by Kim Golden
The quiet is unnerving, though. I almost wish I'd brought my portable speakers for my iPhone, so I could at least have some music. I cannot find a stereo in the house—and I am not surprised. My grandmother wasn't interested in gadgets; neither was my grandfather, unless it was something that would help out around the house, like an electric sander or a motor-driven lawn mower. I pad into the kitchen and look for some paper and a pen. Going shopping for the non-essential "essentials"—a micro stereo to set in one of the living room bookcases, a more modern TV than the tiny black-and-white box currently taking up space on the kitchen counter, a microwave oven, a printer, and the speakers for my iPhone…all of these things suggest a type of permanence. But the truth is I may not even last an entire month here. Already, a restless electricity is crackling through me. It is a relief when my phone blares out Jane's personal ringtone. I might have begun talking to myself otherwise.
On the other line, is Jane, who sounds just as sleepy as I feel. I pour myself a glass of wine, as she fills me in on the gossip trickling down to her. "…So Jenny knew about you and Evan; so did Priya."
"But, how…?" I guess we weren't as discreet as we thought.
"Priya says she saw you two together in Miami. Jenny said it was obvious how you and Evan were always disappearing at the same time."
"Yeah, I guess that is obvious."
"Evan called…he thinks I am going to help you two get back together again." Jane makes a noise that lets me know this is the furthest thing from her mind. "Can you believe he has the cheek to even suggest it?"
"What did he say?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"I'm not sure." Will it be any different from what he said to me? Somehow I doubt he would even come out and say it so blatantly to Jane, especially since she is more of a firebrand than I am.
"Just stay far, far away from him," Jane advises. "Now that he's come crawling out of the woodwork, I think you did the absolute right thing, in going to Vermont. You need some distance from that idiot."
"I didn't go far enough away."
"What are you talking about?"
"Evan called me. He thinks we can just…carry on."
"Bastard!"
"Yeah, I know. I wish someone had just clued me in before…"
"We tried; I tried." Jane reminds me. In the background, I hear Brian telling the boys to go back to bed.
"I just wanted to get away and I'm not even alone here!"
"Why? Is your mom there?"
"No, worse." I let out a sigh that sounds overly dramatic even in my ears. "Apparently I have a tenant no one told me about."
"Who is it? Do you know her?"
"It's a him."
"Oh…." Jane practically cooed.
"And he's gorgeous."
"Oh, well, that changes things…you know I have to live vicariously through you, seeing as I am a married woman with three kids and no chance of ever sleeping with anyone other than Brian for the rest of my life."
"Oh shut up, you are probably the luckiest woman in the world."
"Yeah, yeah, so spill the beans about your hot tenant."
"He's from South Africa, according to my mom."
"And?"
"He's very tall, and he's renting my grandmother's guest cottage until the end of the spring."
"He could be your rebound guy."
"Not likely."
"Why not? You said he was gorgeous."
"That doesn't mean I want to jump in the sack with him."
"Just have fun, Mia. No one's saying you have to marry him, but if he shows interest then why not have a holiday fling?"
Jane sounds a little exasperated with me. Sometimes she has to knock me out of being so self-centered and remind me that I should show some interest in other people's lives. Whenever she does this, it makes me feel ridiculous. I don't understand how I can get so wrapped up in my own problems—problems of my own making—that I can forget to ask her how she is. So, I try to change the subject back to her life and ask her how the kids are and what she and Brian have done.
She rushes through it and quips, "At the moment, your life is more interesting than mine. I have spent the day trying to get three rambunctious kids to follow simple directions. Now, you, on the other hand, have the possibility of having some singleton fun and you are complaining."
"I am not complaining," I remind her. "I just wasn't expecting anyone else to be here. I wanted to have some time to myself."
"Well, now you have someone to spend the holidays with. Enjoy it. I know I would."
"Jane!"
"What? If I had a hot guy in my vicinity and I was single, I wouldn't be acting like I was closed for business."
"I'm going off men."
"Famous last words, Sweetie! "
"So, you finally came!" Horace Lundgren, my grandparents' lawyer, greets me with a bear hug that defies his slight frame. Ever since I was a kid, I'd called him "Uncle Horace" though it was obvious he wasn't related in any way. He was as typically Scandinavian as could be with his tall, though now stooped, frame and white hair. He and my grandfather had been childhood friends. I could imagine the pair they made—the Swedish boy and a younger version of my grandpa Hart, cocoa brown and skinny as a whip. When Uncle Horace releases me, he pats my right shoulder and nods as if reassuring himself that all is well. "And not a day too soon, my dear."
"You always say that, Uncle Horace."
"This time I mean it—we've got to file those estate papers or the Village Council will say you're neglecting your property."
I groan just thinking about it. The Village Council is really no more than a group of bossy older women who all try to force the rest of the town to do their bidding. My grandparents weren't too fond of them, but tolerated them, since my grandfather owned the general store and needed local business to stay afloat.
"I know, I should have come sooner." I sit down in one of the squishy armchairs facing his desk. "Better late than never, right?"
