by Aly Noble
As I was walking through the glass doors, a dark-haired woman turned the corner through the open doorway and startled when she glanced up from digging through her purse and saw me. “Oh—hey, are you here to see Cat?”
“Actually, I…” I paused and dug out the paper to get another glance at the front page’s byline. “Is Estelle Montecarlo in?”
“She is,” drawled a voice from the same doorway, a woman with blond curls piled atop her head in contained disarray leaning around the jamb to regard me. She looked me over with haughty bemusement. “Who wants to know?”
“Red Heather’s new tenant,” I replied with an edge.
At the news, Estelle did a one-eighty. Her eyes lit up and an almost pleasant, but journalistically hungry smile brightened up her face. Not the reaction I was going for. “Oh, good, I’m glad you’re here. Come on in! I was hoping to get an interview once—”
“I’m not here for an interview,” I interrupted her, staying where I was. This forced her to backtrack the two paces she’d made into the office from the doorway, which seemed to bother her. I pulled the paper from my bag and flipped it up to show Estelle her own article. “I’m here to point out your serious legal blunder in photographing my house without my written consent.”
“That? I took that photograph ages ago,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hands.
I glanced down at the caption beneath the photo. “Your ‘ages’ and my ‘ages’ must be different because the caption reads ‘September 16.’ That’s five days.”
Estelle skipped a beat before retorting, “You just moved in Saturday.”
The dark-haired woman groaned and walked back into the office, calling, “Catherine!”
“Doesn’t matter. I signed the paperwork months ago,” I said, growing steadily more irritated. Just make it easier for both of us and cave already.
I saw her steel herself and take a deep breath, practicing anger management like I was. “Well, my apologies, but that property has been around much longer than you have,” she informed me.
I shrugged. “Should’ve taken the pictures before I showed up, then.”
“What’s going on?” asked a new voice from behind Estelle. The first woman now accompanied by a second stepped past Estelle into the lobby. As the first strut past me to leave for what was likely a lunch break, the newcomer—who I assumed to be Catherine—looked me over warily. “Who are you?”
“Miri James. My property was photographed without consent and painted in a pretty bad light in today’s paper,” I replied, still holding up the paper.
The woman looked briefly toward it, but probably didn’t need the reference—it was a small paper sporting a photo of a well-known house, it seemed. And if she was who I thought she was, she’d more than likely okayed the final draft for print anyway. “I’m sorry to say, Ms. James, but that house has been in a bad light for a good many years. But it was still out of the question for you to shoot it after a lease had been signed, Estelle. Actually, at all, if you hadn’t gotten consent from whoever owns it now, regardless of whether or not it was occupied.”
Estelle looked betrayed, but seemed to censor herself as she replied, “This paper’s a group effort, Cat. You never asked me for—”
“Research? Paperwork? That’s all material you should have on file for situations like this,” Catherine said. “I don’t have time to babysit every article—much less every journalist—that comes through to print.”
I didn’t want to, but I was starting to feel bad for Estelle. Catherine turned back to me and Estelle glared toward us both when she did, disappearing back into the office in a huff. “I apologize for the bad publicity, Ms. James,” Catherine continued. “It wasn’t our place to discuss your property without your permission.”
I’d lost some of my steam by then, but found myself still cross for more reasons than when I’d started. Why were the people who fell into managerial positions always some of the worst people for the job? “Miri’s fine. And I appreciate the apology—it’s done now though.”
Catherine shrugged one shoulder. “So it is. Welcome to Grendling, by the way. Kind of a poor way to meet, but glad to meet you either way. What brought you this far north?”
“Needed a change,” I replied.
“I get that. What do you do for a living?” she pressed curiously.
“This feels like the interview I just refused,” I pointed out, absently rolling the newspaper between my fingers. Despite my remark, I added, “Illustration and graphic design.”
Catherine’s brows rose with interest. “Oh? You freelance, I assume?”
