The Good Luck Girls of Shipwreck Lane

by Kelly Harms

  “A cheesecake made out of doctors? I don’t get it.”

  “Not surgeon cheesecake. Sturgeon. It’s a kind of fish. They have it at that deli downtown that has the bialys you like.”

  “Oh, right. The Jewish fish.”

  “I’m not sure the fish itself subscribes to any particular faith,” I say, glad that we are in a private, enclosed space.

  “You know who loved those bialys? Ned. He liked cheesecake too.”

  Maybe I have been driving for too long, but for some reason I don’t snap back the way I usually do when Aunt Midge forces Ned into the conversation. “I was just wondering if you’d eat sturgeon cheesecake if I tried to make some,” I say again. “It would be savory. Kind of like a quiche.”

  “He was such a nice boy,” she says.

  “And he would have been a wonderful husband,” I say in a singsong voice, finishing Aunt Midge’s oft-repeated eulogy.

  “That’s what I was going to say!”

  “I know. It’s what you always say whenever Ned comes up. But honestly, he’s been gone a long time. I’ve let him go. Maybe it’s time for you to do the same.”

  Aunt Midge is silent for a little while. I know what she is thinking: that I never really let Ned go, that I’m living my life like I died instead of him. She’s said all these things to me before, and I’m good at ignoring them, because really, for all her platitudes and euphemisms, she hasn’t been able to explain how a person goes about getting over something as wonderful as what Ned and I had. Nor can she explain why I would want to do a thing like that. It’s not like something better is coming along.

  When Aunt Midge speaks at last, she surprises me. “You’re right. Maybe I should let him go. It’s just that you’re my only family, and I liked seeing you happy when he was alive. I wish I could see you that happy again.”

  Her unusual earnestness takes me aback. I feel tender and teary-eyed all of a sudden. The purple tinge of Aunt Midge’s hair bobbles in my periphery and I wish I could pull over and give her a bear hug. Instead I keep driving, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Maybe,” she goes on, “it would be easier to move on if you didn’t have all that insurance money just sitting there in the bank.”

  My soft feelings dissolve in an instant. “What, exactly, do you think I should do with all of it?”

  “Use it! What better chance could you have than now, when you’re starting your whole life over again? You could do anything you wanted! Start a catering business. Open a kitchenwares store. Travel to Italy. Go to culinary school. The possibilities are endless.”

  “I already said I’d use it to pay the taxes on the house.”

  “But that’s only a fraction of what you’ve got. It kills me that you’re just leaving it lying there to do nothing, even now when you’ve got nothing holding you back.”

  I raise my eyebrows. I’ve got one thing holding me back, I think, but do not say. “I don’t need the money. I’ve already got a lead on two bridal shops within driving distance of the new house. After we get settled in I’ll go see them and see if they need seamstresses. Good zipper movers are in short supply, you know.”

  Aunt Midge harumphs. “Fine. Waste your life tatting lace. But don’t try to hold me back from having a good time.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good. And don’t complain when our house becomes party central.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, imagining a house full of geriatrics snoring away in the living room at 8:00 p.m. “Just don’t turn up the volume on Matlock too loud or the neighbors will complain.”

  “I don’t watch Matlock, thank you very much,” Aunt Midge sneers. “I watch Columbo. And only for the stud factor.”

  After that I am too squeamish to talk further, and we drive across New York in silence.

  NEAN

  “Wine is essential with anything!”

  —JULIA CHILD, The Way to Cook

  Here is a concise history of all the places I’ve lived: a shitload. I have lived in two trailers, both times with my mom. I have lived in the Y, both with her and without, since, believe it or not, they frown on meth use there. I’ve lived in eight foster homes, the longest for three years, the shortest for two days. But mostly, I’ve lived with men. The first was when I was sixteen and he was twenty-eight, and the last was Geoff. And the ones in between, eh, they don’t really bear mentioning, except to say that they all provided a roof over my head. And they always made it known that I owed them gratitude. Or more.

