I managed that and looked up at him to see he was close. Not as close as I would have liked but could never have, but a lot closer than before.
“My house?” I asked.
“Cameron called it Cliff Blue. It stuck. And it works,” he explained. “Folks who had the lot before had an old house on it. Two generations of women who liked the feel of their hands in the dirt tended that property for nearly seventy years. Place was covered in bluebells. Planted some, they took off, went everywhere. Even jumped the street and now they’re all over my lot, and that’s not a complaint. Cameron liked ’em too, used them in the design, the color, the stained glass, the walk, and was careful not to disturb them if he didn’t have to. Went so far as to plant a bunch more to replace any they killed during construction. ’Cause of that, March and April, your house looks like it’s floating by a cliff on a cloud of blue.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, his words filling my head with a wondrous image, making me wish for another reason that I’d been able to move in several months earlier. “The realtor should have put a picture of that on the Internet. If I saw it, I would have probably paid full price.”
I couldn’t contain my jump when Mickey’s laughter filled the room, not only because it was an exceedingly handsome sound, but because it came as a surprise.
Before I could ask what was funny, he told me.
“Glad you didn’t, babe. The couple who built that place were pieces of work. She was a raging bitch and that was only capped by how huge of a dick he was. Place was on the market forever because neither would agree on an offer and actually got into it with the buyers so bad they’d pull out. They kept screwing around, the price on your place dropped three times, which is a shame ’cause that house is that house. Not a shame ’cause those two assholes got screwed in the end. But it’s a pain in the ass because that house is in my neighborhood and that kinda shit affects the values of all the properties around it. Figure the only way they could sell was to someone like you who the realtor could keep those two piranhas away from.”
“That sounds unpleasant,” I noted and the residual grin from his laughter turned into a smile.
“Suffice it to say, I don’t know you too well and I like you a whole lot more than I liked them,” he replied.
And one could say I liked that.
But I shouldn’t like that. I shouldn’t anything that.
Even so, I needed to make a response so I did it mumbling, “That’s good.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Bad neighbors suck.”
Considering our first meeting he had to rescue me from my infuriated, foul-mouthed ex-husband, I decided not to respond to that.
Mickey didn’t stick with that subject either.
Instead, he prompted, “Still got no idea why you’re here, Amelia.” His blue eyes twinkled and my stomach fluttered. “But if you’re a female fighter, that’d shock the shit out of me.”
“Oh, right,” I mumbled then cleared my throat and carried on, “I’m selling a few things and thought I’d donate the proceeds to the junior boxing league.”
Another smile from Mickey. “Fantastic.”
“House sale. Josie’s gonna help,” Jake put in and Mickey looked to him then to me.
“Got some shit I could put in. Tell me when you’re havin’ it. I’ll lug it over.”
This was not conducive to me steering clear of Mickey Donovan, but if the young boxers needed decent equipment, the more was definitely the merrier. So at least for that, I’d have to suck it up.
“Of course. I’ll make sure you know,” I replied.
“And you need help, I’m across the way,” he offered.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Thanks,” I said, swiftly looked to Jake, stuck out my hand and continued, “It was nice meeting you. I’ll call your wife soon.”
He took my hand, squeezed it and returned, “Same meetin’ you. Sure I’ll see you again soon.”
“Yes.” I nodded and forced my attention back to Mickey. “Good to see you again, Mickey.”
Another grin. “You too, babe.”
I dipped my chin, averted my eyes, murmured, “Good-bye, gentlemen,” and walked to the door.
This got me a, “Later,” from Jake and a, “’Bye, darlin’,” from Mickey.
As I swiftly made my way through the gym, I sent a hesitant smile to the boxer still training, doing this now not punching a bag as he had been when I walked in, but jumping rope.
He smiled back distractedly but I got the impression he did it only because we met eyes.
I kept moving through the gym as his attention drifted away and something about this stung.
He was not unattractive, though he wasn’t gorgeous like Mickey and Jake. I couldn’t fathom his exact age but I guessed both Mickey and Jake were around mine, and although the rope-jumping boxer looked younger, he was nowhere near his twenties so he was not that far off.
What he was was not interested in me.
I was a woman in a boxing gym. I had breasts. I had a booty. I had long hair and it was thick and shiny.
But to him, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties, who, depending on a woman’s preferences, might not turn heads but was not a man you’d dismiss, I was a nonentity.
I’d been married to Conrad for sixteen years. We’d been together for three before that. And the three after, I’d had nothing on my mind but resentment and revenge. I hadn’t thought of a man looking at me because I hadn’t looked at a man.
Then came Maine.
And the day after I arrived…Mickey.
And it hit me then with that boxer paying absolutely no mind to me that I had no idea what a man would think of me. I had no idea if men looked at me.
Until then when I knew they didn’t.
Mickey disturbed me in a pleasant way I couldn’t allow myself to feel and I hoped I hid.
But either he was phenomenally good at hiding it himself or I didn’t disturb him in the slightest.
I figured it was the latter.
