeth were black and rotten. But underneath the dirt, he was a beautiful child.

I wondered how much longer it would be before he realized exactly what kind of family he’d been born into. Before he understood that the twenty dollars his mother was using for liquor should have been used instead for soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Would he grow up resentful? Bitter? Would he rise above it, determined to make a better life for himself? Or would he grow up thinking that it was normal to live that way?

The woman turned back, too, and glared at me. She knew what I was thinking, and I didn’t care. I wanted to say something to her. Wanted to tell her to go get some fucking help. Tell her that twenty bucks would buy a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo and a box of cheap laundry detergent. Or maybe tell her about all the childless couples out there who would gladly take that little boy off her hands and give him a good life. A life that was filled with baths and toothbrushes. With leafy green veggies and cold milk. The kind of milk that was poured over breakfast cereal and not mixed with coffee brandy.

I didn’t, of course, because right now — right now — the boy was at least somewhat content. Living with a mommy who probably loved him at least a little. And he loved her. That much was obvious. Bad days were coming for him. I knew that, too. But right now, to him, today was The Day Mommy Bought Me a Candy Bar. I couldn’t turn it into The Day Mommy Yelled at the Mean Lady in the Grocery Store. So I gave the woman an almost friendly nod, waved goodbye to the boy and watched them walk away. The little boy was holding his mommy’s hand. Because right now, he still loved her.

Then it was my turn to face to Agnes, the nosy cashier. Older than the hills. She quizzed me about my life while she scanned my groceries, personal questions that no one except priests and very old ladies could get away with asking. I gave her cryptic answers and smiled politely. Even though I didn’t feel like smiling.

Then home. I drove quickly because I was already tired and I had to finish unpacking. Brian was still out, and I remembered that Jeff had said something about a poker game. That meant silence. It meant I was going to spend the evening alone. And, worst of all, it meant I was stuck lugging the groceries up the stairs by myself. Four trips up and down, but it was good exercise and I needed it. I’d spent the winter a slave to Kim’s snack cake cravings and gained thirteen pounds in two months, most of it in my ass. It had taken me three months to lose eight of it.

I wanted to sit down for a break, but there was too much to do. I started by hanging my art up on the walls, which made it feel more like home. Even with the white paint. Then I tackled the remaining boxes. It didn’t take too long to unpack every box but one, and that made it feel less like home. And then, finally, the bed.

I’d saved it for last — except for the box that I didn’t want to open — because I knew. Temptation. The kind that would have whispered for me to leave the damn boxes for later and just get some sleep. I put the frame together. Box spring. Mattress. Hopped on it a little to make sure it was sturdy. It squeaked loudly in protest, and that’s when I remembered: this was once our bed. Mine and Jason’s. And I tried not to remember all the things we’d done on it. Made love and cuddled and laughed and talked and fucked and made plans for the future.

Sheets, blankets, pillows. And that was when I heard Brian’s truck heading towards the house, maybe half a mile away. And that meant temptation, too. The kind that didn’t whisper. I ran out into the living room and snapped off all the lights, locked the front door, then peeked out the window. He was just pulling into the driveway. I ran back into my bedroom, stripped naked and slipped between the sheets. Listened quietly.

His truck door slammed. Porch door, open and shut, then his front door. A muffled cough, a little banging around, and another door closed, somewhere. Then nothing, for a long time. I felt myself fading. Drifting. Until. . .

. . .a sharp, wet snap, then a hiss. It scared me so badly that I bolted upright in bed. My heart bolted, too. Jumped into my throat, then back into place, and pounded against my chest. Then there was bubbling. Gurgling.

It’s just the pipes, you idiot. Old house equals old pipes. Noisy pipes.

And then, of course, the other realization.

He was in the shower.

I lay back down, even though I knew I wouldn’t get to sleep right away. Not now. I tried anyway, but the noise was still there. He was still there. In the shower. And even after the noise was gone, I still listened. I heard the door again — must be the bathroom door — and then another one. Bedroom door? Probably. Then silence once again. And still I didn’t sleep. And so I gave in.

He’d been out of the shower for a long time, but in my mind, he was still in there. Wet and naked and soapy. The hair on his chest was Van Dyke brown. There was a little guilt, just a little, because he was right downstairs. And guilt, of course, because this was once our bed. Mine and Jason’s. Even though now, it really was mine. But the guilt didn’t stop me. And when I was done, I rolled over. And finally slept.

Chapter 5

I woke before dawn to the sound of the weatherman bleating cheerfully from my radio alarm clock. Unseasonably warm, highs in the mid-sixties. I groaned out loud, because I knew what that meant: melting snow. It meant I’d waste the sunrise vacuuming rugs and scrubbing floors at a doctor’s office and an insurance company, only to have them tracked up by clumsy, careless, muddy boots. And after half an hour, it would be just like I hadn’t been there at all. I went in anyway, of course, because it had been a week and a half since either place had seen a dust rag or a toilet bowl brush. It looked like it had been longer.

When I was done, I hopped in my car, looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror, then drove to the salon where Laura worked. She gave my hair a thorough examination, shook her head and hacked off three inches. Then it was time for hair color choices. I looked at the price list on the wall and did some quick math. It would be tight for a while, but I needed it. And while I sat in her chair with my hair covered in goo, Laura filled me in on the LaChance family’s history.

Brian and Rachel’s mother was diagnosed with cancer when Brian was only ten, Rachel four. They had an alcoholic father who was never home. Went off to work, then stayed out nights, drinking too much and cheating on his wife. Just like a country song, Laura said, but without the twang. Neither of us laughed because it wasn’t funny.

She was sick for about two years. Chemotherapy, radiation, the whole nine yards. And it didn’t work. So one night, she had to tell Brian that she was going away. That he had to look after Rachel. He had to be strong, even though he was still just a boy. Even though it wasn’t fair. Because his father wouldn’t do it.

“He’s not going to stay,” she said.