  Needless to say, this beautiful, painstakingly restored estate on the coast of Maine pretty much beats the pants off all those places. It’s perched above the ocean and surrounded by a sea of manicured lawns, winding stone paths, flowerbeds in full bloom and towering silver birches, and yet, there’s no taking your eyes off the house itself. Somehow it is grand and understated at once, with its pointed gables, weathered gray shingles, perfectly whiter-than-white trim, and two-story front porch. And all the windows—it must have more windowpanes than that fancy house from the Keira Knightley costume drama.

  So I would really like to get inside and start living there, instead of standing here on the porch all day berating myself for being an idiot and not figuring out how I was supposed to get a key to the damn door.

  I sit down on a beautifully carved rocking chair, one of a pair that are placed on either side of the front door with little matching lemonade tables standing ready and waiting right next to them, and have a think. I could probably get a hold of that Lavender person by finding a pay phone—there might have been one in that little cluster of buildings near the yarn store, but if not, I suppose I could try to hitchhike back to town—if she is still at her desk, and she knows how I can get a key, and fast.

  But that could take forever. And I’m already at the house. There has to be an easier way.

  So I leave my duffel by the front door and case the joint. The front of the house is just a long stretch of porch centered around the beautiful lipstick-red front door, which is solid and has a deadbolt on it. There’s a planter and a doormat—but neither yield a spare key. I look through the yard for twenty minutes, and find nothing that even remotely resembles a fake rock or a ceramic turtle key holder. The windows are that vinyl weatherproof sort that have real locks on each side and double-paned glass. All the energy-efficiency improvements the design team made to my house are looking a little excessive right now.

  On the left side of the house—north if the setting sun is reliable, which I think it is—there is a thick row of hedges and that little rectangular pool, looking incredibly tempting for a refreshing splash, and a sliding glass door leading to it that is just as solid as the windows. The place is sealed up pretty tight, and I’m starting to panic about whether I’m going to get in tonight. I move around to the back of the house, where the ocean meets a huge wall of rocky coastline, and find the extension they called the “three seasons room” on the preview show. A wall of long-paned windows stretch the distance of the entire house and curve outward on stilts, and inside I see a host of potted plants on every surface and a pair of plush loveseats angled to face the water. Boy, I bet the view from that room will be spectacular on a stormy day. Not that I will ever see it at this rate.

  But when I move to the right side of the house I hit pay dirt. A kitchen door, either as old as the hills or just designed to look that way. I’m hoping for the former. First, there’s a locked screen door, and that’s no problem, I just use brute force and some creative jiggling to pop open the little wire hook at the top of the door and then stick my hand in the crack and unlock the latch on the handle. Then there’s just a hollow-sounding wood door behind it. I whip out my driver’s license and go to work on the lock, hoping it’s as flimsy as it looks.

  It gives me a satisfying bit of resistance before it slides down and the door pops open. I’m in! My license is mangled, but who cares? I’m a terrible driver anyway. I take a few steps into the kitchen and glance around at the sh
iny appliances and fancy countertops, and then my eyes latch on to the thing I was wishing for most just a few minutes ago: a phone. Within seconds I am dialing up the number from the e-mail I memorized back in Boston. Lavender answers on the first ring.

  “Meghan Mukoywski’s office.”

  “Lavender?” I pant. I realize now that I am out of breath. It’s not from the forced entry so much as it is from the excitement of being in my first real home. A house more beautiful than anything I have ever even seen before.

  “Um, who is this?”

  “Lavender, this is Janine Brown,” I hear myself bark, as though I am someone important, instead of just lucky. She says nothing. “Of the sweepstakes? I won the free house.” I really need to calm down.

  “Oh of COURSE,” Lavender exclaims. “Sorry, duh. I mean, I totally knew who you were, but I’m like an intern so it’s like, you know?”

  It’s a good thing I’ve watched so many marathons of Jersey Shore because I so totally know what she is trying to say, you know? “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “Listen, I’m wondering where I might get a key to my new house.”

