by Libby Howard
“The third floor tends to be a bit hot in the summer,” I confessed. “The rooms are smaller, and access is through a narrow back staircase. Originally it was where the servants lived. You’re welcome to your pick of any rooms except the master suite, but if you’re going to use the third floor bedrooms, you’ll probably have to use the twin beds that are up there unless you can hoist them up to the top back porch and through the door there.”
I was babbling again. If he turned it down, somehow it would be a reflection on me personally. I’d been originally conflicted about whether I wanted a roommate or not, but now I found myself desperately trying to convince him of the charm of my home.
“Can we redecorate?”
Hope bloomed somewhere in my chest. “Cosmetic stuff, yes. Paint. New area rugs. You can switch out the furniture if you want to use your own.”
“I don’t have any,” he confessed, his tone just as expressionless as his face. “And honestly I was dreading having to go shopping for beds and dressers and all that. I was thinking more along the lines of paint, pictures—that sort of thing. Henry won’t care as long as he can set up a television and an X-Box, but Madison will want to make her room into a teenage-girl paradise.”
His lips twitched as he said the last bit, the stone-set of his eyes softening. Fathers and their daughters. I might not have kids of my own, but I could relate to this sort of relationship. My dad and I had been very close. So had mom and I, but in a different way. I’d read somewhere that girls use their father as a sort of template when dating. I didn’t know how true that was. Eli had been very different on the surface than my policeman father, but deep down they had shared the same calm, unflappable demeanor, the same love of logic and procedure. And they both had hated paperwork with a passion.
“That won’t be a problem,” I told him.
The judge stood quietly for a few moments. That was when I decided I needed to break out the big guns and show him the part of the house where I had rarely ventured in the last decade.
“Come with me.” I led him down the stairs, through the dining area and kitchen and down the narrow back servant’s staircase. When I flicked on the lights, his jaw dropped. I couldn’t help but smirk. Back then, when we’d remodeled the basement, the world had been our oyster, and Eli had spared no expense. The home theater set-up might be a bit dated, but it still wowed. No doubt his kids would have a blast tearing up the felt on the nine-foot pool table I’d given my husband for Christmas the year we’d finished renovations. And as for the wine cellar and the humidor—well, I’d keep those doors locked. It wasn’t like there was much in there anymore. After the accident, expensive wine was no longer in my budget, and neither were Eli’s pricy cigars.
“This. . . wow. The kids would love it here. They could each have their own room, and I wouldn’t worry about them bothering you with their television shows if they came down here.”
“The backyard is a good size, too. There’s a hot tub and a gazebo, and a gas grill.”
Eli and I used to entertain weekly. We’d BBQ and hold informal wine tastings. We’d turn on the speakers and relax with our guests, chatting and reclining on the benches or admiring the herb garden I’d put in. The garden was now full of weeds. The hot tub sat empty. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d started up the grill. For all I knew, it was full of wasps. But that would change. This was a good thing. This was a great thing. This house was too big for just me and a cat.
“Oh, I have a cat. I almost forgot to tell you. Is that okay?”
His eyes gleamed with a wicked delight. “That’s perfect. Heather’s allergic to cats, so we never had one. The kids will be thrilled.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about Taco being the instrument of some passive-aggressive revenge between Judge Beck and his soon-to-be ex-wife, but I’d cope. I relaxed, feeling the financial pressures ease with his enthusiasm. “The kids are welcome to bring any game system they want and hook it up down here. I don’t watch much television, and when I do, I tend to use the upstairs one, so they’d pretty much have free rein.”
Judge Beck walked around the room, running a hand over teak trim on the pool table, and examining the dart board against the far wall. “I’d set rules. You wouldn’t have to worry about the kids damaging anything.”
Damage could always be repaired. This house needed some love. And this particular room had been neglected for too long. Honestly, it wasn’t my lack of interest in television that had kept me from this section of the house. This had always been Eli’s sanctuary, and after the accident, it had been too painful to be here, down steps he could no longer traverse. It had been one more thing the accident had stolen from him—from us.