I smiled, but didn’t feel it. “Yep. It’d be nice to find a salaried illustrator position, but from what I’ve found, they don’t exist.”
“Unfortunately, art and news—well, good writing in general—are taken for granted unless you hit just the right audience at the exact time they prefer,” Catherine mused with lips that were used to pursing with stress at the corners. “Graphic design though... That’s something still marketable. You looking for work?”
I felt my brow crease at the middle in my disbelief. “I came in here to complain about your paper and you want me to work on it?”
“Our layout and typography are hell, but I don’t know enough to fix it—I just know it looks bad. We need a fresh pair of eyes and you need a job. Easy,” she stated simply. “Well?”
“I’ve never done this kind of work,” I felt it only right to preface my response, which I was still deciding on. “I have a degree in fine arts and I only took a few marketing and graphic design classes when I was in college.”
“My degree’s in finance,” Catherine pointed out with a slight smile. “Listen, it’s low pressure. We’re such a small paper that we’re basically an insert in the issues of the Record-Eagle that get shipped to Grendling. We could really use the help and, I’m not sure how many clients you have, but freelancing can be tough to live on. This would be consistent work for at least a while. What do you say?”
Bewildered by this turn of events, I intelligently mumbled, “Um… Sure.” She seemed moderately nuts, but money was money.
“Excellent,” she declared with her first real, relaxed smile. She stuck out her hand. “Catherine Spiegel. Come on, I’ll introduce you to…well, Steven. You’ve met Estelle and Carla. We’re all there is up here.”
I followed Catherine, still confused about what had just happened and only mollified by the prospect of seeing that Estelle woman’s face when I walked in as her new contracted coworker. I’d come in to tear the author of the Red Heather article a new one and had ended up with a new freelance gig.
Maybe I wasn’t as intimidating as I’d thought.
• • •
The good news was that not everyone at the Willow’s headquarters was like Estelle. In fact, my first impression was that the other two people in the office—Steven and Carla—seemed to generally steer clear of her unless it was necessary to do otherwise. Regardless of the whole scenario’s strange outcome, I was now almost steadily employed for the first time in, well, a while and Catherine requested that I come in on Wednesday to get filled in on my first assignment.
When my phone rang on the way up the front walk to 1 Red Heather Road, I half-expected to hear my mom’s voice when I answered—like her Mom Senses would tingle at the emergence of steady work in my otherwise sporadic life. Despite not really being new to the smartphone game, I still forgot to look at the name on my screen before answering half the time. “Hello?”
“Hey, hermit,” Graham’s voice blasted into my ear. Despite the volume, I barely flinched—he’d been a loud talker all his life. “How’s, uh…Michigan?”
“Grendling,” I filled in for him. “And it’s, uh…nice.”
“Not as nice as here,” he filled in for me.
“Nothing really would be.” I stopped on the porch and turned to look out over my weedy yard redeemed only by the soft touch of twilight before heading in. “How have you been?”
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“The same. Which is a good thing, I suppose,” Graham replied thoughtfully and I could see him shrug in my mind’s eye, could actually hear his shoulders rise in his voice. “Means nothing bad’s happened either. I should be asking you that though.”
The new tone he took gave me pause as I shut the door behind me. It was a tone that dredged up things the move had temporarily stowed away. I walked down the empty hall, an inquiring mew from the kitchen giving me enough stability back to say something. “I’m managing.”
“Fair enough,” Graham allowed, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized he’d been holding. After he’d finished his exhalation, I noticed that I could hear the ocean very faintly in the background like gentle static. I felt a particular ache for that part of my familiar. So much so that I momentarily entertained the notion that I could be making it up hearing it at all, crafting that calming something I wanted to hear.
Still, I listened.
At least until Graham thought of something to say. “I thought I’d have some wisdom to impart once the topic was open, but I’m scraping here.”
