“Billy! You know you’re not supposed to drink while you’re taking medication!” Mom drops her purse on the kitchen table, mouth curving down.
He tips his head back, shaggy blond hair falling away from his forehead. He has a big gash that’s taped up with a fly bandage, and dark shadows line his eyes. “It’s fine, Ma, it’s a light beer. Oh, hey, Dillion,” he calls out from the couch. “I forgot you were coming down for a few days.”
“Didn’t Dad tell him?” I mumble as I arch a brow at Mom.
“Didn’t Dad tell me what?” Billy may be irresponsible and make poor decisions, but he does have ridiculously good hearing. Even with the TV on and the door partially closed, he can listen in on someone else’s conversation.
“Darlin’s staying for longer than a few days.”
“Really? Why? You got vacation time you have to take or something?”
“Uh, no, I’m coming to help out.” Of course my parents didn’t tell him.
He props himself up on one arm, grimacing with the movement. “Help out with what?”
“With the business.”
Billy frowns. “You’re kidding, right? You can’t even lift a two-by-four without rolling an ankle.”
That’s not even remotely true. I used to help my dad all the time. Did I love lugging two-by-fours? Nope, but I had serious biceps for one summer, until I realized I could work in the service industry and make four times as much money behind a bar as I could building one. “Dad has to supervise the big reno project on the other side of the lake, so he asked if I’d come help in the office.”
“How you gonna do that when you’re working in the city?”
“I’m not anymore. At least not for a few months. Once you’re on your feet and you have your driver’s license reinstated, then I’ll move back to the city.”
His eyes flare, and a slow smile creeps across his face. “Is that why you were out there messing with the trailer, Ma?”
“The trailer?”
Mom’s eyes light up, and she claps her hands. “Let me show you! I spruced it right up! Still needs some TLC, but I think you’ll like it.” She grabs my arm and guides me back toward the front door.
Billy waggles his eyebrows and flops back on the couch, his attention returning to Garage Wars.
Mom leads me out the side door, onto the covered deck. It used to be a sunroom, but now it’s full of winter gear and old, half-broken chairs and projects. “What’s all this stuff?”
“Oh, you know your brother, always looking for treasures. Once he’s back on his feet, he’ll be able to fix some of this stuff up. There’s a whole set of chairs that he wants to have re-covered, and a table that he’s planning to refinish.”
It looks more like a relocated dump, and I have my serious doubts that my brother plans to do any of those things, but again, I keep it to myself, not wanting my negativity to rub off on my mom or make her feel bad. Half of me believes I might be veering into overreacting territory, and I can admit it’s in part due to the circumstances and the fact that I’m back here after promising myself I wouldn’t return. But I’m worried about the way our mom likes to brush things off, and the fact that Billy is loafing on the couch, drinking beer days after being in an accident caused by drinking and driving.
And now I’m being herded around the side of the house, past the shed, to where the trailer has been parked for the better part of a decade. It’s been set up, and the awning, which is full of patched holes and a few that still need mending, is strung with white lights. A set of camping chairs are perched to the right of the door.
The exterior hasn’t changed since we bought the thing probably twenty years ago, back when I was a kid. My parents had bought it with the plan to take us camping, but we already lived on a lake, and neither of their schedules was ever particularly conducive to taking more than a couple of days off. Even when they did get a week here or there, they preferred to stick close to home.
So when I was a tween and wanted to get away from my annoying little brother, me and my friends Tawny and Allie, and sometimes Sue, depending on whether we were on the outs or not, would have sleepovers here.
“Let me show you what I’ve done. I didn’t have much time, so a few things still need to be taken care of.” She pokes at the hole in the screen door before she opens it and ushers me in.
I probably haven’t stepped foot in here since I was eighteen. My high school boyfriend, Tucker, used to sneak over some nights, and we’d have super-quiet sex on the floor, which was the only surface that didn’t squeak.
I shake that memory like I’m trying to erase an Etch A Sketch design. It appears as though very little has changed since my teens. Everything looks exactly the same, but older, worn out, and full of moth holes. It’s probably not a stretch to believe that rodents have made a home in here at some point.
Directly in front of me is a small table, with benches covered in brown fabric on either side. To the right is a tiny sink and a hot plate; below that is the bar fridge. Past that is a door leading to a small bathroom with a toilet and sink—no shower, which means I’ll need to use the one in the house.
To the left is the pop-out with the bed. It’s a queen, and the comforter is the same one that’s been in my room since I was probably fifteen years old. Even my stuffed dog, Fluffy, who used to be white and is now a matted gray, is perched on the pillow.
“I know it needs work, but I hung new curtains! Do you like them?” She tugs at the end of a hot-pink curtain with a geometric pattern on it that makes me feel like the entire trailer is sitting in the middle of a very wavy ocean at dawn.
“They’re great, Mom.” I try my best to inject some enthusiasm into my response.
“There’s a tear in the canvas over the bed that I’ve patched with tape until I can get it sealed, but it’s been dry lately, and there’s no rain in the forecast, so you should be okay for a few days. And the bathroom works; I made sure of it. Your dad hooked up the water and everything.” Her smile is expectant and strained.