“What’s this room?”
My chest ached and I struggled to take a breath. “It’s a humidor. My husband went through a cigar phase, and this was a temperature and humidity-controlled room to store them.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You don’t need to worry about tobacco. I don’t smoke, and there aren’t many cigars in there anymore. The door next to it is a cellar for wine storage. There are locks on both doors.”
My breath came back, too fast and hard. Once again, everything blurred before my eyes. I’d sold all the valuable cigars. I’d sold Eli’s cigars. I didn’t smoke, and after the accident, he couldn’t, either. We’d needed the money, but oh…I’d give anything for him to be here blowing a puff of that nasty smoke in my face, chuckling as I complained.
He’d never known they were gone, never asked about them. Darn it all, he would have wanted me to sell them. Still, the memory rubbed a raw spot in my soul. I hadn’t hurt this bad when I was packing up his clothing.
“It’s okay.” The judge’s voice was soft, and I suddenly liked him—not just the fact that he was saving me from foreclosure, but him. “I’m glad you don’t smoke, and wine behind a locked door isn’t a problem.”
I turned around, embarrassed that he’d seen me so vulnerable. “So… what do you think?”
The judge let out a long breath and walked around to face me as if he were about to confess something heinous.
“I don’t know if Carson told you, but I’m going through a divorce and I’m trying for joint physical custody. Heather is fighting it with everything she’s got. One of the keys to me getting joint custody is securing safe housing and maintaining a spotless reputation. Your house is the perfect environment. I’d love to rent three rooms and I’d be happy to sign a lease for two years. That’s probably how long it will take for this divorce to be resolved.”
And after that, he’d probably go buy a McMansion in the suburbs. It would give me a two-year reprieve to decide what I wanted to do with the house. I was under no illusion that I could keep it long-term with my salary, but two years right now sounded like an eternity.
“Mrs. Carrera? Is that acceptable?”
“Kay.” Out of his whole speech, I don’t know why that stuck in my mind, but I didn’t want my roommate to call me Mrs. Carrera. It made me feel like I was his old grade school teacher or like I was two steps from the nursing home. “Call me Kay.”
He smiled. The smile was far too wide for him to be considered conventionally attractive, but something about it made me smile back. He seemed like a nice man. Reserved, law-abiding, trustworthy—an earnest and steady sort of man. “Kay, then. What are you asking for rent, Kay?”
I noticed that he didn’t ask me to call him Nathaniel, or Nate. It was just as well. He seemed so formal, that I honestly could only think of him as Judge Beck. I hoped I never got a traffic ticket and needed to appear in court before him. It would be so embarrassing.
I quoted a price, and, to his credit, the judge didn’t flinch. He probably would be less flush than usual with a divorce in the works, but I had a mortgage to make. If I didn’t get what I was asking, we’d all be out on the streets within a year.
“Deal.”
I blinked. And just like that, I had a roommate—roommates, actually, since the kids would probably b
e here often. I had roommates, and my mortgage would be covered every month for the next two years. It was like a crushing weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
“I’d like to move in tomorrow morning if possible.”
That was terribly fast, but I guess things were awkward at home. Or maybe he was staying at a hotel. Either way, it wouldn’t be a problem. “I’ll give you a key. I don’t have a lease ready, but I’ll pull one together and have it for you when you arrive tomorrow.”
I’d be spending a few hours cobbling one together from the internet, but that wasn’t a problem, either. It wasn’t like I had anything else on my agenda for tonight beyond watching cat videos.
“One more thing.” The judge winced. “Heather will want to see the house, to meet you before I can have the kids here. I’d like her to come by tomorrow if it’s okay. I’m sorry—I hate to dump you in the middle of such a tension-filled situation, but I need to play nice with her if I’m to have any chance at custody.”
