by Jess Bentley
On a whim, instead of turning left to get to Motel 6 and the McDonald’s French fries that certainly await me, I turn right toward the development. Almost immediately the road is plunged into darkness. It is still very much a farm road, with ditches on either side and gravel shoulders. No lights, except the light reflecting off the rolling mist on the fallow fields.
Clicking on my brights—which takes a few tries, since I don’t even know where they are on this car—I squint through the windshield and slow down dramatically. The last thing I want to do is hit a deer out in the middle of nowhere after I just promised the rental car company to donate an internal organ if I should bring it back with a scratch on it.
It seems weird that there is not a development here, but eventually I roll up on the rather magnificent brick arch over half the entrance. Not the whole way, just the half that doesn’t face the highway traffic, strangely enough. Kind of a lonely metaphor, having the Crosswind Estates sign pointing way out to miles and miles of farm fields, never seeing the traffic from the highway that won’t go here.
Turning slowly, I realize quickly that there is no development here. It must’ve been abandoned fairly early on. And from the look of the construction, featuring nicely designed all-brick townhomes and single-family homes arranged around what would probably have been parks and shared spaces, I figure construction couldn’t be more than four or five years old. Ten at the most. It must have taken a long time to get off the ground, only to fall right back into the ground after they built a few models and laid out the streets.
For somebody like me, who plans these developments for a living, this is a mixture of excitement and sadness. I can see what the designer was thinking. Lots of sidewalks, encouraging people to greet each other and walk places instead of being in a neighborhood where people only ever see each other through car windows. Open spaces to encourage sports, children, and exercise. Basically the height of a livable suburban environment.
“In the middle of nowhere,” I remark out loud. “No shopping, no jobs. Classic error.”
I’ve actually seen this kind of thing a lot. Before 2005, easy financing made construction of subdivisions seem like a great investment. They pushed farther and farther into farmland, dragging suburbanites with them. Shopping soon followed. People took over corn and alfalfa fields and turned them into uniform developments of slightly curving streets with nearly identical, brick-fronted, vinyl-clad hives for a fairly generic class of people.
But when the economy suddenly tanked, the money pulled out. Lots and lots of subdivisions got abandoned. Like everything else, it probably took a couple of years for the news to make it to southern Illinois. They were probably still building for a few more years, not realizing the subdivision was already dead.
“Zombie construction. Great name for a company,” I mutter wryly.
As I circle back through the subdivision and its predictable U-shaped design, I note the overall plan, building it in my mind like a movie set. Despite the inconvenient location, it really is pretty nice. That is, it would’ve been nice. Now it’s going to be just something that people forgot, something people can bicker about what should’ve been, maybe a place where teenagers will stash their drugs or learn graffiti or get impregnated.
It’s a bummer.
“Bummer Construction. That would be funny.”
An orange banner catches my eye just before I get back to the main road. Public notice. Auction.
Leaving the keys in the ignition, I get out and trudge through knee-high weeds, praying that I don’t get snake bit or covered in burrs.
“Wow, would you look at that,” I mutter to myself.
Public notice… Auction…
By order of Stinson County Clerk’s office, the Crosswind Estates development in its entirety will be auctioned on the courthouse steps to satisfy a tax lien.
There’s a bunch of other words on the sign, but they kind of dissolve into gibberish. Tax codes. Something about all materials, lands, improved and unimproved. A phone number. And a date and time: Sunday morning, nine a.m.
My heart begins to pound. I trudge back to the car and sit in the driver seat for a few minutes, staring at the sign while the engine vibrates the car slightly.
I can’t, I tell myself. I just couldn’t.
It’s impossible. There’s no way.
Of course, people buy things for practically nothing all the time.
Which is what I’ve got: practically nothing. Not a whole lot of money at all. Not nearly enough. And even if I got this place, what would I do with it?
It’s impossible. It’s crazy.
I definitely shouldn’t.
I should probably just go and see what happens though. My mom will want to know.
Yeah.
Chapter 9
Clay
I guess it is a good thing that I have only thought about Deborah twice today. Once, when I called to cancel the AMEX black card. And once, when I remembered I don’t have a date to this reunion.
It’s not even really a reunion. It’s just an excuse for a bunch of us who went to a small private college to get together fifteen years after the fact and compare notes. Network. See who got bald, and who got married. And who got divorced, and remarried. Who’s looking to hook up for old time’s sake. Stuff like that.
But Deborah is barely on my radar. Closed the book. Ended the chapter. Whatever kind of mixed metaphor there is for disappearing from my life without leaving a ripple, she is it.
I’ve spent a good deal of time on my own anyway. Dating Deborah for two years was actually kind of an aberration. Women have never seemed to fit in, somehow. Not that I am opposed to the idea, just that they never clicked. It should be effortless, I think. It should be like breathing. Not that I would make a case for soulmates or anything weird like that…
But it should be like soulmates. Right? It just should.
I pick out a tie, but when I hold it up to my shirt, it seems like overkill. After all, at least half of these guys are going to be wearing hockey jerseys or something. Even Ron, my boss for the last ten years, is likely to show up in a tracksuit or something like that. Which is always kind of funny, considering that beer belly. He’s not fooling anyone in a tracksuit.
