Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
I arrived at Macon’s house early the next morning, a full hour before work.
His neighborhood was one of the most desirable in Ridgetop, and I was able to appreciate it even more in the daylight.
The trees were large and established, and the houses were a fetching assortment of Arts and Crafts bungalows, rambling Victorians, and adorable cottages.
Fifteen years ago, the residents of this neighborhood had been old, and everything had been falling apart.
But as they’d passed, younger residents had moved in, and the cycle of life—and home restoration—had begun again.
It was a neighborhood that had been affordable somewhat recently but was now wildly out of most buyers’ price ranges.
Macon lived in a smaller house with a full stone exterior, and in the morning light, it looked so much like a fairy-tale cottage that it stole my breath.
I loved it so much on sight that it made me furious.
Covetous. The force of these emotions surprised me.
I hadn’t known it was possible to fall in love with a house, but how dare this belong to him and not to me?
How dare some people get to own houses at all while I was still stuck in a crummy apartment?
Macon wouldn’t have been able to afford the house either had it not first belonged to his aunt.
After marrying in her mid-forties and moving to Durham, Bonnie had rented it out.
Many years later—around the time Macon was considering leaving his college town of Chapel Hill—the renters had vacated the premises, and Macon had taken it as a sign that he should return to Ridgetop, his place of birth.
He had stayed in the house rent-free for six months before Bonnie sold it to him with a hefty family discount.
Six months after that, Dani had moved in.
What an idiot! How could Dani have ever left this house?
I slammed my car door shut and stomped toward the front door. And that was when I saw the fucking garden.
Not much was growing yet apart from some kale and onions and early lettuce.
But the sizable vegetable beds were surrounded by picket fencing to keep out the animals, and they were covered with some kind of protective crop, and I could picture exactly how it would all look in the summer—like a storybook garden, the kind that fucking Peter Rabbit would try to steal from.
I spotted the compost pile, which somehow looked neat and tasteful, and then absorbed the rest of the landscaping, which was wild and robust and artistic.
Artistic! There was no other word for it.
Two pear trees were halfway toward their enchanted white bloom, and the buds of a cherry tree hinted that pink clouds wouldn’t be far behind.
Grape hyacinth clustered in pockets, and leaves from bigger bulbs suggested imminent tulips.
I knew Macon’s garden was substantial—I knew this—yet I’d still been picturing something pleasant but modest. Perhaps because I’d witnessed him trading meager cuttings with patrons and heard about him rescuing other people’s dying plants, and these exchanges had all seemed small and thrifty.
But even out of season, his garden was abundant.
Every nook and corner of his property was in use.
I’d never had a green thumb, but now I longed for one. I longed for the whole house!
jesus fucking christ macon , I texted while shoving the key into the door, too angry for capitalization and forgetting my vow to be his friend again.
The key scratched against the lock, and my whole body shuddered.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” I whispered to the lock.
The beautiful lock! In the daylight, I could see the hardware was original, too.
Macon’s scent blasted me again upon entering the house, as if it were reminding me who it belonged to. As if I could forget. I called out to Edmond before realizing he was staring at me from the back of the couch. “Oh. Hello.”
My phone lit up in my hand.
What?? Macon texted. Double question marks. I didn’t know he was capable of such a crime. I reread my message and realized it might have caused him some alarm.
Your house is beautiful, and I’m jealous.
Oh. Thank you?
I headed to the kitchen. Edmond leapt off the couch and tagged behind at a safe distance. My phone lit up again.
But you’ve seen my house before , Macon said.
Not in daylight! You didn’t tell me you were a storybook witch.
I waited nearly a minute for him to respond.
Edmond made a low meow-grumble. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.
” It was the same apology that I’d given the lock.
I opened a can of duck paté. My screen lit up again, and I hurried to exchange the new plate of food for the old one.
I put the dirty dish in the sink and checked my texts.
I assumed my witchy demeanor had already given that away.
I smiled and sent him another picture of Edmond eating.
Macon’s original farmhouse sink stood in front of a window, and as I scrubbed last night’s plate, my eyes settled on the back porch for the first time.
It was made out of the same stone as the rest of the exterior, and a wrought iron table and two chairs were perfectly centered on it.
It looked like a photo from our game—a place where we’d rather be than work.
Farther out in the yard rested a stone toolshed that looked like a miniature version of the main house, as well as a quirky greenhouse constructed out of salvaged windows.
Fuck you , I fumed inside my head.
My phone lit up. Macon had sent me a photo of mostly bare shelves containing a pitiful number of cans—I could make out asparagus spears, fruit cocktail, and Vienna sausages—an open sleeve of Ritz crackers, a box of Minute Rice, and a mousetrap.
Thankfully, I couldn’t tell if the trap had an occupant.
The picture was blurry because Macon hadn’t cleaned off the lens after removing the electrical tape that usually covered his camera.
My anger deflated. Edmond’s breakfast looks better , I texted. Is that Bonnie’s pantry? Have you seen her yet?
This response took a while, too, and I grew anxious as I waited.
Yeah. I’ll see her later today , he finally said.
It was a conversation ender. Disappointed, I headed into Edmond’s room, selected an empty tortilla chip bag from Macon’s eclectic stash of litter bags, and then scooped my first box.
Easy and uneventful. I set the bag by the front door so I could throw it away in his outside trash can when I left, washed my hands, and then checked my phone again.
No new texts. Forty-five minutes left before work.
Edmond appeared, so I waved a stick toy with a fleece ribbon at him. He removed his eyes from me to watch it, tempted, but didn’t engage.
I sighed. “Well, would it bother you if I read for a while? I don’t want to go in early.”
He didn’t respond, so I dug the latest novel that I’d been trying and failing to read out of my bag and then dropped onto the couch.