I was going to have to make polite conversation with a hostile wife. Thankfully, I didn’t look like the type to be seducing her estranged husband or running naked through the house with the kids around—or without them around.
“That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
He shook my hand. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Kay.”
Then he pulled out a checkbook. And just like that, half of the problems weighing down my mind vanished.
Chapter 5
The next day when Judge Beck showed up bright and early, I wasn’t drinking wine on the front porch with Daisy. I was knitting. Well, I was trying to knit. I liked to think of myself as a determined, stick-with-it kind of woman, but my inability to connect loops together to form a useful and attractive object was disheartening. At least the cookies had turned out.
I’d always loved to bake. Non-baking foods were not always a success. My chicken sometimes had the texture and moisture of jerky. Rice stuck to the bottom of the pan. Noodles were limp and slimy, and steaks either we’re-lions-in-the-Savannah rare or burnt to charcoal. But give me flour, butter, sugar, and eggs, and I could turn anyone into a type-two diabetic in seconds. Of course, I hadn’t baked much of anything in the last ten years. Afraid that my skills had gone the way of my herb garden, I’d run to the grocery store last night and grabbed a giant tub of pre-made cookie dough. And then I’d come home to put on a kettle for tea and watch television reruns with Mr. Floater standing just off to the side. I was beginning to regret this cataract surgery. Being able to drive and read, and to see clearly was a miracle of modern medicine, but I wasn’t sure the trade-off of visual hallucination was worth it.
Then I’d gone to bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what my life was going to be like without Eli. I had work, but what about evenings and weekends? There was only so much television and cat videos I could watch, only so much wine-drinking on the porch with Daisy I could do, only so many cookies I could bake and eat. Even if I did manage to become reasonably proficient at this knitting thing, I couldn’t spend every spare moment at it. What did I used to do before I married Eli? Hike? Ride a bike? Go to concerts? Would it be weird for a sixty-year-old woman to go to a concert? Maybe I should look into taking a college class in the evenings.
I’d tossed and turned so much that Taco had abandoned me for his kitty bed by the dresser. After finally fallen asleep around two in the morning, I got up at six to bake cookies and learn to knit. The cookies had turned out perfect, as store-bought ready-made dough always does. Taco got to taste-test one for quality assurance and gave it his approval before heading outside for his morning activities. I ate a few with my coffee, then just to make sure everything today went off without a hitch, I lit a sugar-cookie scented candle. The house smelled like a bakery, and the cut glass serving platter in the living room loaded with peanut butter cookies completed the illusion.
If only my knitting was going as well. It had taken me a half an hour just to decipher the instructions for casting-on. The knit part seemed to be okay, but no matter how many times I read the directions for the purl stitch, it ended up looking just like the knit one. I’d ripped it out three times and gotten out a magnifying glass to look at the step-by-step illustrations, just in case there was something I was missing. By the time Judge Beck arrived, I had a seven-by-two-inch rectangle of loopy mess. I was never so grateful to see someone in my life. I tossed the horrible example of my handiwork next to the tray of cookies on the living room table, and offered to help him carry boxes upstairs.
He looked appalled, as if I’d just offered to change his car tire or bench-press a refrigerator.
“No, no. I’ve got it. You—” He abruptly stopped at the foot of the stairs and sniffed.
“Have a cookie,” I offered. Then I realized he could hardly take a cookie when his hands were occupied with the large box, so I did what any eccentric woman who’d been taking care of a disabled husband for ten years would do. I picked up a cookie and shoved it in his mouth.
Judge Beck was tall. He was also carrying a big box. So I had to reach up and around the box to cram the crumbly peanut butter treat into his mouth. He blinked in surprise, mumbled something, then walked up the stairs while chewing.
I surveyed the foyer/living room area. Cookies. Knitting. Taco snoozing at the edge of the window seat, paw twitching as he dreamed. Boxes in the corner of the room ready for the charity to pick up. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. The only thing I needed was a carafe of fresh coffee and I’d be ready for my new housemates.