Next to the seventies- and eighties-era brown theme, the curtains are hard to look at. But I can see that she’s gone to a great deal of trouble to get this place ready for me, and she most definitely has done her best with the limited amount of time she’s had.
“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble, Mom.”
“I thought you might want your own space, especially with Billy being stuck in the house and on crutches. We moved him into your old bedroom because it’s bigger, and easier for him to get around in, you know, since his bedroom is so small, and I didn’t think you’d like that cramped space, so I got this all ready for you. The heater works, too, so you don’t need to worry about being cold or anything if you’re still here when the weather starts to turn. You know how cold August nights can get near the end of the month.”
I nod my agreement and swallow down my panic over being here long enough to need the heater. At the very least, I’ll be here through September, based on what I know about Billy’s injuries, anyway. “It’s perfect, Mom. It’ll be great.”
“And you can use the indoor shower whenever you want, but you have your own little place. I think maybe when you go back to the city, I might make this my girl cave when I need a break from the boys.” She smiles mischievously. “Especially when your dad and your uncle have been into the beers. The snoring is too much.”
I chuckle. “I remember.”
She gives me another hug. “I’m sorry about Jason. He seemed nice.”
“He was. He still is. He just wasn’t the one. Better to know that now, I guess.”
“Mmm. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it? If that company hadn’t gone under, then he wouldn’t have moved, and you wouldn’t have ended up back home with us.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I know this isn’t where you thought you’d be, Darlin’, but it’s where you’re supposed to be. I feel it in my bones. I’ll leave you to settle in.”
She lets herself out, and I allow myself to de
flate. My mom has always been a firm believer in things like fate and karma. She has her tarot cards read all the time by some batty lady who lives in the next town over. She used to take our neighbor Bee with her every once in a while. They dragged me along once. The lady told me she couldn’t read me because I was blocking her energy, whatever that means.
I can’t see any reason for me to be back here, other than fate and karma are having a good laugh at my expense.
CHAPTER 3
HOME SWEET HOME
Dillion
I head back to the U-Haul van and grab my suitcase so I can do what Mom suggested and settle in. I shouldn’t be surprised that Billy has my bedroom now. His is tiny, barely able to fit a double bed and a dresser, whereas mine has a closet. The room hasn’t technically been mine in almost ten years, when I moved to the city for college.
And Mom has a point about privacy. There isn’t much in the house. My parents have a bathroom to themselves, but I’ll be sharing the shower with Billy, so this is definitely preferable.
I check the fridge, more to see if it’s cool than anything else. I’m surprised to find a six-pack of beer. And it’s cold. I free one from the plastic ring and crack the top, bring it to my lips, and tip my head back.
After I moved to Chicago, I stopped drinking beer out of cans. I stopped doing most things that reminded me of home, wanting to remove myself as much as I could from small-town life. I drop down on the sofa and sigh. The curtains are a lot to handle in such a compact, brown space. I reach over and pull them open so I can look at something that feels less like a bad acid trip.
Beyond the trees is Bee’s cottage. My heart aches at the sight. I miss her. She was such a huge part of my life growing up, and even after I moved away for college, we stayed close. She helped me in ways I could never forget, so the fact that I couldn’t make it to her funeral gutted me. I’d been overseas at a conference when I got the news, and I wouldn’t have made it back until after the funeral was over. It was better that I’d missed the funeral, though, because if I’d met Bee’s family, I probably would have said things I shouldn’t.
Apart from one of her grandsons, she didn’t have much good to say about them, and she was particularly disenchanted with her son-in-law. I think she blamed him for her daughter’s death. Her daughter, Adelaide, had passed when Bee’s grandchildren were very young due to complications during an elective surgery, one Bee said she hadn’t wanted but felt pressured to go through with. According to Bee, her daughter had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and suffered a fatal heart attack. She was only in her thirties. Bee called it a waste of a beautiful life. I couldn’t fathom what it would be like to lose your child, no matter how old they were.
Losing Bee felt like losing a family member, and I don’t feel like I’ve had much of a chance to mourn her properly. She passed in her sleep—a brain aneurysm that took her swiftly and painlessly. At least she didn’t suffer.
I decide I should do the thing I’ve been avoiding for the past six months, which is check on Bee’s place. I was hoping that by the time I came home, her grandson would have finally gotten his priorities straight and cleaned it out.
My dad checks on the place every week. Rodents love abandoned homes, and the pipes can seize and the septic system can take a real shitter—pun totally intended—if no one is around to make sure things are working properly. But since I know Dad’s been busy, I wonder what state I’ll find it in.
I push up off the couch, and a flash catches my eye. I pull the curtains open farther and frown as I take in the sports car sitting in Bee’s driveway. It looks expensive, like something an out-of-towner might drive.