I scooped Ed up in one arm as I stepped through the kitchen, nudging the lock off the slider. I adjusted my hold on the cat and wedged my phone against my shoulder. “Well, you opened the can of worms…,” I said reluctantly before I kissed Ed’s furry cheek. Now that I had a hand free, I turned back toward the slider, but found that the door was already sliding slowly open on its own. I’ll have to check that, I thought and distractedly finished my metaphor to Graham. “Might as well go fishing.”
“That was weirdly literary,” he commented as I stepped outside and took a seat on the back porch bench, placing Ed on my lap. “So, are you eating? Leaving the house? Sleeping?”
“Are you reading off a pamphlet?”
“Answer the questions, James.”
I surveyed the mostly barren backyard, starting to appreciate the comparatively lush, fat weeds in the front. At least it was thriving foliage. “Eating, yes,” I answered with a grumble, though I’d forgotten to eat lunch that day. “Sleeping as well as I can with Ed being nervous in a new place.”
“Lots of meowing?” he guessed.
“No. Scratching,” I murmured, running my fingers through his fur as he purred. “Weirdest thing. He’s never done that before.”
“Well, you’ve never, like, significantly uprooted him before, right?” he asked, grunting a bit as he sat down. I pictured him hunkering down on the bench outside his parents’ oceanfront bungalow where he and Daphne lived full-time, the boards repainted so many times over the years that the planks wore an unintentional spectrum of peach, lime, coral, and turquoise flecks where the layers were incomplete. There would be a gorgeous sunset on the water by this hour, and the thought made my gut twist faintly with envy.
“I guess I haven’t… At least not to this degree,” I said, smiling as the cat in question looked back at me and blinked slowly, still purring. “Poor guy.”
“Who knows, he might also be sensing your bad juju,” he figured, which made a lot of sense now that I was hearing it. There was a lengthy pause before Graham returned to pressing the real issue. “So… Are you leaving the house?”
“A lot, actually. For me, anyway. I got a job.”
“Seriously?” he blurted. “You must be depressed.”
“Well, it’s steadier freelance work, but it's the closest thing to a normal job I’ve had in years. It was a complete accident, actually,” I explained. I then proceeded to tell him the full story, from the front page article on my new house to confronting Trevor to finally confronting Estelle, only to have her boss hire me on the spot. By the end, he was in near-hysterics.
“That is so dumb! Only you would go in to tear shit up and end up a working, functional member of society.”
“It’s pretty dumb,” I agreed, gently arranging Ed’s fur into a mohawk. “I can’t imagine working with that woman, but money is money… She’s the most stuck up small townie I’ve ever met.”
“What’s her name?”
“Estelle Montecarlo,” I enunciated obnoxiously.
“Stage name? Nom de plume?”
“I’m thinking Witness Protection.”
“Maybe she’s in a fugue state. Probably has a whole other life on the other side of the country that she just disappeared from.”
“Associates of her past life are relieved,” I muttered before asking, “Do people in fugue states change their names, too?”
“I mean, you can’t stereotype fuguers… So maybe.”
“You made up a word and it sounds gross. Take it back,” I demanded with a laugh edging in as he refused to do so. The smile gradually faded from my face as my thoughts returned to earlier topics of conversation of their own accord. Once Graham’s chuckling ceased, I hesitantly asked, “Have you talked to him?”
“No,” Graham said, a hint of his feelings on the subject of my longest and most serious relationship edging into his words. “Have you done anything with the ring yet?”
“No,” I murmured, watching the sun creep toward the horizon, the light bleeding through a velvet sky.
“You’re not still wearing it, are you?”
“Definitely not.” My hand still felt weird without it, even though I’d only worn it for just over six months.
“Well, don’t do something stupid like they do in the movies and throw it into the ocean or whatever,” he said. “Don’t UPS it back to him either. Pawn that shit and buy yourself something nice. After the asshole fucked some—”
I felt my chest constrict and my words came out with an edge as I cut that conversation off before it could start. “Solid advice. Thanks, Graham.”