She died a week later. Brian was almost twelve. He dropped out of school at sixteen and started working with his father. Watched and worked and learned and waited. Waited for his mother’s prophecy to come true. And it did, the day after Brian turned eighteen. As though his father had been waiting, too. Waiting until it was safe for him to leave. Even though he’d never really been there at all.

And so Brian took it all on his shoulders for real, even though he’d already been carrying most of the burden for years. He and Rachel moved into the apartment that Brian was still living in. Charlie took pity on them because he knew their situation well enough, let them rent it for practically nothing until Brian was able to turn his dad’s business around. Because he’d left that in shambles, too.

Brian still carried it, all of that burden. Especially Rachel. Because she was on the verge of screwing up her life. Even though she was nineteen and on her own now, she was still his to look after. Probably, Laura said, he’d always feel that way.

I nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. I knew why she’d told me the story even before she gave me a look that said:

He’s had it rough, so be nice to him. Don’t use him. Don’t hurt him. Because he deserves better than that. . .

And she was right. Because, of course, we all did.

Then it was home again. Seventeen steps from the car to the porch stairs, four of those. Six to my door. Fourteen stairs up, into my apartment. First time I’d noticed.

I stumbled into bed and slept until six-thirty. After a long shower, I grabbed two beers from the fridge, took them into the living room and plopped them down on top of the big plastic bin that was sitting in front of my couch. It was clear with a lime green cover and held all my sweaters except for the red one I was wearing. It was serving as a temporary coffee table, remarkably similar to the coffee table I’d had in my very first apartment. I’d constructed that one myself. Spray painted three white plastic crates in various neon shades and tied them together, lengthwise, with wire. Then I made two end tables for a matching set. At age eighteen, plastic furniture is a symbol of freedom. Independence. It shouts, Fuck you, world, I don’t need any help. At age thirty four, it whimpers, I’m fucking pathetic.

I made it quickly through my first beer and cracked open the second. Halfway through it, I stared at the box I still hadn’t opened. It claimed to contain three 182-ounce-size jugs of Clorox bleach. Because when you’re a cleaning lady, you buy your bleach in bulk. If I shoved the box into the back of my bedroom closet, right now, then in three days time, I’d have myself convinced that it really was a box containing three bottles of bleach. In a month or so, I’d buy a real coffee table, scoot my plastic bin of sweaters in front of the bleach box and, the day after that, completely forget that the box of bleach was there.

I finished beer number two, walked over to the box of bleach and picked it up. And that’s when my illusion was shattered before it even had a chance to begin, because of one word written in bold block letters on top of the box. Black permanent ink:

PHOTOS

Jason’s writing. He had packed the box on his fateful last trip to our apartment, then given it to Dave to give to me. I had shoved it, along with everything else, in Dave’s garage. And now — apparently — it was Mine.

I chucked it back onto the floor, picked at the tape with my fingernail, loosened it with shaking fingers, then yanked quickly. It released the scent of fresh cardboard, the scent that seemed forever linked in my mind with goodbye. I crumbled up the tape, blindly grabbed a handful of pictures and flipped through them slowly.

It was a mistake.

Because there we were, Jason-and-Tess, captured in time. Trapped on dozens of four-by-six pieces of paper. I was holding our last vacation in my hand, our tenth anniversary weekend in Bar Harbor almost two years earlier. I closed my eyes and I was there again. The sharp, tangy scent of the ocean. Laughter — his and mine mingling together — as we imitated tourists’ accents in the gift shops. His hand, strong and warm, resting on my leg while we drove around Park Loop at sunset. His trim, gorgeous beard, rough and hot against my cheek, my shoulder, my breasts; the sweet sting of the carpet on my back as we made love in our hotel room, ignoring the soft, giant bed. . .

I could feel the tears threatening again, and this time I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop. But then I heard it. Brian’s truck, about half a mile away. I wiped my eyes and listened. Waited. Hoped.

Truck door slammed. Porch door. Then his footsteps up the stairs and a knock at the door. I chucked the pictures onto the coffee table, ran to the door and greeted my rescuer with a sweet smile. Then I remembered my silent promise to Laura’s silent plea and toned down the enthusiasm. If the sudden change in my demeanor surprised him, he didn’t show it. He just cleared his throat and said:

“Your hair looks good blonde.”

“It’s not blonde. It’s. . .” Laura had called it 7NA. I called it Honey. “It’s just a lighter shade of brown.”

“Um . . . okay.”

I nodded to the bag he was holding. Radio Shack. “What’s that?”

“This,” he said, grinning, “is everything you need to get free cable TV.”

“Amazing. And I thought it was just a bag.”

He dug inside and pulled out two packages of wires. The kind that weren’t coiled up and held together with bread bag ties. “I’ve got the cable run through the wall from downstairs, so all I have to do is hook it up to your TV with these.” He noticed my uncertainty. “I do it for all the upstairs people. The last couple took off with the splitter, so. . .” he held up one of the packages. “I had to get a new one.”

“We won’t get in trouble for this?”

“Nah. The cable guys never come all the way out here unless there’s a problem, and when they do, I disconnect everything until they leave.”

“But is that fair? I get free cable, but you have to pay.”

He shrugged. “I have to pay for it anyway.”

“At least let me split the bill with you.”

“Why? No one else ever did.”

“I’m not a freeloader. I either pay for half or you don’t hook it up.”

He gave me a scowl and waited. Probably thought I’d change my mind if he did it long enough. I folded my arms and scowled right back.

“Fine.” He sauntered past me, into the living room, and went to work. When he was done, he gave me a tour of the channels. There were almost a hundred of them, and only five of them jumped out as something I’d actually watch. I thanked him anyway.

“That really is a nice sound system you got there.”

I nodded. Jason had fallen in love with it three years earlier. It was ostensibly a birthday gift for me, though, and therefore Mine.

“Have you played anything on it since I hooked it up?”

“Yep. Neil Young sounded great while I was unpacking.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know what you need?”

“Uh. . .”

“Gunshots and galloping horses–”

That was my second guess.

