2. Harmony
CHAPTER 2
Harmony
Six months later
I drive down the street, looking at the beautiful houses from right to left. Big Victorian houses, some looking like they are from a magazine. Especially the house next door to the one we are driving to. I pull up into the driveway, looking up at the one in front of me, the one the GPS says is my destination.
“Is this it?” Wyatt asks from the back seat. I look over my shoulder as he unbuckles himself and looks out the window at the house. I’m even afraid to look at him while I answer him.
“It is,” I confirm, holding my breath as I look at the run-down Victorian house. The front concrete steps have moss growing on them but look to have been cleaned recently. Something I begged the property manager to do when we came for a walk-through last week. That along with cutting the weeds to make it look like someone will soon live here and not like people come here to die. It was bad enough the once-white house now looked dark brown. That some of the windows didn’t open to the outside, and if a big gust of wind suddenly came through town, I was pretty much convinced the house would go with it. “Is it haunted?” he asks, and I finally give in and laugh. Something I don’t do much of these days.
“Not that I know of.” I pull open the car door and step out, and he follows my lead. “I guess we are going to find out.” I hold out my hand for him. “Should we check it out?”
“Sure.” He shrugs, and I can see he’s being tough for me. It’s been a hell of a six months, if I’m putting it mildly. My beautiful boy has had to grow up a lot faster than we both wanted him to do.
We walk up the steps to the front door. Somehow it looks even worse than it did last week when I visited, or maybe it is the same, but I was so desperate to get him to give me a lease I blocked it out. I pull the key out of my pocket and slide it into the brass keyhole, turning to the right and then turning the handle and pushing the door open. The sounds of the door creaking fill the house. “Now that might sound bad,” I say, trying to sound upbeat, “but it’s not that bad.” I push the door open the rest of the way before stepping into the foyer. I look over at the stairs that must have been so beautiful in their prime, with white paint and mahogany steps. The crystal chandelier is now dusty and stained with God knows what. When I turn it on, half the lights don’t even work. I don’t really care. That is the least of my problems. “Do you want to see your room?” I ask as he looks up at the vaulted ceiling to where the stairs lead that overlook the foyer. “They said I could paint it any color I wanted.” I mean, he was hemming and hawing when I asked him, but then finally said, “Yeah, can’t make it worse.” So I’m taking that as I can do what I want.
I walk with him to the side of the room and take a step up. Each step creaks as we make it to the top. It smells musty, and I know I’ll have to air the whole house out. “I promise it won’t be for long,” I assure him when we get to the top of the steps, and I walk to the right, where the primary bedroom is. “It’s just until…” I see a big king-sized bed was put in, along with new covers, so it isn’t as bad as the queen bed in here last week. Guess he felt a little sorry for me, but only mildly because the bed is the only thing he’s added to the room. The sitting area chaise is still the same one from the early nineteen hundreds, giving the word antique a run for its money. The walls have wallpaper that, over the years, has started peeling but then has been half ripped off. “We can put some wallpaper up too.” I step in. “It might not look like much now but”—I let go of his hand, walking into the room—“we’ll just open this window,” I suggest, clicking open the locks and then holding my breath as I try to crank it open, hoping like fuck that it actually works. When it slowly opens, I say a little thank-you to whoever is listening.
“I’m going to unload the boxes.” I look over at Wyatt, who is now standing beside me and looking out the window at the vast backyard. The weeds are half gone. In the middle of the yard is a lawn mower that has seen better days and is stopped midway. The shed in the back looks even worse than the house, and I didn’t think that was possible. That shed looks like people are taken there to be kidnapped. The roof is missing a couple of boards, and the door is not even on both hinges. One is leaning more to the side. The door handles have a chain link with a lock dangling down, stopping you from going inside, which makes me laugh. I wouldn’t even walk next to that thing, let alone try to break into it in the middle of fucking nowhere.
“Do you want to explore the house?” I ask, and he nods. “Whatever you do,” I warn as we walk out of the bedroom and down the steps to the front door, “you do not go into that shed, nor do you venture off where you can’t hear me and I can’t see you.”
“So on the steps, then.” He smirks, and I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him to me, kissing his soft brown hair.
“No, you can also go to the car and help carry in some of your stuff.” We walk out the front door together. “Maybe take that soccer ball we got you and kick it around.”