  “Huh? You mean you lost yours? Didn’t Meghan give you one, um, last week?”

  “What? No. Meghan who? What?” I am only partially listening because the house’s shiny newness is so distracting. “Isn’t there a hide-a-key in this place somewhere?” There are about four bazillion wine glasses in the china cabinet. I may never have to wash dishes again.

  “Um, let me check the e-mail, okay?” I hear shuffling on the other end, as though she is rifling through paper, not e-mail. “Okay, the gardener? He put a key? In the mailbox? Which I’m pretty sure he was totally not supposed to do.”

  I do one of those overwrought-comedian forehead slaps. Jesus Christ, of course, the mailbox. Why didn’t I look in the mailbox? “That is great, thank you.”

  “No problem! So … you’re kind of like, early, right? I thought you wouldn’t be there until the ninth.”

  Again, no idea what she is talking about. No interest, either. “Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. I probably missed an e-mail on my exotic bus tour of America.

  “Could you like, not mention that to my boss? Because Meghan said I was supposed to send you a fruit basket for the day you arrived. And flowers for your aunt?”

  “What aunt?”

  There is confused silence on the other end of the phone. This might possibly be the stupidest conversation I have ever had in my life, and I worked the drive-thru at Hardee’s.

  “Um, never mind! So you’re good, for the lawyers and everything?”

  “Yep,” I tell her, remembering the e-mail. “Caselwit, Stanson, and Moss. I’m good. Thanks a lot. Bye!” I hang up the phone before she can say bye back, and imagine her staring at the receiver, wondering what just happened, and, for that matter, what does this “phone” thing do?

  And then I realize I am starving and exhausted and this is all mine, mine, mine.

  Making sure the door won’t lock behind me, I run out to the mailbox, grab a set of keys on a plastic Home Sweet Home Network key ring, and run to test it in the front lock. When it works I stride in, prop a dining room chair up against the doorknob of the vulnerable kitchen door and proceed to make myself totally and completely at home.

  JANEY

  “And, if worse truly comes to worst, you can always order Chinese takeout and serve it on your best china with a glass of champagne, and you can all have a good laugh about it for years to come.”

  —INA GARTEN, Barefoot Contessa Family Style

  After New York, after Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, and after a whole hell of a lot of Maine, I pull the truck off a narrow street onto a long winding driveway that is only partially paved. This is it: 1516 Shipwreck Lane. Better not to contemplate the significance of that street name. I am relieved to be done driving but also a little chagrined, since my overenthusiastic left turn into the driveway has cost us our new mailbox and, most likely, the deposit on the U-Haul. As soon as we hear the telltale crunch, Aunt Midge starts doing her silent laugh, the whole-body-shaking one that makes me laugh too, even though I’m mad at myself for mowing down the first thing I’ve seen of our new home. I hit the brake, and the moment the truck comes to a rest she unbuckles and bounds out of the car to survey the damage. Through the windshield I see her run around to the front of the truck and look the grill up and down with a grin so big it must hurt a little and a big thumbs-up and then move on to the shards of gray-stained wood that was once the mailbox.

  After a few moments, she comes up to my window and signals for me to roll down the window, which I do.

  “It was shaped like a whaling ship!” she says, now laughing so hard it’s difficult to understand her at first. “You ran over an entire boat!” There is some snorting, and now I start to giggle too. I can’t help it—I’m punch drunk from three days on the road. I let myself out of the cab and step to the earth below, and see what was once an elaborate mast reduced to splintered firewood with miniature tattered sailcloth still attached.

  Aunt Midge leans down to pick up pieces of the hull and finds a pointy plastic thing sticking out. “Is this a tiny harpoon?” she asks between snortles (half snort, half chortle). She bends over and grabs her sides, howling with laughter. “God, it’s a good thing I wore my Depends today.” Ah. That explains why we didn’t have to make so many potty stops on this leg of the journey.