As they always did lately, my eyes struggled to stay on the page.
The couch was old and saggy with upholstery in a geometric pattern of textured neutrals that surely had been designed for the sole purpose of hiding stains.
It was unquestionably the most appalling item in the house. My guess was that it had been free.
I texted Kat a photo of the upholstery, but she didn’t respond.
I was about to give up and leave when Edmond sprang onto the cushion beside me and then up onto the back of the couch.
He sat behind my head and stared out the window.
Even though most of the garden was still dormant, it was easy to imagine how spectacular the view would be in the summertime.
I didn’t want to seem rude, so I picked the book back up.
Edmond’s ears swiveled back to listen to the sound, but his eyes remained fixed outside.
Trust. A small victory.
After a few more minutes, I finally got lost in the pages.
On my way back to Macon’s house that evening, I picked up a refried bean burrito. I’d decided to eat at his place so that I could keep Edmond company, but truthfully, I wanted the company, too. My apartment was lonely, and my date with Gareth wasn’t until the following day.
After doing some research at work, I’d learned that reading aloud was a good method for getting a shy cat used to your presence.
I wasn’t sure that Edmond qualified as shy—he wasn’t hiding from me—but I still hadn’t gotten to pet him or play with him, and I was determined to get him to like me before Macon returned.
We ate together, Edmond on the floor and me at the table, and then I headed back to the hideous couch with my book.
After a few minutes, he took his place behind me.
I hadn’t heard from Macon since that morning, so I sent him a photo of Edmond at the window.
He’s waiting for you to come home! I texted.
I had no idea if it was true, but I hoped it would cheer him up.
I cracked the book back open and began reading to Edmond.
I didn’t bother to explain where we were in the story; I figured he could catch up.
It was the book that Mr. Garland had recently returned.
I was intrigued by the idea of a novel so enthralling that even somebody else’s uneaten bacon couldn’t ruin it.
It was a locked-room mystery set at a luxurious and remote inn in the French Alps between world wars.
A seemingly immovable boulder had just crushed an unlikable ma?tre d’ to death, and a brilliant young governess—clearly inspired by Poirot, despite her age and lack of mustache or official detective status—was suspicious that it hadn’t been an accident.
She was currently scrutinizing a guest who might have been a German spy, but it was too early for this to be anything but a red herring.
I felt like my mother, reading aloud to Riley and me when we were young.
Her reading voice was soothing and wise and humorous, and she was great at making all the characters sound different.
Although I had never desired children of my own, nor did I have any interest in being a children’s librarian—too many songs and activities—I did enjoy filling in at storytime whenever Alyssa was on vacation, and I enjoyed reading aloud to Edmond now.
It felt gratifying to share a book with somebody else.
Sometime later, my phone lit up. I reached for it, expecting my memories to have summoned my mother and sister.
They were still blowing up my phone. Riley had won the fight about the wedding date, and the event was set for the weekend before Christmas.
The venue had been booked after further quarreling, and the current argument was about floral arrangements—red poinsettias or red roses.
My mother believed poinsettias were too obvious, which had prompted my sister to retort, TELL THAT TO THE ROSES .
It was odd that our mother was even arguing with her.
My headstrong sister would have her way here, too.
Even more odd was that our mother was inserting herself into Riley’s decision-making at all.
Our parents loved us—they had always been caring and encouraging—but they also weren’t very involved in our adult lives.
Both of them were teachers, professionally but also naturally born, and they had taught us how to do everything as children.
But then Riley and I had been expected to do everything.
“You’re smart, figure it out,” they always said once we grew old enough.
So we did. We stopped asking for help, and our parents never offered it.
It would have felt like we were disappointing them to ask. Or disappointing ourselves.
I’ll be home in time to feed him on Monday night. Is that okay or should I call a neighbor to help?
I was so glad it was Macon that I didn’t think before I texted back. I held up the book and posed for a selfie between it and Edmond. I told you, I’ve got this! We’re bonding.
You’re still at my house?
Ooh, was that weird? Probably, but it was too late now. I had to roll with it. I thought he might be lonely.
It took a minute for Macon to respond. Finally he said, That’s sweet. Thank you.
I don’t know what compelled me to keep going. Perhaps because he’d used the word sweet , which tingled inside me like faraway music. I ate dinner here, too.
Something from my fridge?
What? No. I’m not stealing your food.
There’s some leftover manicotti about to go bad.
You should eat it. It’s mushroom, not beef.
Macon knew that I sometimes ate poultry and fish but never any other kind of meat.
He rarely ate meat either and was an excellent cook.
His leftovers would be significantly better than what I’d been consuming lately.
I had assumed my meals would improve in Cory’s absence, but without our regular routine, my habits had nose-dived into cheap takeout and frozen dinners.
I might actually take you up on that , I said.
Good.
As stilted as his texts were, Bonnie’s place must have felt as lonely as my apartment, because these last two conversations were the longest we’d ever had over the phone.
Did you see Bonnie today?
I did, for about an hour. It was rough.
I’m so sorry.
I spent the afternoon paying overdue bills and cleaning. I found needles. I had no idea. I threw it all away.
Oh, Macon. Fuck. How awful.
Yeah. I didn’t expect to find those in my seventy-four-year-old aunt’s house, but there you go. America.
He told me that he was going to keep cleaning and then he would fill Bonnie’s pantry with better canned goods. He wasn’t sure when she was coming home, but at least she would come home to a safe space. Not that it will last , he added.
It was all so heartbreaking. I wished I could help him, and he insisted that I was.
He meant Edmond, but there was subtext, too.
Being able to talk to me was also helping him, and I wondered if we’d accidentally stumbled onto a solution to our problem.
Perhaps it would be easier to revive our friendship through our screens. Perhaps it was already happening.