"Mia, this is very serious. They would have tried to take your house if it hadn't been for your having a tenant."
"How long has he been living there, Uncle Horace?" I lean forward, my arms resting on the edge of Uncle Horace's desk. "My mother didn't really give me much information about him."
"Not much to tell, my dear," he says as he opens the manila folder on his desk. "He showed up about a little while ago, just before your grandmother became too ill to manage the house. He's been keeping up the property while you and your mother have been away. Good thing, too, otherwise the Village Council would've been charging you maintenance fees."
"Maintenance fees? When did they start with that?"
"All part of Evelyn Castle's campaign to take over the council," Uncle Horace grumbled. "That woman is a nightmare sometimes."
"Well, at least we can get her off our back, since I'm here now," I say, not wanting Uncle Horace to get stuck in one of his legendary Evelyn Castle rants. Those two have had bones to pick with one another since I was a kid. "So what do I need to sign?"
The stack of papers is larger than I expected. The deed to the house, another deed for the land. Uncle Horace takes me through every step of officially taking ownership of my grandparents' home. By the time we get to the final document, Jake's lease on the guest cottage, my hand is sore and my fingers cramped. I pay more attention to this document than any of the others. Maybe it's because I know it was the last of any documents my grandmother signed. Maybe it's because I think I can get rid of my tenant if I just find a loophole. But, from what I can see, there's nothing amiss. The rent he's paying for the cottage is more than I would have thought reasonable for Hunters Grove, but it's not exorbitant. Uncle Horace notices how concentrated I am and tells me, "All the money he's paid in rent is in this account—" he points to the old-fashioned bank book. "—And your grandmother told him he could have the cottage until the end of February, to start with, and then he'd have to discuss extending the lease with you."
"Uncle Hor
ace, have you met this guy?"
"Jake? Course I have. Ruth Carter brought him by when it was time to sign all the paperwork. Nice man. Solid, good head on his shoulders."
I didn't point out that it was a good-looking head. I didn't even want to notice it, but it was pretty hard not to.
"So, you trust him?" I asked as I pick at a folder corner with my thumb nail.
"Wouldn't have let him move in if I didn't." Uncle Horace gently eases the folder out of my hands and sets it on his desktop. "And, he certainly wouldn't still be there if anything was amiss."
"But why didn't anyone tell me—"
"Mia, my dear, I tried to tell you about him in October." Uncle Horace's pale skin flushes red. "You were…distracted to say the least."
I look down at my hands, embarrassed to remember that stupid weekend in Miami and that I'd even tried to conduct a conversation with Uncle Horace when Evan and I were having sex. Grandma Ruth would have had a field day with that if she were still alive.
"The thing is, Uncle Horace, I don't really want a tenant."
"Mia, my dear, I am not going to force that man to leave when your grandmother trusted him," he announces with a finality that marks the end of his patience with me. "Jakob Groenewald has kept that property in tip-top shape while you've been away, and he's a damned good tenant. You could do worse, young lady. Much worse."
4 Misery Doesn't Love Company
Rule #1 We aren't friends. We aren't even really neighbors. You are my tenant. That's it.
The next morning, I wake to a frigid house and remember I forgot to set the thermostat. I shove my feet into my sheepskin slippers and wrap my quilt around me and then make my way downstairs to remedy the situation. My grandmother used to take care of all of these concerns. Now, I have to remember to do all of this. It takes a while to find the thermostat, but I eventually locate it in the hallway on the wall behind a mirror. Why is it behind a mirror? I will have to ask my mom if she knows the reason for this. She used to joke that Grandma Ruth ought to write a book about how to keep an old house from falling apart. Grandma always made it look so easy, but then she made most things look like a piece of cake.
Now that the thermostat has been set to stay at 70F, I go into the kitchen and make a pot of coffee. My "neighbor" is already up and about. I can see him through the frosty kitchen window. He's got the snow blower out and he's clearing the driveway. Damn, I hadn't thought of that. He's dressed in a thick flannel work shirt, like the kind my grandfather used to wear, and jeans, with heavy-looking work boots on his feet. He's got a wool skullcap, like the stevedores wear, pulled down over his wheat-colored hair. I watch him and wonder if this is the first time he's done something like this. I don't think it snows in South Africa—well, maybe in the mountains, but I don't even know which mountain ranges run through South Africa. All I know is Kilimanjaro, but that's in Kenya and Tanzania, so too far north. I'll have to check out Google Maps later.
Of course I should be doing a lot of other things… I shouldn't be snooping on Jake, even though it's hard not to when he's so…there. He stops and wipes his forearm across his forehead. Then he stretches, and I find myself wondering what he looks like stripped of all those layers of clothes. Damn you, Jane! This is your fault! I wasn't even thinking of him in that way until you planted the idea in my head.
Before I can turn away, he catches sight of me and waves. I wave back and then scurry away from the window, embarrassed at being caught. Instead, I busy myself with the business of making breakfast. I am not really hungry, but I am a creature of habit. Without my cup of coffee and a bagel, I am no good in the morning. A search of the refrigerator tells me I forgot to pick up bagels. But then, I search the freezer and find some English muffins my mother must have bought the last time she was here. It will have to do until I can go to the grocery store again. Will I be able to find them in Hunters Grove? In Philly there are enough delis and bakeries where I can pick up a dozen pumpernickel or blueberry bagels, without even having to make an effort.