  “The Eagle’s Shadow,” I read off the side of the fractured hull. “Well! I felt bad about my driving at first,” I tell her, as I survey the ruins. “But now I realize I’m actually the savior of hundreds of tiny white yard whales.”

  “At least! But oh, those poor tiny whaler’s wives. The tiny widow’s walks will be crowded tonight, I promise you that.”

  “Lost at tiny sea. It’s the circle of tiny life,” I say, shaking my head in mock philosophical objectivity. “But honestly, I do feel bad for ruining our fancy new mailbox.”

  “Oh please,” says Aunt Midge, regaining her composure at last. “If you hadn’t run over that thing, God knows I’d have been out here with an ax before the week was out. We may live in Maine now, but we’re still landlubbers. We still have our Iowa pride.”

  “So are you planning on replacing it with an ear of corn then? Won’t that make us the most popular folks on the street?”

  “Maybe so. We’ll see. Whatever I choose shan’t be as seaworthy as this fine rig. We’ll drink a pint of mead in its honor tonight.” She drops the little harpoon and a few other bits of boat with a dismissive thud. “Avast, me hearty! Shall we be headin’ up to the great grand house at last?”

  “Aye. But since when did whalers talk like pirates?” I ask.

  Aunt Midge ignores me and scrambles toward the house as fast as her eighty-eight-year-old legs can carry her. Right on her tail, I pass a stand of tall pine trees and come into an opening where the house stands. When I see it, I nearly fall down out of awe.

  NEAN

  “If you don’t like to cook, you should have the very best equipment.”

  —LYNNE ROSSETTO KASPER AND SALLY SWIFT, The Splendid Table’s How to Eat Supper

  I am sitting in an old gray T-shirt and a pair of black cotton underpants on a fancy-pants version of a La-Z-Boy in front of my new flat-screen TV when I hear a crunching sound from outside that is louder than the rerun of Melrose Place I am watching. Which is saying something considering this is the episode where Kimberly blows up the apartment complex. Almost a week has passed since I moved into Free House, and I have gotten used to the stone silence that surrounds me out on this desolate rock. I rather like it. So I ignore the noise outside and hope it will go away. It does.

  But a few minutes later I realize I have to pee like a racehorse. And that’s when the shit hits the fan, pardon the expression.

  From my perch on the toilet, door wide open so I don’t miss my show, I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the front porch. At first I think it’s another fruit
basket from Lavender, just what I need because I am living on gourmet pâté, imported herring, and perfectly chilled wine. But then, instead of the doorbell, I hear a key turn in the lock. Of my house. That’s when I realize: someone is breaking into my house! With a key! I feel like I’m going to barf or pee again or both. In a panic, I slam the bathroom door shut and then immediately curse myself, because now I’m trapped in this little bathroom with no escape, and no way to call the police, and all I can hear is footsteps on my fancy tile entryway and Heather Locklear telling it like it is.

  And then I hear the sound of the TV switching off, and two voices, clear as day, sounding just as puzzled as I feel. It’s definitely women, two of them, and they’re talking about how someone’s been in the house. Um, duh! Maybe the person who owns the house, perhaps? The person who is presently cowering in the bathroom wondering if she can get the basin part of her marble sink free to use as a weapon?

  “Maybe the construction workers were in here, and they left it on,” says the first voice. It sounds meek. Like I could take her with just the towel bar.

  “Why would construction workers be watching TV?” asks the second voice, much older, kind of creaky. Great. I’m being robbed by Betty White. Doesn’t that just figure.

  “Maybe to make sure the wiring worked or something?” says the first voice. “I don’t know. We better take a look around.” The footsteps grow closer. My heart starts racing.

  “What’s in here?” The older one asks, and footsteps get closer to the bathroom door. Oh so surreptitiously, I lean over from the toilet and depress the door lock. It makes a loud click. Dammit.

  “Someone’s in there!” The knob starts to turn and jiggle. “Hey! Whoever you are, open up!”

  I do no such thing.

  “Are you sure someone’s in there?”

  I start sizing up the skinny little bathroom windows. If I stood on the vanity …