“–so I can fix the surround sound for you. And you’re in luck, because there’s a John Wayne double feature on tonight.”

“John Wayne.”

“Don’t you like John Wayne?”

Chauvinistic he-man with a heart of gold. What’s not to like? My dad had every one of his movies, which was pretty funny. I really should brush up on my Freud.

“I do, actually.”

“Cool. ‘True Grit’ starts at eight.” He bounded over to the couch, taking the remote control with him. He set it down on the makeshift coffee table and picked up the pictures that I’d left out. Out in the open. Like an idiot.

I held out my hand. “Give them here. I’ll put them away.”

“You don’t want me to see them?”

I considered for a few moments. What was the harm? They were just pictures, after all. Slices of life trapped on dozens of four-by-six pieces of paper. Nothing to be afraid of.

I sat down beside him and shrugged. “Go ahead.”

He stared at the photo on top. I leaned over to see what it was. Windy Haired Tess on Cadillac Mountain. “This is a real good picture of you.”

“Thanks.”

He flipped to the next one. It was Golden Haired Jason. His eyes were beautiful — clear, bright blue like the sky behind him. It was my favorite picture of him because he was smiling. It reminded me of how I used to live to see him smile.

“Your husband?”

“Ex-husband.” It was the first time I’d said it. Ex. It tasted sour.

Brian studied the photograph for a few more seconds, then continued through more of The Doomed Dyers’ Bar Harbor Weekend. When he was finished, he set them down gently on the bin and asked, “What does he do?”

I couldn’t say lumberjack. Because, like Dave, Jason didn’t have the kind of job that was just a means to an end. Not only a way to earn money for food and rent and all the rest. It was his passion. His life. Who he was.

“He’s a teacher.”

Brian nodded, and I looked at my bare feet, wishing I had painted my toenails instead of opening the box of bleach. Finally he asked, “What happened?”

“To what?”

“I mean . . . why didn’t it work out?”

I cleared my throat. “Isn’t it time for the movie to start?”

“Still got half an hour.”

“Oh.”

I chucked the pictures back into the bleach box. Glared at the plastic bin, as though it was to blame for all my troubles instead of just a representation of them. I looked at my toes again, praying for inspiration. A topic for conversation. Anything. And my eyes fell on my two empty bottles. I asked him if he’d like a beer, and he gave a reluctant nod. We drank in silence for awhile while he scanned the canvases on my walls. He’d nod at one, smile at another. I followed his slow gaze until he got to the last painting. We shivered at the same time.

“Isn’t that Mount Kineo? On Moosehead Lake?”

“Yep. Have you ever been there?”

“A long time ago.” He pointed to its reproduction. “It doesn’t look spooky like that during the day, though.”

I nodded, and we fell silent once more. I finished my beer and got another for each of us. They weren’t doing the trick. I was still seeing blue eyes.

Brian cleared his throat. “I saw a nature show last week about these chimps in the Congo. I can’t remember what their real name was, but they called ‘em hippie chimps because all they do, pretty much, is just have sex all the time.”

He waited for me to respond. I didn’t, of course, so he continued.

“It was kind of sad, though, because they’re almost extinct. You’d think with all the sex they’re having that they’d reproduce quicker’n rabbits, but there are these poachers who–”

“What?”

“Poachers. I guess the meat on those chimps is pretty tasty, because–”

“I meant, what the hell are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t like awkward silences.”

“Monkey sex is better than an awkward silence?”

“Definitely.”

“Ah.”

He looked at his watch then picked up the remote, because — finally — it was time for the movie. “True Grit.” A grizzled U.S. marshal and an arrogant Texas ranger help a spunky teenaged girl track down her father’s murderer. Justice and revenge. No better way to spend an evening. Brian interrupted the movie several times with ‘important trivia’ and a very bad impersonation of the Duke. I’d forgotten Glenn Campbell was in the movie and, under the influence of more beers than I could count, sang the chorus to “Rhinestone Cowboy” every time he came onscreen. The second movie — which I kept forgetting the name to — passed by in a haze of galloping horses and gunfire. By the time it was over, there were ten empty beer bottles in my sink and eight more littering the living room floor. Brian and I were both sprawled out, heads back against the couch, our feet propped up on the lime green coffee table.

He rolled his head towards me and slurred, “Your hair looks good like that.”

I was going to tell him he’d said that already, but I didn’t. Didn’t tell him that I thought his hair looked good, too. That I liked the way it curled behind his right ear but not his left. The way it almost touched his shoulders but didn’t. Not quite. And that I wondered if he always kept it long or if he had it cut short during the summer. Because he probably worked outside a lot, and long hair might be too much in the heat. I didn’t say any of that, even though I was thinking it, because talking and thinking about hair reminded me that I’d promised Laura something.

“What did you promise Laura?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yep.”

“Well, I promised her I’d use the conditioner she made me buy. I have to use it every day.” That wasn’t a lie, because I really had promised her that.

“How was she today?”

“She was good.”

“Did she tell you all about my sad, terrible childhood?”

“Yep.” I said it before I remembered that I’d planned to feign ignorance about his sad, terrible childhood.

He gave me a grin. “In that case, you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“I don’t know anything about you. Nothing real, anyway.”

I rubbed my eyes and yawned. Wondered if I could do a convincing impression of The Woman Who Passed Out From Drinking Too Much. Probably not. Because I’d been drinking too much. “You want to know something about me?”

“Of course.”

So I told him the story, because I was too drunk to care if he knew — even though I wasn’t drunk enough for it not to hurt — about The Doomed Dyers. It was the edited-for-television version.

“So . . . he left you because he wanted kids and you didn’t?”

“Yep.” It wasn’t the only reason, of course, but Brian didn’t need to know everything.

“Didn’t he know that you didn’t want kids before you guys got married?”

“Yep.”

“Not to bright for a teacher, then, is he?”