But despite the millions of dollars in his bank account, he likes looking like a good-old boy. I went a different route, but that’s just how it is. I get the money. They still call me a project manager, but in reality I’m a salesman. I need to look a certain way to get a certain kind of investor to feel comfortable in a deal that could exceed twenty-five million dollars. A tracksuit wouldn’t do it for me.
And I guess I kind of look the part. My hair got a touch of gray early, a curse of the genes, I suppose. But I still have all of it. I had a close beard for a while too, but this summer was just too hot.
I stare at myself in the mirror for just another ten seconds, trying to remember what I looked like in college. I don’t miss the old hair or the skinny arms. Sometimes I miss the band. I don’t miss laundromats or Ramen.
Frankly, life is pretty good.
Someone must’ve been keeping track of everybody all of these years, planning this event way in advance. I don’t even know how this sort of thing happens. Probably one of those very nice ladies who majored in city planning or something. Something logical but nice. Some nice person.
As I pull up to the banquet hall that has been booked, I see just the person. Jeannie. She waves at me vigorously with the clipboard under her arm.
This must be the place, I think.
I leave the car running and take the ticket from the valet as Jeannie rushes toward me, beaming excitedly.
“I knew you would make it, Clay Corwin!” she gushes, checking my name emphatically off the list.
She hands me a paper sticker with my name in careful calligraphy in blue and purple.
“Rhonda did all the calligraphy,” she grins. “Isn’t it just beautiful? Great to see you, Clay, you look great! Go on in! This is jus
t a riot!”
Yes, I think to myself as I smile and make my way to the door, Jeannie is the perfect person for this. I bet she’s been excited about it for the last fifteen years in a row.
Once inside, there seems to be a bit of a traffic jam. Twenty people I don’t recognize mill around the foyer, applying stickers to their outfits strategically. I guess I underestimated everybody’s fashion sense. Actually, people look pretty nice.
I feel their eyes searching me for familiarity and automatically look for a way out. It’s not that I don’t want to be friendly, but… Well, I don’t particularly want to be friendly. I don’t want to make small talk with every single person, reciting the same facts about myself and hearing the same facts about them.
Jesus, why did I even come to this?
Okay. Maybe I need to lighten up a little bit.
A drink. That’s what I need.
Yes, a mission. I walk purposefully toward the ballroom door and through it, spotting the bar and striding toward it like I own the place. Everybody sort of steps to the side to let me through, huddling protectively close to their dates.
Ron turns when he sees me. He’s already found the bar and a drink and he lifts it toward me in greeting. The tawny color perfectly matches the coppery sheen of his silk shirt.
“Jesus, you got dressed up,” I observe suspiciously. “I didn’t even know you owned a shirt with buttons.”
“Joke’s on you, big guy,” Ron smirks. “They only have Canadian Club.”
“Patron?” I ask the bartender when he greets me with raised eyebrows. “Cuervo maybe? With a splash of orange juice.”
The bartender turns around to make my drink and I feel something. Maybe it’s the way Ron stops, his eyes squinting, his half smile frozen between his jowls. Maybe there’s a breeze or something, but I turn just as she’s coming up, like I knew she’d be there the moment I looked for her.
Penny stops, drawing her feet together and bouncing a little like she just completed a dance move. Her fingers tuck a wave of dark hair behind her ear as she smiles up at me. For a moment it feels like my breath is knocked out of me.
“I like your hair.” She smiles expectantly, the tone in her voice strangely familiar and friendly, even though we haven’t spoken to each other in fifteen years.
“I like yours too,” I smile back, fiercely aware that this is a really big smile for me.
“What do you think of mine?” Ron interrupts, sliding his palm over his wide, shiny bald spot.
Penny tips her head toward him, eyebrows raised. “Oh, it’s really great,” she nods. “How have you been, Ron? It’s been a long time.”
“Setting the world on fire, of course!” he scoffs.
He pivots toward her, aligning his shoulder with hers. I do not love this, but I appreciate the sidelong glance she shoots at me.
“Are you still in Illinois? Still around here?”
“President of Bountiful Homes, actually,” he brags. “Here, let me give you a card…”
“Oh… That’s okay. I can Google it,” she shrugs as she turns toward me. “And you, Clay? Are you the president of Corwin Homes?”
“Ha!” Ron guffaws. “Clay works for me, Penny. How do you like them apples? Are you shocked and amazed?”
She smiles sweetly. “Totally.”
He leans on the bar, jutting his elbow back and puffing his chest out. I know he is really loving this, so I suppress the urge to kick his foot out from underneath him and send his ample ass to the floor.
“Yep, I guess I exceeded everybody’s expectations,” he nods.
“Definitely,” I add.
He shoots me a look, not sure if I’m teasing him or not. Penny is amused, smirking at him. I can’t help but notice that she looks different. It’s not just the hair… It’s everything. Could she have gotten taller? She definitely got curvier. That slinky dress makes it easy to imagine everything underneath.