Jake was married but he didn’t even look past my eyes to my hair.
And I had good hair.
Further, the rope-jumping boxer barely glanced at me.
My ride, yes.
Me, no.
I got in my car and didn’t waste time pulling out of the spot, getting away from Mickey, burying the sting of these realizations, how deep they bit, how they made me feel—old and past my prime, insignificant, a body passing through a gym who was not female or male or anything.
I drove, resolutely turning my mind to heading home (which, alas, was across the street from Mickey).
And as I drove, I forced myself to think about the fact that I was happy I’d found a local organization that would put the money I made off my old life to good use.
I drove also troubled this involved Mickey.
And when I was getting out of my car in my garage, I was surprised when my phone rang.
The garage door was folding down as I dug my phone out of my purse, doing this with some trepidation.
I, not officially (but unofficially for certain), was severing ties with Robin, my best friend back in La Jolla. This was because she was much like my mother, spurring me on to random acts of bitchery in order to make Conrad’s (but mostly Martine’s) life a misery.
Along with coming to the understanding my mother and father were triggers, on my drive across country I’d also decided Robin was a bad influence.
She had called too and I’d texted her back. I’d email her when I had my computer set up. And according to my plan, if I couldn’t manage to adjust our friendship to something that was far healthier for me, we’d eventually become acquaintances. Something, if she brought it up, I’d blame on the distance.
I did not take this in stride and I didn’t take it lightly. Just the thought of losing Robin hurt and I hated it. Robin and I had been friends for years. We’d met at a party when Conrad had joined her husband’s practice. She was beautiful and funny and she
loved my kids like I loved hers. We spent a lot of time together. We shared everything with each other. We trusted each other completely. In forty-seven years, she was the only woman I’d met who’d become the absent sister I’d always needed.
Over the past years, the rest of my friends had shied away as my random acts of bitchery carried on (and on), so Robin was the only one I had left.
But her husband had left her two years before mine did and not for a nurse, for a Pilates instructor. Thus Robin had random acts of bitchery down to an art as she’d been honing her skills way before I entered the game.
She’d been my mentor, a very good one, and we’d carried on with our shenanigans, doing it with a glee that I only very recently realized hid our despair.
She was still there and living her bitterness while spurring mine on, nowhere near coming to a place in her life where she’d reflect on this, move past it and take back her life.
But to save my family, I had to do just that. And to do that, I had to cut her off (semi) cold turkey.
Which, to start anew, was what I was doing.
So the call could only be from Mom, something that would be out of her usual modus operandi.
Or, if she jumped the gun, it would be from Dad, angry with me that I hadn’t taken Mom’s calls and not only willing but very able to share that with me, cutting me to the bone with his precisely aimed ice daggers, reducing me to nothing.
I didn’t know what to make of the fact that the screen had nothing but a number I didn’t recognize.
Mom would not play games. She wouldn’t get to me through subterfuge. And Dad never phoned me on anything but his cell because that would require the effort of looking up my number, which he would not bother to memorize. He would never make that effort, even to allow himself his relished pastime of laying into me.
Though, it could be Robin. She had a variety of ways of getting to people who didn’t want to hear from her.
Even thinking this, I took the chance of taking the call, putting my phone to my ear and saying a cautious, “Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Amelia?” a woman (not Robin, thankfully) asked.
“Yes,” I answered, pushing through the door from the garage that led into the dining area portion of the landing of the open-space great room.
“This is Josephine Spear,” she announced and I stopped, eyes unfocused on the blue sea beyond my windows, my mind on the fact that Jake hadn’t lied. His wife must be a dog with a bone because, as he predicted, I’d barely made it home before she contacted me. “You met my husband at the gym. Jake Spear?”
“I did, Josephine,” I confirmed. “And I’m pleased you phoned.”
“Head gear is crucial in boxing,” she declared strangely. “We have thirty-seven boys in the league and only gear enough to fit twelve boys appropriately.” Her voice started filling with excitement. “Jake told me what you were wishing to do and a house sale is just the thing! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
I almost had the opportunity to agree as I heard her pull in a quick breath, but I didn’t get that chance when she went on.
“Now, I don’t want to pressure you but the season will be on us before we know it and our bake sales and magazine subscription efforts are not exactly thriving. But everyone has items in their homes they no longer want that another will want. So, if you’re amenable, I’ll call Alyssa. She’s my friend and a fighter mom. We’ll activate the mom phone tree. We’ll get more items donated and make plans to get the word out, far and wide.”
“That’s wonderful, Josephine, I think the bigger this is the better it can be. But just to warn you, I do have a great deal of stuff I’ll be needing to sell,” I told her. “I’ve also got a plan of designing fliers, putting an ad in the paper, going to local businesses and asking if I can put notices up on public bulletin boards and in staff rooms—”
I wasn’t quite finished when she declared, “Excellent! And I’ll speak with the schools. They email newsletters to parents, even in the summer. They can add that as a news item. We’ll also need volunteers…” She hesitated before she said, “There’s a good deal to go over. Perhaps we should meet. Iron all this out face to face. I’ll ask Alyssa to join us. Do you work? Should this be lunch or dinner or coffee?”