I shrugged. Nobody’s bright when they first fall in love. Everything is laughter and fun and sex; a nonstop, barefoot, giddy romp in thick, green, sunny meadows. Who cares about tomorrow? Or the tomorrow after that? Especially Jason and me. So many yesterdays, a whole lifetime of them before our Us even began. More than most people started with. So why worry when he’ll never change and she’ll change her mind someday and, especially, when everything will be Just Fine.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Tess, I want you to know something. And don’t ever forget. I have loved you forever.

“I think it was more that he had too much confidence in his own ability to win me over to his side of the issue.”

“Oh.” He looked at me, bleary eyed. “Why don’t you want kids?”

“Well . . . it’s sort of a scary idea, isn’t it? There’s no starting over if you do it wrong. You screw it up, and it’s screwed up.”

Just like that little boy at the grocery store. What if the state came in, right now, and took him away. Put him with a family with milk and soap. Would it make a difference? A real one? Or would he still be screwed up? Was there such a thing as too late?

“Besides, I’m too old for it all now anyway.”

“No, you’re not. Why? How old are you?”

I laughed. “Let’s just say I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

“So Laura told you everything about me.”

“Not really. I just paid attention.” And backwards math is my specialty.

He propped an elbow against the back of the couch, leaned his head on his hand and cocked an eyebrow. “So . . . what is it? Forty?”

I kicked him. “I’m not forty, you shithead.”

“I know.” He grinned and looked at me closely, carefully. And his eyes were Van Dyke brown. . .

“Um . . . thirty?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Come on. Tell me. You can’t be any older’n thirty. Not that it matters to me if you are. Honestly. It doesn’t matter at all.”

I smiled and stared at his lips. Lingered there. They were fucking gorgeous, and I wondered what they tasted like. How they’d feel on mine. How they’d feel all over me. . .

He smiled back. He could see it there, all of it. And I didn’t care.

He reached for my face. And missed. The smiles faded.

Shit. Are we too drunk? Too drunk for this? Because you’ve been here before. Drunk sex equals bad sex, and if it’s bad, then what’s the point?

I shook it off. So did he. He tried for my face again and got it this time. His hand felt so nice on my cheek. It really did. Warm and strong and calloused and, oh God, it had been so long since I’d felt a man’s hand on my face. Let alone anywhere else. I leaned in a little closer, close enough to feel his breath on my face, and waited for him to kiss me. I rested my hand on his leg. It was smoldering away just like a woodstove. I looked away from his lips, finally, and into his eyes.

And that’s when I knew why he wasn’t kissing me. He was searching my eyes. I knew what it was he was looking for. And I knew that he wasn’t going to find it. He pulled his hand away, gently, and sat back. Because he knew it, too.

“You’re still in love with him.”

I yanked my hand off his leg. “No. I’m not.”

He shook his head and started to get up. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans, pulled him back down beside me and clutched his hand. “I’m not. Really.”

Don’t leave. Please.

He squeezed my hand and smiled kindly. I knew what it meant, so I let it go. Let him stand again. I stood up, too, and walked him to the door.

“Well, thanks for . . . hooking up the cable.”

“No problem.” He opened the door to leave, then sighed heavily, closed it again and turned to face me. “I’m not just looking to get laid here. That’s not all I . . . want. Okay?”

And there it was. Out in the open. Even though I’d known it already. If that’s all he wanted, he could have gotten it the day I’d moved in. Hell, he could get that anywhere, anytime. . .

“I know, Brian, but . . . I’m just not ready to start anything new. Not anything serious, anyway.” The beer let me add, “Not yet.”

I looked closely at his face to gauge his reaction. To check for signs that he was weakening, faltering; anything that said he might stay, and I saw it. A spark in his eyes. And I knew that it meant I could make him stay. Reach right up, put my hands on his face, pull his mouth onto mine, and that would be it. He’d be mine for the night, and maybe even longer. For as long as it took to make this god-awful ache in my heart disappear; to fill up the craters eroding my soul. . .

But I didn’t. Because I had promised Laura I’d be good to him. That I’d be nice. Just like he deserved. He took a deep breath, and the spark was gone.

“Okay. I can understand that.”

“So I guess I’ll . . . see you around?”

He smiled. “You better believe it.”

I waited until he’d safely navigated the staircase, waited a little longer until I heard his door shut. Then I went to into my bedroom. Stripped naked. Slipped between the sheets, bunched up my blankets and extra pillow and snuggled in close. It didn’t do the trick, of course, because there was nothing solid there. No strong arms around me. No rough beard against my cheek and shoulder and breasts. No sweet whispers that told me . . . that told me. . .

. . .I have loved you forever. . .

But not anymore. I’d felt it all slipping away, for months and months. Hope and happiness and love. Drifting. Slowly. Away. And now . . . it was gone. He was gone. He hadn’t even shown up in court, and it was probably just as well. Because I was drunk enough to remember that I’d planned to beg him to take me back.

Please, Jason? Please? Five months apart, and that’s long enough. Long enough to know that it’s stupid to throw everything away. All those years together. A whole lifetime of love. We can’t just give up on it. Please, Jason. . .

Please?

I was going to beg him. To take me back.

And now it was too late. It really was. But I still missed him. Even as I drifted off to sleep. Even in my dreams. . .

When I woke up in the morning, he was there, Mine again. Golden beard; blue, glowing eyes; hands and lips everywhere. Hotel carpet. Sweet whispers that told me I was safe and loved. Even if it was just in my mind. One more time. One last time.

It had to be the last. Because when I was done, there was no guilt. None at all. But I had to bury my head in my pillow, the one I’d spent the night pretending was him, to hold back the tears. Because that’s when I knew. For real.

He wasn’t mine. Not anymore. Not ever. . .

Chapter 6

Dave called while I was eating supper. Kim was in labor.

“Isn’t it too soon? I mean, doesn’t she have six days left?” Kim had told me that there was something to worry about when a baby came too early . . . something about lung development. . .

“She’s fine. Her water broke anyway, so we don’t really have a choice.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, I can be there in about half an hour.”