“Sure,” he replied, completely oblivious to my intent behind thanking him, which had just been to shut him up. I clenched my jaw and tried to push away the slow burn of anger. “I wouldn’t expect you to do something stupid like that, but you’re hurting and you’re artsy, so there’s a chance.”
“Dude, recognize that I am vulnerable right now,” I retorted after I’d relaxed enough to joke again.
“I do,” he said. “You should’ve just moved down here though. You love Corolla, and you could’ve stayed with Daph and me until you found a place.”
I sighed and looked down at Ed. As fine as Graham and I were for bantering purposes, I couldn’t talk to him about real things, it seemed—he’d make me angry by crossing the line and then everything he said after that would make me irritable, but it would just appear to him that I was being a bitch. Like my knee-jerk response to him telling me how much I loved Corolla was to inform him that I knew what I loved. Instead, I said, “It’s too expensive or I would have. You know that.”
“You could’ve found someplace at least moderately priced,” he argued, and I rolled my eyes. “And you could’ve stayed with us for as long as you wanted.”
“Not all of us have family vacation homes to utilize. And no way. Third-wheeling it to a club one night is one thing, but being a live-in third wheel? Hell to the no.”
“Sure, but… Closer. Not Michigan.” He pronounced it like a curse.
“It’s where I want to be, Graham. I’m my own person.” I had also made a bit of an impulse decision as far as location went, but I wasn’t about to admit that to him. “Besides, it’s not like I was super close before, so what’s the difference?”
“I just wish you had somebody up there, that’s all. Family, friends… Something.”
“Well, I have Ed. And you can come see me some time.”
“And stay in Grendling, Michigan’s renowned haunted house? No way.”
“The article didn’t say anything about it being haunted or renowned. Just vacant with some town legends attached.”
“Those are always the haunted ones, Miri.”
“Who knows. Maybe it is,” I relented just to still the debate.
“You’re sleep-deprived. Take something to knock yourself out tonight and recharge. Your house will look less spooky in the mo
rning. Maybe.”
“These are not things to say to me while I’m sitting on my dark porch, jerk.”
After laughing at me, Graham sighed. “I’ve got to go. Daph wants to go to some local band thing on the beach in about an hour, and I haven’t showered.” He paused. “Are you sure you’re managing?”
“That’s the word for it,” I said. “With everything involved in the move, I actually haven’t had a lot of time to think about it.”
“Well, when you do have time and start thinking about it… Call me, okay? Don’t beat yourself up over that idiot.”
“That idiot is your best friend,” I reminded him.
“Was my best friend. I doubt I could see him again without punching him in the face if we’re being honest.”
“Girl, same,” I tried to drawl, but my act was short-lived. With a sigh, I asked no one in particular, “How did things get so screwed?”
“Because the jackass went screwing.”
“Touché,” I mumbled.
“Sorry,” he apologized, recognizing his fault this time. “Too soon.”
“I’ve got to start laughing about it or I’ll just cry. Go shower—I’m fine. Enjoy your beach date.”
“Okay. Call me later this week?”
“You’re so needy… But sure. Goodnight,” I said and, once the sentiment was returned, I took the phone from my ear. “Well, Ed, my friend, it’s time to turn in.”
The cat mewed and I took him inside the house, setting him down so I could close the slider and latch it, double-checking that it was locked up tight after I’d seen it slide open earlier. After I was sure the only thing coming through would be moonlight through the window pane, I stopped double- and triple-checking the latch. Ed meowed again and I smirked, sitting down on the floor in the moonbeams spilling in to love on him a bit in hopes he’d be less anxious tonight. “You’re my favorite potato,” I informed him as he purred and rubbed his head against my hand.
A shadow interrupted the flow of moonlight, and my body went rigid with answering adrenaline. When I looked up, the shadow was still there, but I saw nothing substantial outside the door that could be the cause of it. Just as swiftly as it had appeared, the shadow was gone and the pale light of the moon reconvened on the floorboards.