To my surprise, an image of her pops into my mind with absolute clarity. Lean and slender, small-titted and graceful. Those almond-shaped eyes, staring into me. Her hair so long it brushed the top of her waist.
The vision is so clear, so precise, it takes my breath away. Superimposed with her now, I almost don’t know what to say.
“So, what’s your story,” Ron continues obliviously. “You went to… New York? You still there? Married? Kids?”
“Okay, that’s a lot of questions,” she chuckles. "Yes, New York. Yes, still there in Albany, still in construction. No, never married. Clay? You?”
She turns to me suddenly, her eyes wide and meaningful. I know she wants me to get her out of this conversation with Ron, but I can’t talk if she’s going to look at me like that.
“I’m divorced three years,” Ron answers. “Not Clay, though. He’s not the marrying kind. He’s our ladies’ man. No commitment.”
Her eyebrows are up. “Is that true? You’re not the marrying kind?”
Suddenly the band starts up, beginning with a exuberant drum solo that quickly resolves into a Prince song. Ron flinches forward, nearly spilling his drink.
“Yes! Yes!” he barks. “Music! I’m gonna go up there and see what’s on the set list. You in, Clay?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” I assure him, intending to do no such thing.
He scurries off and Penny rolls her eyes at me.
“You seriously work for him? As in, he’s your actual boss?”
I just shrug and roll my eyes. “Does he seem like he is the boss of anything? He is a genius with regulations, though. Nobody knows county business like Ron.”
She purses her lips thoughtfully, an expression I’ve seen a thousand times before. It’s so strange to see her again after all this time. So familiar, but so remote.
“Well, that’s good. I’m glad you guys are still around. It’s nice to know some things don’t change all that much.”
“What about you?” I ask, genuinely curious but trying not to appear too intrusive. “You say you’re still in construction. Same company?”
She sighs bitterly. “Oh, yes, same company. Practically the same job.”
“Really? That surprises me,” I answer without thinking.
She flinches and stares up at me accusingly, as though I’ve already offended her.
“No… I just mean that I would have thought you were already done climbing the ladder, climbing a new ladder, bursting through glass ceilings and everything. I mean…”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she cuts me off. “Honestly, I would’ve thought that too. But I guess I didn’t always climb the ladder when it could’ve been climbed, or I didn’t always know I was on a ladder, or sometimes I was climbing down by mistake. You know how it is.”
I nod sagely, though I don’t really know. But I can imagine. A woman that looks like her in construction has to be pretty handicapped right from the word go. This kind of beauty must be terrifying. Funny how I actually lived with it for years, not even realizing how extraordinary it was.
“But now, maybe it’s time,” she muses distractedly. “Maybe I will get my own ladder or something. Or maybe I will try out a new metaphor. Say… Do you want to dance?”
“Dance?” I repeat, stunned. “Like, seriously, dance? Out there?”
She shrugs, setting her wine back on the bar and placing a small beaded handbag on the table. She looks me over, that same incisive gaze, those shameless almond eyes.
“We never danced before, did we?” she smiles. “It’s better than small talk. You have to admit that, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and offer her my hand.
She slips her palm against mine, her fingers brushing my fingers. It’s the strangest sensation. It’s absolutely electric. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to dance with her without looking like a horny fool, but hell if I’m not going to give it a shot.
There are already a few couples on the parquet floor, swaying together and laughing as though dancing is jus
t the most foreign, silly thing ever. But when she pivots around me and places her hand on my shoulder, tipping her head shyly to one side, it feels… I don’t know. Not silly. Not at all.
It’s easy. We spend a long time on the dance floor, though I see Ron out of the corner of my eye, dancing with his elbows at the edge of the stage. I know he would like to cut in, or at least try to get me up there for a drunken attempt at getting the band back together.
The songs go by so quickly as Penny moves in my arms. My mind is a rush of white noise where I’m trying not to think anything in particular. Certainly not thinking about her curves sweeping back and forth across my body, setting me on fire.
Far too early, she pulls back at the end of a song, clapping politely. Then she turns to me with an apologetic shrug and I know what she’s going to say.
“I have a really early morning tomorrow,” she explains, wrinkling her nose. Somehow, she doesn’t seem to have freckles anymore.
“It was fantastic to see you,” I smile.
“You too,” she breathes, her mouth open slightly, her face expectant and unprotected. It’s as though there are no veils between us. No barriers. I could just lean down and…
“Hope to see you again sometime,” she chirps as she leans away, sashaying off the dance floor.
For a moment I feel like following her, before relief sets in. I feel like I missed a close call there. I feel like I almost capsized. She almost swept my legs out.
“Jesus, what did you say to her?” Ron huffs, appearing by my side.
“She had to go,” I explain.
“Yeah, you said something,” he persists accusingly. “You always say something, Clay. Way to go, Mr. Commitment.”
She turns back to glance at me just before she leaves the ballroom, waving with her fingertips. I feel an almost magnetic urge to follow her, but I don’t.
Chapter 10
Penny
Wanda picks up the phone on the first ring, even though it’s only seven thirty in the morning.