Donovan Firestone, Bee’s favorite grandson, is from Chicago, so that might make sense. Ironic that we’ve been living in the same city and he spent all his summers growing up next door, and yet we’ve never officially met. He was the sole recipient of her entire estate, which includes the cottage next door, its contents, and all the land that goes with it. To the left of her cottage is a huge plot of undeveloped land, which also belonged to Bee. I’ve been communicating with Donovan since her passing. This has consisted of a few emails back and forth regarding the estate and me checking on things until he had the time to come out this way to do it himself. Despite what Bee has said about him, he hasn’t proven to be much better than the rest of his family.
Donovan hasn’t seemed particularly concerned about the property, although it’s hard to read someone’s tone in an email. After the will was shown to the family and it was revealed that I was the executor, he called me with some questions about the property. He wanted a better idea of how many acres she had, as well as how much of that was water frontage, and if I could tell him the value. It was an unexpected blow—I was still processing Bee’s death, and all her beloved grandson cared about was how much the property was worth. Apparently Bernie, who had prepared Bee’s will, got a similar call, only this time asking about subdividing the lot and how easy it would be to parcel it off or develop it.
It irked me that this guy who had spent so many summers at Bee’s was so quick to look at trying to squeeze money out of the land by developing it. That maybe he didn’t care about the cottage, like Bee had suggested and I’d believed. I might not have spent time with Donovan, but in a lot of ways I felt like I knew him, because of the stories Bee would tell me and my observations from a distance. He was always helping Bee out, working on the cottage when he was here in the summers. From what I’d seen and heard, he had genuine affection for his grandmother.
So now, the idea that he’d try to parcel off the land or knock down Bee’s cherished cottage is frustrating. Of course it would drive the value up. But it would also have an impact on everyone else’s property value on this side of the lake. Most people would think that was a good thing. But the locals don’t want to pay hefty property taxes because some out-of-towner like Donovan gets ideas in his head.
And maybe he’s already realized that, and that’s why he wasn’t in a rush to come out here. The will hasn’t even been put into probate, and in the last email, he said he didn’t expect he’d be able to come out this way until summer.
Wanting to see if I’m right about who’s scoping out Bee’s cottage, I root around in my purse for my key chain, which includes a key to my parents’ house and one of Bee’s spares. Sadness wells and chokes me up for a moment. I’m aware there’s a distinct possibility that this grandson of hers won’t want her place, and he’ll sell it.
I hop out of the trailer, close the door behind me, and then cut through the narrow path that connects our properties. It’s filled in over the years from disuse, trees bowing toward each other and small shrubs growing heartily under their protective canopy.
I get hit in the face with a few branches and sputter when I walk through a cobweb and nearly eat the freaking spider. I stumble over a root as I wipe my hand over my face and nearly face-plant into the dirt.
When I open my eyes, I’m face to face with Bee’s cottage. I take a moment to breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest. I’m not a sentimental person. Not really. I don’t get attached to places or things. I try not to fall in love with buildings or spaces, because life is fluid and you can’t have roots and wings at the same time.
But as I stare at the old, beautiful, run-down cottage, a million wonderful memories come flooding back. When I moved away for college, Bee made me handwrite letters to her. Once I tried to send a typed one, and she mailed it back. When she passed, she took a piece of my heart with her, and I’m feeling that hole now more than ever. Other than once a year for the holidays, I didn’t see her much after I moved away for college, and I realize now how selfish that was. I didn’t want to feel tied to this place, so I avoided it and everyone in it. I created distance when what I should have been doing was spending as much time as I could with her.
The front porch is in quite a state of disrepair, and once again I’m reminded that my heels are ridiculously impractical around here. I’ll b
e trading them for flip-flops, flats, and running shoes.
The age of the cottage is starting to show. The exterior is in need of fresh stain; some of the boards on the front porch are soft and beginning to rot through. If I had to guess, I’d say there are probably a few chipmunks living under there. A pair of rocking chairs sit in the corner, a table between them, the layer of dust and dirt making it clear they’ve gone unused since Bee passed. We used to sit out here and play cribbage in the evenings, drinking unsweetened iced tea in the summer or hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream in the fall.
I knock on the front door and wait for someone to answer. After a good thirty seconds I knock again, then move to the window and peer through a gap in the curtains. Everything looks the same inside—a mass of organized clutter.
Maybe it’s not her grandson like I thought. Or maybe he sent a developer to look at the property. I figure it’s probably a good idea to let myself in and check things out, knowing that Bee wouldn’t want a stranger rummaging around her place. I slide the key into the lock. It’s always been a tricky door, so I lift, jiggle, and twist to the right until I hear the faint sound of the lock clicking. The door creaks on its hinges as I push it open and step inside the dimly lit space.
Twenty-year-old wallpaper covers the majority of the open space, and it always takes me a moment to gather my bearings, since it’s a heavy visual assault, at first anyway. The colors are muted with age and sun. Blue teapots are now nearly gray and pink peonies the palest of peach. The living room is a mishmash of eclectic furniture, purchased from the town flea market; nothing matches, not even the chairs around the dining room table. A layer of dust covers nearly every surface, making it an untouched shrine to Bee.
The wall to the right is covered with old framed photos, some black and white, some color. There’s a distinct line through the center of half of them, where the sunlight from the window cuts across it at midday, bleaching the pictures on the top half of the wall.
Love Next Door Page 3