There was a long pause. Too long, and it made me nervous. Finally he said, “Tess, Jason’s here. He’s in the waiting room with Mom and Dad.”

I sat down. Fell, really, onto a kitchen chair. It let out a small screech as it scooted a few inches across the floor. I knew just how it felt.

God damn it.

I’d just spent five months with them and their stupid fetus. I’d helped Kim decorate their nursery, painted it for her because Dave didn’t want her inhaling the fumes. Practiced breathing exercises with them until I thought I’d hyperventilate. Folded clothes and washed bottles and helped organize all of their baby shower gifts. And what had Jason done? Why did he deserve to be there? He couldn’t be bothered to come to court, but he had no problem with making himself at home with my family while they all waited for my nephew to be born.

And why not? Dave had been his friend forever. Why shouldn’t he be there?

“What . . . Dave, what should I do? Should I come up, too, or just wait here?”

There was no answer, and he was right. He wasn’t going to play the bad guy. Wasn’t going to play Solomon with his unborn son. He had a wife to worry about, to breathe with; had to watch her suffer and scream for hours and hours. Had to worry about ten fingers and ten toes and. . .

God damn Jason. God damn that fucking bastard.

I took a breath, a deep one, just like hundreds that Dave and Kim would take over the next few hours. And then I tried for Laid Back Tess. Nonchalant.

Everything is fine. Nothing wrong here. What could possibly be wrong?

I managed a yawn that sounded convincing and said, “Dave, I really am tired. In fact, I’ll be honest, I’m fucking exhausted. Moving and unpacking took more out of me than I thought it would. I’ve been working, too, so . . . I’m really wiped.”

That was the story he could tell our mother. She’d believe it, even if she didn’t like it.

“And I wish I could be there for you guys right now, I really do. I’d love to be there the second Matthew is born. But I don’t think I can handle being in a waiting room with her for hours on end. I really don’t.”

That was the story he could tell everyone else. And they’d believe it. Kim and Dad and even Jason. Because it was true. Even if they knew it wasn’t the real reason.

“I’m really sorry, Tess. I was with him at lunch when Kim called and—”

“Dave, it’s okay. Just get back to Kim. Go do the whole Lamaze thing. Did you remember to bring that stupid stuffed elephant?” It was her focal point, her favorite toy when she was a kid.

“Yes.”

“Well, then go. I’ll head up in the morning.”

I hung up before he could say anything else, because he needed to go take care of his wife. And because I needed to not talk to him about it anymore. But what I really needed was to not think about it anymore. To not think about anything.

I jogged to the fridge, grabbed the remaining six bottles of beer, then settled down on the couch in front of the television. Tried to drink myself into oblivion. It didn’t work. I could still see Jason’s face, pleading with me. I could still hear his words.

But, Tess . . . this is what you want to do when you love someone.

Oh is it? So, if I really love you, then I’ll be your incubator?

No, that’s not it. That’s not what I mean at all. . .

I still didn’t know what it was he’d meant. At all. Because he had talked about starting a family just once before we got married. Threw it out there, wrapped up in a ’someday.’ And I’d let him know, very clearly, that it wasn’t going to happen. Not with me.

Just the thought of being a mother makes me sick to my stomach.

Okay, Tess.

No, don’t give me ‘okay.’ I mean it.

And he never mentioned it again after that, not even a hint; never even hid it inside a ’someday.’ Not until the day after he turned thirty-five. And then he never stopped talking about it. He tried everything. Calm explanations, just like I was one of his students, one of his slow students, who needed him to spell it all out for me. Logical reasoning, as though he was Spock and I was McCoy and the problem could be settled in a battle of wits. And, finally, Positive Reassurance.

Tess, you’d be a great mother. You’re so creative and funny and warm and. . .

I hated that most of all, because it made me feel weak. Damaged. As though I needed reassurance. But I didn’t tell him that. I just said the same thing I’d said to all his other tactics.

“No.”

And what I told myself was: It’s just a midlife crisis. And it’s better than having him out screwing some young blonde or buying a bright red sports car. Then finally, in the spring, I started to see signs of the old Jason, like he was waking up right along with the trees. And by the time summer vacation started, he was back for real. Jason. My Jason, the one I’d fallen in love with.

Then came the middle of July. We spend a hot, humid afternoon in Dave’s backyard. Barbecue and croquet and beer. And an announcement from Kim.

We’re going to start hearing the pitter patter of little feet around the house. . .

Pitter patter.

I smiled with the rest of them, tried to be happy for them. But I knew. The other Jason was back. I could see the change already. I could actually see him doing the math.

She’ll see the baby in March. Nine months after that: Fatherhood.

Sure enough. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, kissed me so tenderly that his beard barely touched my cheek, because he knew how much I loved that. Then he whispered, “Just wait till Dave’s baby gets here, Tess. You’ll see. You’ll understand then.”

It was the middle of July, hot and humid. I shivered anyway. I’d just gotten him back, back from That Place. I didn’t want to lose him again. I couldn’t. So on the drive home, I said it.

It.

“Thank God Dave’s finally giving my mother a grandchild. Now she can quit bugging me about it.”

It was bullshit, and we both knew it. My mother had never — not once — bugged me about grandchildren. She wouldn’t care if I never had kids, or if she never had grandchildren at all. I knew it. And Jason knew it.

He knew it. Got the message loud and clear. Finally.

It ain’t ever gonna happen.

The next morning was still hot and humid. Ceiling fans whirring in every room. Cereal and fruit and coffee.

Silent breakfast.

He brushed his teeth and got dressed. Headed for the living room. Hand on the door knob.

Errands.

Errands? Jase, you don’t have any errands to run today.

Obviously, Tess, I do.

We didn’t have any plans to do anything together, nothing specific, but it was summer. Our time. No school, no students, no tests to correct.

Our time.

Swimming, movies, bike rides. Whatever we felt like doing when we woke up in the morning was what we did during the day. But he took off, couldn’t wait to bolt out the door, to be as far away from me as he could get.