Yes, Jake had not lied. His wife was very keen.
“I…don’t work,” I admitted, feeling another new feeling, that being ashamed of that fact, not to mention the fact that I never had worked. Ever. Not in my life. I pushed past that and finished, “So, I could do anything at your schedule.”
“Fabulous. I’ll speak with Alyssa and phone you back. How does that sound?”
I started moving toward the kitchen to dump my purse on the counter and replied, “Sounds great.”
“Jake says you’re new to Magdalene?” she remarked.
“I’ve been here just under a week,” I shared.
“Well then, welcome to our home that is now your home and I look forward to meeting you.”
“Same, Josephine.”
“Josie,” she said. “Please, call me Josie.”
“All right, Josie.”
“I’ll phone shortly after I speak with Alyssa.”
“Wonderful.”
“Take care, Amelia.”
“You too, Josie.”
She rang off and I dumped my purse and phone on the counter. I went to the fridge, opened it, stared in and, even though I’d skipped breakfast, forgot about lunch and had a fully loaded fridge since the kids had been there that weekend, I couldn’t see anything in it that interested me.
So I closed the door to the fridge and jumped when my phone rang.
I grabbed it from the counter, saw the same number on the screen and took the call.
“Josie?” I asked as greeting.
“Is Wednesday at lunchtime good for you?” she asked back.
I stared at the counter thinking she wasn’t keen, she was raring.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.
“Excellent. Noon. Weatherby’s Diner. We’ll be the two blondes in a window booth.”
“Well, if there are two other blondes, so you know me, I’ll be the short, middle-aged brunette,” I informed her.
“Petite,” she stated as reply.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Women are not short. They’re petite. They also are never middle-aged. They’re mature.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that true but firmly declared statement except to say, “Oh. Right.”
She sounded vaguely flustered when she backtracked, “You can, of course, refer to yourself however you wish.”
I felt the need to smooth her fluster and did this saying, “Petite is a nicer word. So is mature.”
“They are, indeed,” she agreed. “Though I also am not overly fond of mature. Why a woman needs to qualify that, I cannot fathom.”
I couldn’t help but agree.
“So I’ll be the petite, mature brunette,” I told her, trying to make a joke. “However, the mature part is just for you and me.”
“And Alyssa and I will be the not-petite, mature blondes,” she returned, and thankfully I could hear the smile in her voice. “Further, you should be aware that as it’s summer, I may have my son, Ethan, with me. And as Alyssa and her husband, Junior, are kind, good-hearted people, they’ve wisely made the decision to copiously populate Magdalene with their offspring. Therefore, she could have a bevy of children with her. They’ll be the ones causing mayhem. I’ll do my best to be certain Ethan doesn’t join in, but he has a mind of his own and his father and I like to encourage exactly that.”
I grinned at the counter. “That’ll be good then as you all will be hard to miss.”
“Indeed,” she again agreed. “Now, do we have a plan?”
“Yes, Josie, we have a plan. I’ll see you and Alyssa Wednesday at this Weatherby’s place.”
“You can’t miss it,” she told me. “It’s in town and town’s not that big. It’s
right on Cross Street. But if you have troubles, simply call me.”
She seemed oddly formal, which was quite a contradiction to her cursing, but friendly and totally informal husband.
“I’ll find it,” I assured her.
“Good. We’ll see you then, Amelia.”
“Yes, Josie. See you Wednesday.”
She rang off and I put the phone to the counter.
Lifting my head, I looked at a beautiful space that didn’t look that fabulous with boxes stacked against the walls.
However, apparently, if Josie Spear had anything to do with it, this house sale would happen quickly and I could get started on creating a home I loved that my children were comfortable in.
Until I had that clean palette, though, I wasn’t going to start that project.
Which meant, home from my meanderings to nowhere doing nothing that actually bore fruit as I’d met some people and had plans for lunch on Wednesday, at that exact time, I had nothing to do.
Nothing.
No friends.
No housework.
No job to get to.
No children coming home imminently.
The cable and Internet were scheduled to be installed the next day so I didn’t even have that.
All of sudden, I had the strange feeling of being crushed.
Crushed by the weight of all that was new that was around me.
Crushed by the weight of all that I had to do to make my house a home.
Crushed by the weight of all my mistakes and the effort I knew it would take to remedy them.
Crushed by loneliness. Loneliness that in all my years of being alone I hadn’t even begun the work to make the change from feeling that to feeling aloneness and being comfortable with it.
Crushed by the fear of the specter of my parents who were remaining aloof, but they’d tire of that and then they’d invade in insidious ways that could obliterate the fragile embryo of what I was trying to create.
It took effort. It took time. I stood in my beautiful open plan kitchen with its views of blue sea as I expended that effort and took that time.
Then I made a plan.
I grabbed my phone, pulled up the app that found places that you needed that were close, hit the map to let the GPS guide my way and I went back out to my car.
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