“Oh yeah.” He runs to the back passenger door, pulling it open and grabbing the soccer ball that he throws by his feet. I walk over to the trunk and press the button to pop it open. For the past six months, the nest egg I had when I left Winston was depleted faster than I could imagine. It’s a fraction of what it was six months ago. Every single month, I feel like it’s smaller and smaller. I don’t have much left, that is for sure.
I knew it would happen, but I didn’t know that he would fight me tooth and nail for everything. And I mean everything. I was in and out of court so often I’m surprised I couldn’t get a job there. My lawyer was also very fast with sending me his bill. A bill that if I didn’t pay, he wouldn’t show up to court. In the end, I realized he was just in it for the money and couldn't care less that Winston was dragging me to court for stupidity and wasting everyone’s time, including the court’s. I mean, I knew it was coming, but what I didn’t count on was him becoming so obsessed with ruining my life, to the point I would be run out of not one but two other apartments. He would show up at all hours of the day causing a scene, and no one wanted to deal with that. Plus, since it was month-to-month, it was easy for them to throw me out. Except for the last place with Mr. Mendelson. He wasn’t caving, but the Cartwrights were making his life a living hell, and I wasn’t going to put the only man who had helped me in the past six months through any more of their shit. It was enough that I couldn’t get a fucking job anywhere, also because of them. It didn’t matter that I was overqualified to pump gas; it would always be the same. “We’ll let you know.” I even caught them throwing my résumé in the trash before I walked out the door. They may have taken a tumble down when Winston’s brother killed two people by drunk driving, but their reach was still long.
Grabbing one of the top boxes labeled kitchen, I look over at Wyatt, who is kicking the ball one way and then running over to kick it back over.
“I’ll be inside,” I tell Wyatt, who looks up at me and then nods before I step up to the house. I walk straight past the stairs to the back of the house, where the kitchen is located. Rounding the corner, I come to the big kitchen that is my main focus. Putting the box on the big granite counter, I turn to see the eight-burner stove and double oven, and a huge double-door stainless-steel fridge. It’s the only thing that looks like it’s been preserved in the house. I walk over and run my hand on top of the stove with the red knobs, itching to try it out. Instead, I rush back out to the car to grab the rest of our things before I go back and make another trip. I walk over to the kitchen sink that faces the yard and open the windows. As I walk out of the house, I stop at every window to open it and get a breeze going in the house. This house does not have a central air conditioner, so we’ll have to tough it out.
As I jog down the front steps, my eyes go to Wyatt, who is still kicking his soccer ball around the side of the house. The sound of a door slamming has my eyes roam from my son to the house next door, which looks like it should be on the cover of Old Victorian Houses in the South. It’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen and looks like it’s just been newly painted. The owner of the house walks down the front steps wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his head down until he gets to his red pickup truck. I see his head turn to look over to Wyatt, and then he slowly looks over at me. I think I gasp when I see it’s Brady Thatcher. His eyes are covered by aviator glasses, but I know those green eyes that hide under them. He’s glared at me enough over the years for me to have them engrained in my brain. He does a double take before he opens the door to his truck and gets in. He’s shaking his head, no doubt wondering what the fuck I’m doing here. “You aren’t the only one, buddy.” I unload the car, and by the time I make the second round, it’s almost dark.
I grab the fresh bread I picked up this morning and make us both sandwiches with a side of chips. It's not the healthiest meal, but for today, it’ll do. After dinner, I close the windows as we head upstairs where the bathtub water pressure could be stronger, but my body aches from packing and unpacking the last couple of days.
I slide into bed beside Wyatt since I didn’t even make a dent in unpacking my stuff for the other room. Putting my head down on the pillow, I look out the window at the darkened sky. I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. before turning and falling fast asleep.
I don’t know if I’ve been sleeping for five minutes or five hours when I hear a car door slam shut. My eyes flutter open as I look around and take in the room before my eyes go to Wyatt, and I see him on his stomach, the cover off him. I listen as I hear footsteps, and I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath and hoping I’m just hearing things.
But the steps seem to come closer and closer, and I hitch my breath at the same time the pounding starts. “Get your sorry ass down here.” He pounds on the door, and I toss the covers off me as Wyatt stirs beside me. “I know you’re in there.”
“Mom,” he mumbles as he gets up on his elbows.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I assure him, “go back to sleep.” I shake my head as he places his on the pillow.
I walk down the steps to the front door, holding my breath, and wondering if I should even answer it. “You hear me, you fucking cunt? Get your ass out here.”