Well . . . okay. I love you, Jason.

I’ll see you tonight, Tess.

He didn’t say it back. He didn’t say it again.

I love you, Jason.

Good night, Tess.

Barely got a kiss on the cheek again. Didn’t have sex again for almost two more weeks, and then it was quick, so quick I thought he must have been half asleep. He woke up in the middle of the night with a hard on, rolled over and I was there, so sure, why not?

And then . . . nothing.

No baby, so no sex. Punishment.

I shivered through August.

The first week of school, he signed up to teach night classes; first time he’d ever done that. The week after that, he took up playing basketball with his buddies on weekends. And I knew what fall and winter would bring. More basketball. Because he was the coach now.

Jason Dyer, Patron Saint of Basketball.

I’ll just eat supper out, Tess.

Okay. See ya tonight.

First time I didn’t bother to say it. Didn’t say it again. Even though I did still love him. He probably didn’t notice the omission. He didn’t notice when I said it, didn’t notice when I didn’t say it. So what was the point?

He didn’t want me anymore, so it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. He didn’t love me, didn’t want me, and someone else did. So I fucked the someone else. His name was Chris.

And I spent my fall and winter at Dave’s house. Then came divorce court. Because that’s where you go when the love runs out. . .

And he didn’t even bother to show up.

What was Jason thinking about, right now, while he was sitting there in that waiting room with my parents, and Kim’s parents, too? Probably he was thinking I was a coward, and he was right. I was. An even bigger coward than he had been when he hadn’t show up at court. And what about Kim? Right now, right this very second, she was in pain. Lots of it, worse than anything she’d ever gone through. Grunting and breathing and focusing on a relic from the past to forget the agony of the present. All so she could give birth to her Future. And here I was, thirty-something miles away from it all. Drinking myself into oblivion. Focusing on nothing. Doing nothing.

Nothing. . .

I fell asleep and didn’t know it. My cell phone woke me up at just after six a.m. I sat up and blinked rapidly, surprised that I wasn’t hung over, and gave Dave enough time to go to voice mail. Then I trudged into the kitchen to listen to his message. My nephew, Matthew David Bellows, had arrived at last.

I took a shower, threw on my coat and clomped down the stairs. The driveway was wet and soupy with thick, brown mud, and I had to take slow, deliberate steps so my boots didn’t get sucked off my feet. When I finally made it to the car, I tapped them lightly against my tire well, but it didn’t do any good. They were still dirty, and now the car was, too. Dirty and tired and grey, just like me. I kicked the driver’s side door, hard. Kicked it again and left behind a small, muddy dent. I kicked it two more times, for good measure, before I heard Brian’s voice, directly behind me:

“Tess?”

I shrieked so loudly that it bounced off the house and shed and trees, like a thousand startled little girls screeching at us from every corner of the yard. Once they fell silent, I turned to face him, armed with profanity, but the words never made it to my lips. I had expected to find smug amusement on his face. I saw honest concern instead, and my nerves were so raw that it almost made me cry.

He noticed and took a half-step back. Then he thought better of it, reached out and touched my shoulder, gripped it gently. Not a strained, awkward gesture; it was genuine, natural. Just like he was supposed to be touching me. “Tess, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Look, why don’t you come on inside. I can–”

I shook off his hand, opened up my battered door and got into the car without another word. I checked my rearview mirror as I pulled onto the road. He was still right there, watching me drive away.

The hospital elevator stank, and so did the music. Disco, which is the last thing sick people and their relatives should be subjected to. The door opened onto the maternity ward. The hallway was empty except for me, so I waited a few moments to prepare myself; even though Jason was long gone.

I opened the door of the waiting room a crack, peeked inside and groaned. My parents were still there. I thought I’d waited long enough. They were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, my mother reading a book, my dad watching CNN on a television that was bolted to the ceiling. I clenched my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile and strolled in.

My father and I nodded our greetings. My mother looked at me, snorted and said, “What on earth made you decide to go blonde?”

“It’s not blonde. It’s light brown.”

“You can call it what you want, Theresa, but you look atrocious. Your complexion is much too sallow for that color. Especially since you put on all that weight over the winter.”

“Thanks.” I gave my father a quick glance. He had turned his attention back to the news and was pretending to be absorbed in it. I hung my coat on a peg next to his jacket and sat down in a chair across from them. “So, where’s the baby?”

My mother gave me an icy stare. “The baby is with its parents where it belongs.”

“Well, how do I get in to see them?”

“David should be back out in just a few minutes. He’s been checking for you all morning.”

She turned her attention back to her book, and I stared at my boots. They were caked with dried mud, and it made me wish I’d stopped into the restroom to wash them before I’d exposed myself to my mother. She’d report my appearance and demeanor to anyone who would listen once she got back to Brookfield, and it wouldn’t be favorable.

My dad came to life at the commercial break. He asked about work and my new place. If I was all settled in. Smiling. Excited. Like I was nine years old and on my way to summer camp. But he meant well, so I smiled back and told him that everything was just fine. Work and the new place were fine. Met some new people. Everything is fine. Great.

My mother listened, too, and when I was done, she said, “Jason stayed with us here all night. He stayed awake, like your father and I did, like Kim’s parents did, and he didn’t leave until he had the chance to hold the baby.”

“And now he’s hard at work, filling young minds with knowledge and dreams of a happy and productive future. And all with no sleep. Heroes can do that.”

My father knew what was coming and had no stomach for it. He stood up, grabbed his coat and said he was going to get himself a cup of coffee from the cafeteria. He said it even though I knew he was really going outside to have a smoke. Because he liked to pretend that he’d quit years and years ago, and I liked to let him pretend. The same way he liked to let me pretend that everything in my life was just fine and great. No problems, Dad. Nope. None at all.

I took in a deep breath, a silent one, in through my nostrils so she wouldn’t hear it. She sized me up with blue, piercing eyes, and I had to look away. It was just like looking into some sort of warped mirror, with an older, more confident version of myself staring back.