I had just filled the carafe when I heard voices at the door. A deaf person could have heard them, as loud as they argued.
“I’m not letting the children stay overnight here. I’m not even letting them out of the car until I see that this is a suitable environment.”
“Knock it off, Heather. You nixed the idea of me renting an apartment saying there wasn’t enough space for the kids. Until the divorce is final, I can’t access savings to buy anything. It’s either this or an apartment. Take your pick.”
“I’m not having my kids exposed to some floozy. If you want even minimal visitation, you’ve got to let me approve where they’ll be staying and who they’ll be living with.”
“Oh, like I had any say-so about you introducing them to Tyler. I’ve got no idea if he’s spending the night, sleeping in our home, in our bed while our children are one thin wall away. She’s a widow, Heather. And she’s at least twenty years my senior.”
What happened to the calm, unemotional man I’d seen yesterday? It seems divorce brought out the worst in everyone. This had to stop before Judge Beck’s temper ruined everything and I found myself looking for cheap one-bedroom apartments once more. I practically ran from the kitchen, slowing to a sedate walk and composing a pleasant smile as I entered the foyer.
“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Kay Carrera. I was just in the kitchen getting some coffee together.” I held up the carafe and put it near the cookies, scooting my horrible knitting aside to set a handful of mugs on the table. “Would you like some? Cream or sugar? Cookies? You must be Heather. Are the kids still in the car?”
I shook her hand, waving her farther into the house and nudging a surprised Judge Beck aside with my elbow. Outside, a shiny late model Cadillac Escalade was parked at the curb. The passenger door was open, and with a quick glance I saw a dark-haired girl typing on her cell phone.
Heather stared at me in shock, no doubt taking in my baggy jeans and bohemian smock as well as my mussed hair. I was far from the floozy she expected. It might sting a bit to hear myself described as the much-older widow, but I needed to get used to it. I was a widow, and in society’s eyes, I was almost old enough to be Judge Beck’s mother. It was time to embrace the new me.
Heather had finished giving me an incredulous once-over and begin taking in the room. I gestured toward the boxes, still stacked by the door. “Please excuse the mess. My husband passed away last month and I’m still going through his things. Those
were supposed to be picked up yesterday, but the charity can’t make it until Monday morning.”
Her face turned red. On the pantone scale, it would have been about one-ninety-two. “Oh. I didn’t realize. . . Nate said you were a widow, but I didn’t know it had been so recent. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I couldn’t dwell on that right now. I couldn’t let myself start crying like I seemed to do every time someone offered their condolences. Yes, my heart hurt but I needed to look ahead to my future— a future that hopefully involved a roommate and his two teen children.
“Judge Beck told me you have two teenagers,” I said. “It will be so lovely to have them here. Eli and I tried, but we were never blessed with children of our own.”
“Yes. . . two children. I’m. . . yes, two children. Madison is in high school, and Henry is in junior high. Are you sure? I mean, they’re teens, and if you’re not used to children, you might find them too noisy or rambunctious.”
I heard a snort from Judge Beck. “Trying to scare her off, Heather? Trying to make sure I’m back in a hotel room so you can push for full custody? That’s low, even for you.”
Oh no. Not this again. I needed to defuse this and fast. “The house has six bedrooms, so each of them can have their own room. There is a television and recreation room in the finished basement.” I turned to face her, giving her my most yearning, I-love-teenagers expression. “A house like this longs to hear the laughter of children. I hope you’ll allow yours to stay here. It would really mean a lot to me.”
I knew I was laying it on a bit thick, but few things tugged at a woman’s heartstrings like a childless, sixty-year-old widow in an enormous Victorian mansion. Besides, I was rather excited to have the kids here. I’d baked cookies. I’d stocked up on sodas and snack foods. I’d even bought an extra chicken to roast for dinner.
Heather blinked, her gaze shifting between her husband and me. “Um, I’d love a cup of coffee. Black, please. No sugar.”