The snow blower engine sputters and roars again. Should I take him a cup of coffee? He is doing me a favor. Of course, he would have had to clear the driveway and the path to his door, even if I weren't here, but he's already swept the snow off the porch and my walkway. Oh, screw it. I'll give him some coffee. It's the neighborly thing to do, since we will have to share space, in a matter of speaking. I go to the front door and brace myself for the blast of cold air that greets me.
He shuts off the snow blower and calls out, "I hope I didn't wake you with all the noise."
"No, I didn't even notice it. It's…it's pretty nippy today."
"Yeah, that's for sure," he laughs. "Not really what I am used to, but, man, it's beautiful."
"You in the mood for coffee?"
"Coffee would be great." He doesn't so much walk as stride forward, with the ease and confidence of someone comfortable in his skin. He jogs up the porch steps and then does the thing that Evan forgot to do when he first visited my grandmother's house—wipe his feet on the welcome mat.
We both walk the well-worn oak planks to the kitchen, where the coffee maker is bubbling and clucking, the definitive sign that coffee is now ready to be consumed. I gesture for him to sit and ask if he wants an English muffin, but he declines, saying he's already had breakfast. I make a production of finding good-sized coffee mugs. Not because I want him to feel uncomfortable about me serving him, but because I cannot remember which cupboard is the designated coffee mug cupboard. The cupboards bear my mother's trademark disarray- when Grandma Ruth was still alive, everything was always in the right place- but I finally manage to find two large mugs and set them on the table. Jake's settled into the chair closest to the pantry door. He unbuttons his work shirt and reveals a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt. I imagine waves of steam rising from his skin, damp and warm from his morning exertion. I have to put an end to this, I tell myself.
"I was thinking that maybe we need some ground rules, and I wrote some down…" I pour coffee into his mug, then mine, and set the coffee jug on the trivet. "Since we're sharing space." I hand him the list I've written on Post-it notes.
"We're hardly 'sharing space'," he retorts. An amused look dances across his even features. "I'm on the other side of the yard. In my own house."
"Well, technically, we're sharing space."
"We most definitely aren't," he laughs. "Are we sharing a kitchen? Besides now, I mean."
"No…"
"And we're not sharing a bathroom."
"No, but—"
"So, I fail to see how we're sharing space, other than the driveway and some air."
"Just read the list, please."
"Sure, sure," he says, more to humor me.
He takes a long sip of his coffee and, after setting down his cup, begins scanning the list. A few times he chuckles. I didn't think I wrote anything that amusing, but maybe I did. While he goes through all the items on the list, I watch him, trying to read his body language, but there is nothing tense about him. He seems completely relaxed, even sitting here with someone who is a complete stranger. Small things become apparent—his skin reminds me of honey; he is so tan and I wonder how this can be when it's been cloudy here in southern Vermont for weeks—or at least that is what I've read on the Hunters Grove Gazette's website. He has very straight teeth, which is nice. I like good teeth. Evan had slightly scraggly teeth that always bothered me, but I could accept them, because I loved him. And Jake has tiny freckles across the bridge of his nose that give him a boyish air. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. He's my tenant. It's unprofessional. And it's one thing to say that a white guy like George Clooney or Colin Farrell is hot. It's another thing to look at your run-of-the-mill white man and actually want to kiss him. I've never thought of myself as one of those black women who dates white men. I've found a few attractive, but I've never actively sought one out. Now, though, I am watching this gorgeous man sitting across the table from me and wondering what he'd look like na
ked. I blink rapidly and gulp down a little too much coffee in one go. I nearly choke, I cough and sputter, but then I manage to get my reflexes under control again.
"You okay?" Jake asks, looking ready to jump up and give me CPR if necessary.
I nod. "Yeah, perfectly okay! Just got some down my windpipe, that's all."
"Okay, good. Can't have my landlady dying on me. Already had that happen once."
I start and flash him what must be a weird look, because he shakes his head and says, "That was a joke, Mia."
"Right, right. So, what do you think of my list?"
"I think it's insane."
"What's so insane about it?"
"You pretty much say we can't be anywhere at the same time—you've even listed places in town that I've never even heard of."
"I'm just covering my bases."
"Well, I don't think you can add these conditions when they're not even on your property," he laughs. Then he drains his coffee mug and adds, "Plus none of this is legally binding, since it's not notarized…"
"I know, I was just thinking more like common courtesy…"
"And it's on two Post-It notes."
"Yeah, that too."
"But here's the thing—I don't mind not using the washer and dryer on the days you want to use it, I don't even mind not dropping by unannounced—hat makes perfect sense."
"Good! Then we're on the same wavelength."
"But this thing about leaving each other alone on Christmas Day…it's pretty stupid."
"I came up here to be alone. I don't want to spend Christmas with anyone."