I didn’t have to ask what it was she saw when she looked at me.

“Theresa, there’s no need to take that tone. Jason–”

“Look, I think it’s great he was here. He’s a great guy and all that other bullshit. But it would’ve been awkward for both of us to be here. The day was supposed to be about Dave and Kim and their baby. Not about me and Jason, which is what would’ve happened if we’d both been here. He got here first and I bowed out. I’m sure he would’ve done the same thing if I’d gotten here first.”

It was a lie and we both knew it. He would have come anyway.

“But it doesn’t matter, really, what I do. I’m always gonna be the bad guy.”

I flinched, because she had me and she knew it. She even closed her book. And smiled. My mother hardly ever smiled. “That is your own fault, Theresa. You made a mistake. A big one. And now you have to pay for it.”

I gave her a bitter chuckle. She was the expert at making people pay for their mistakes. But I couldn’t say that. She carried a can opener around with her just waiting for me to bring out that can of worms.

“Tess!”

I jumped. So did my mother, and it did my heart good to see it. It was Dave. Smiling. Excited. As though it had been light years since our last meeting. As though I hadn’t chickened out and stayed away from the scene of the birth of his firstborn child.

“Hi.”

“Ready?”

God damn right I’m ready.

I followed him out the door without bothering to throw back a goodbye. She wasn’t expecting one.

“Did everything go okay?”

He nodded. “They’re both doing great.”

We turned a corner, and I shuddered. The corridor walls were a boring off white and the waiting room a soothing sage green, so I wasn’t prepared for the Pepto Bismol Pink that greeted me in the maternity ward. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen.

Dave noticed my discomfort. “Christ, Tess. It’s paint. Get over it.”

I did and followed him into Kim’s room. She was lying in bed holding the baby in her arms. He was cocooned in a blue-and-white striped blanket. I tried to hide my astonishment at her appearance. She looked like she’d been through a boxing match. I remembered a picture on one of her baby shower cards that showed a radiant, glowing new mother lovingly cradling her newborn. She had the loving and cradling part down, but she was far from radiant and glowing. She was pale and tired, and she had circles under her eyes that were so dark that if I hadn’t known better, I would have assumed Dave had been using her as a punching bag. But she managed a smile and said:

“Would you like to hold your nephew?”

I hadn’t come all this way just to endure my mother’s contempt and stare at a blanket, so I nodded, backed up so that Dave would have to make the relay, took the bundle, gingerly, and looked closely at its face.

“Dave . . . he looks just like you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. He is my son.”

“I know, but. . .” I looked at Matthew again. His eyes were sort of murky, instead of blue, and he had a head full of black hair, like Kim’s, but he definitely looked like my brother. Same nose and lips. Even a little cleft chin. I had expected some sort of generic Gerber baby, not something so . . . familiar.

They were waiting for me to continue, so I covered with, “I expected him to take after Kim’s side of the family.” I hadn’t expected any such thing. I hadn’t thought about it at all. But I had heard so many people say it while Kim was pregnant — some bullshit about dominant Italian genes — that it came out sounding natural. It seemed to satisfy them at any rate, and I turned my attention back to the baby.

He was stirring just a bit. His little forehead puckered, and so did his lips, and he let out a small noise that was almost a squeak. I held him a little more firmly in my arms and kissed his forehead. It was warm and soft, and he smelled so good, almost like aloe. It made me smile, because I’d always like the scent.

And that, of course, was the moment. The one I’d been warned about months earlier.

You’ll see, Tess. You’ll understand then.

I did. I felt it. Something inside of me shifted, just like changing gears without the clutch engaged; grinding and noisy and painful. I clenched my jaw and steadied my knees, pulled the baby a little closer; closed my eyes against the slightly spinning room.

Oh my God.

What if I’d come last night? What if I’d held the kid this morning with Jason standing in the same room? Breathing the same air. Smelling the same aloe. It’s why he came, why he stayed. He was waiting for me, waiting to see it. And what if he had? Would it have changed anything? Or would it have only been an opportunity for See, Tess, I told you. I was right after all. . .

“Are you okay, Tess?”

I looked up at Dave. He was blurry. “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. He’s just — he’s beautiful, Dave. Even if he does look like you.” I gave him back his son. “I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.”

The room was stuffy and much too warm, and without Matthew’s scent to disguise it, the odor of hospital disinfectant seemed even stronger. I felt suddenly confined. Nervous. And I needed to get the hell outta there.

Deep breath. Through the nose. Silent.

“You look like you could use some sleep, Kim. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m really tired.”

“Well, I’ll get going, then. Give me a call when you’re settled back in at home, and I’ll come up and visit.”

She gave a vague nod. Her eyes were closed before I finished the sentence.

When I made it back to the waiting room, my parents were gone. I grabbed my coat and ran into the elevator. More disco. The song told me I should be dancing, and the advice made me laugh so hard that I had to grab my stomach. I didn’t stop laughing even after the door opened on the fourth floor and a sad-looking family joined me. The woman next to me, the mother from the looks of her, took a step to the left. Away from the crazy laughing lady.

“Don’t worry. It’s not contagious.”

I finally stopped when we hit the ground floor. I let Sad Family out first, then followed. I tried counting footsteps to the parking garage, but I kept losing track after thirty-four. When I got to my car, I reached into my pocket for my keys . . . and a small envelope came out with them. My name in my father’s neat handwriting. Inside was a brief note on white lined paper:

Tess, it’s been a rough few months for you. I know how you feel about accepting help, but please take this and use it. Dad.

Five one-hundred-dollar bills. Benjamin Franklin stared up at me. Five times. His lips were pursed, his left eyebrow raised in silent condemnation. And I wondered where his bifocals were. . .

I tucked three Bens inside the envelope and put it back into my pocket, stuffed the other two into my clean, empty ashtray, then drove over to the McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered a coffee. I shoved my change and the extra two Bens into the Ronald McDonald House collection bin and headed for the interstate.

