Chapter Thirty-Four
THIRTY-FOUR
Molly
Nine months ago
“It feels like such a waste,” Gigi said, twisting the ring on her finger, the sunlight sparking off the angel wings. It was habit, but also a way to curb her boundless energy. Keep her in check.
“What does?” I asked, turning to face her.
Saturday morning, and we were on a boat—an actual fucking boat—gliding down the St. Lawrence River and surrounded by the most amazing views I’d ever seen.
I’d never been on a boat in my life, but the water was full of them: fishing boats carrying teenagers who blasted music as they rode, yachts with decks full of people sunning themselves like this was the French Riviera, vintage-looking wooden ones flying American flags that cracked in the wind.
From the second story of the tour boat, which had a red paddlewheel on the back, we could see them all.
But Gigi wasn’t referring to the boats. She was talking about the houses.
“Did you hear the guide say these places sit empty for most of the year? They’re just summer homes. And look at them.”
Next to Gigi, I swiveled back toward the view.
So far, we’d passed a hulking ten-bedroom home with two private docks, a four-story manor perched on a mountain of tiered stone walls, a gilded age “cottage” that could sleep twenty-eight, and a gingerbread-trimmed Victorian mansion whose boathouse was nearly as big as the home itself.
The tour guide, a woman our age in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, had called this Millionaire’s Row.
I had a house once. It wasn’t nearly as grand as the island homes, but it was two stories with a flagstone fireplace and French doors that led to a lush back yard my sister and I used to camp out in, and I’d loved it—right up until the accident.
After Mom and Jenny died, the house felt hollowed out, like its beating heart had been scooped from its ribs.
It was me and my father after that, rattling around in that empty space until I finished high school and he met Amanda and moved west.
Gigi’s right, I thought as I glanced up at a stone and cedar palace to my left. It was a waste. There’s nothing sadder than an empty house.
“Sign me up for that lifestyle,” I told my friend. “A beachfront house in the winter—someplace hot—and in the summer, a private island.” A fantasy so far out of reach, but for a minute, I let myself sink into it.
“Can’t help you with the beach part, but all this,” she said with a dramatic wave of her arm, “could be yours.”
“Yeah right.”
“Hear me out.” Gigi swiveled to face me, the bare backs of her legs squeaking on the chair. The sleeves of her sweatshirt were too long and they flapped as she clapped her hands. “I just watched this documentary about house hiding. People who secretly live in a house that isn’t theirs?”
“That sounds insane,” I told her.
She cocked an eyebrow and twisted her lips.
“I’m not so sure. I mean, it’s a little risky, but it’s also a way to live completely rent-free.
When the owners go out, you help yourself to their food and toothpaste.
You can’t stay for long, because eventually they’ll realize something shady’s going on.
But then you leapfrog to a new house, and start all over again. ”
A current of discomfort tripped across my skin. “How do people not notice there’s a stranger living with them?”
“I guess you have to be pretty quiet. In the show, people mostly hid in attics and basement crawlspaces. Anywhere the homeowners don’t tend to go.
You have to be smart about it too; like don’t pick a house with security cameras or a dog.
If you don’t make a mess or eat too much, though, most people have no freaking idea. ”
“Well shit.” I was stunned. The whole thing sounded crazy dangerous.
It was breaking and entering, wasn’t it?
A criminal offense? But Gigi said there were ways to get in without leaving evidence.
A first-floor window left ajar. A bulkhead door someone forgot to latch.
Knob locks could be jimmied with a credit card.
In places that were more remote, people still left spare keys under flowerpots or tucked on the trim above the front door. Some owners didn’t use keys at all.
“Up here, you might not even need to deal with the homeowners. These houses,” she said, starry-eyed, “are empty all winter long. All that space, and no one around to enjoy it. They’re ripe for the picking.”
“I’ll pass. Thank fuck I live in an apartment with a roommate,” I said. “I can already see the nightmares forming, so thanks for that.”
Gigi laughed. “I’ll make it up to you tonight. We’re going, yeah?”
“Of course,” I said as the boat cleared a small peninsula and Boldt Castle rose up before us, a behemoth of stone in a moat of glistening teal.
I don’t know what compelled me to pull over by the dock the previous afternoon.
The act had felt bold and forbidden, and it filled me with a sense that I was living now, really living, in a way that I hadn’t for so long.
The way Jenny and I used to dream that, someday, we would.
As soon as I rolled to a stop, the man from the river had waved us over.
After introducing himself, and watching Gigi fangirl when she recognized his name, he’d asked if we were in town for the holiday.
His eyes had danced when we told him we had just one more night in Cape Vincent.
“Then make it the best night,” he’d said, opening his muscled arms as if to welcome us in. “I can help with that.”
My grin had been uncontrollable, all gums and teeth, but fuck it. I was desperate to be part of the famous stranger’s furtive world.
“We’ll be there,” we’d both said because, after all, what was the point of a weekend away if you couldn’t have a little fun?