I switched on the radio and turned it up loud, counted the miles as I drove along. And finally I reached the sign that said Welcome to New Mills. My new town. My Starting-Over town. The sign that meant that everything had changed.

Chapter 7

First Wednesday in April. Three weeks since I’d moved to New Mills.

Brian’s television was on downstairs, a cop show by the sounds of it. I knew his schedule by now and was surprised that he was home. He usually went out to supper with Rachel on Wednesday nights. Chinese food in Westville, all-you-can-eat buffet. He always brought home an order of egg rolls and heated them up for breakfast on Thursday mornings. The smell made me nauseous. Every Thursday morning. My own schedule was much easier to remember than his, because it was always the same. Weekdays: Work, then home alone. Weekends: Home. Alone. For three straight weeks. And I was sick of it. Sick of being alone.

But here it was, Wednesday night, and Brian was home alone, too. So I scribbled out a check, padded my way down the stairs and knocked on his door. When he opened it up, he had a huge smile on his face, and I knew why. We’d only exchanged brief nods and a hello every now and again since he’d caught me kicking the shit out of my car, and now: Here she is. He looked at the check in my outstretched hand, and the smile faded.

“What’s this?”

“Half the cable bill.”

He grabbed it, gave it a once over and said, “This is too much money, Tess.”

I liked the way my name sounded in his voice.

“I know what channels we get. That’s half the cost.”

“You can’t just let me be nice, can you?”

“Sure I can. As long as you let me pay for half the cable.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re gonna make this all about business, then come in here so I can write you a receipt.”

I stood beside the kitchen table while he disappeared into a room that looked like an office. First time inside his apartment. It looked very much as I had imagined: comfortable, masculine, informal. The walls were white, like mine, and there was no real décor. The furniture looked very functional and inexpensive, like he’d gotten most of it at yard sales and department stores. The place was cluttered with piles of papers and empty bottles and his supper mess. He had eaten two mini pot pies. At least he’d eaten the beef, crust and gravy. The vegetables were pushed to the side of each aluminum plate.

Loud footsteps.

“Here you go, ma’am.”

I pocketed the receipt without even looking at it.

“I’d feel better about taking your money if I thought you were actually watching the cable. I never hear your television going.”

“I watch it.”

“What do you watch?”

“Stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow. I knew what he was thinking but didn’t correct him. Better for him to think I spent my free time watching porn than for him to know I’d become addicted to True Hollywood Stories.

“You like cop shows?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Stay down here and watch TV with me. This one’s almost over, but–”

“No, I’d better get back upstairs.” I said it even though it was the real reason I’d come down. Even though he knew it.

He pulled my check out of his pocket and regarded it with a mournful sigh. “I won’t be able to accept your money till I know for sure that you’re watching the cable. And there’s only one way for me to be sure.”

I pretended to think about it. “Fine.”

He smiled and, tackling the big, white elephant head-on, said, “I can get you a beer, too, if you think you can control yourself this time.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He handed me a bottle, and I followed him into the living room. Every surface was coated with a thin layer of dust, the coffee table was littered with newspapers and a half empty coffee cup, and there was a huge pile of unfolded laundry on the floor. It answered that age-old question: He was a boxers man.

I sat down beside him on the couch. The credits were rolling, so he grabbed the remote from the coffee table, muted the television and smiled at me. Apparently, this time it was up to me to make sure there were no awkward silences before the next show started. I settled for that old standby: work. He said construction wasn’t his dream job, but he was good at it and he made decent money. Now that he was finally out from under the debts and back taxes his father had left behind, he could start saving some money instead of living from check-to-check.

“But . . . if they were his debts then why did you pay them off? Even if you did take over his business . . . isn’t that what bankruptcy is for? Or you could’ve started from scratch.”

“Nope. Not with his name, and not with his face. Not in this town.”

“Ah.”

He had a crew of four guys working for him, because he’d recently hired two new full-time workers. He could have saved more money for himself if he hired only one, of course, but he could afford them both, so that’s what he’d done. Because, he said, the local economy was in the shithole. Lots of businesses were still leaving the state. So if you have the opportunity to create a new job, then it’s your responsibility to do it.

“How about you? I hear you’ve been getting lots more work.”

“Yep.” About half the businesses in town had called in the past week and a half. Because when one beloved cleaning lady dies, it creates a demand. And when another moves in — one who never forgets to refill the toilet paper and doesn’t leave streaks on the mirrors — word quickly spreads. Unfortunately, it takes a while for the pay to follow, what with accountants and bookkeepers and office managers who always put the light bill and phone bill ahead of the cleaning lady bill. I wasn’t too worried, though. It was what I’d expected, and the money was due to roll in at any time. And in the meantime, I still had my savings.

“Must be a good way to meet new people.”

“Not really. Just gossipy receptionists and dim-witted file clerks.”

I realized I’d said the wrong thing even before I saw him wince. Small towns. Gotta love ‘em. Only three weeks in New Mills and I knew all about Brian’s reputation. Gossip was still debating whether he’d been celibate or discreet while Rachel was living with him, but after she moved out, last fall, he was neither. He’d had a go at most of the local girls, those who were single at any rate, including the dim-witted file clerk who worked at the insurance company I cleaned for.

Her name was Ashley. She was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, and very cute. Curly blonde hair and clear green eyes, just like I’d always wanted. She had been nursing a crush on Brian since she was in junior high school with Rachel, so spending a night with him was something she’d dreamt about for ages. Then morning came and she realized that, to him, it was nothing. No big deal, just like all the rest of them. She still wasn’t over him, and she wasn’t smart enough to keep everyone in town from knowing it.

He grunted a response that I couldn’t quite make out, then turned the volume up on the television. Typical cop show. Brutal murder. Investigation. Forensics. Reluctant witnesses. Irritated lieutenant, just get the job done. It was probably very interesting, but I tuned out after the first commercial. The mess in his living room was too distracting.