Chapter 1 #2
In the direction of the main house, beyond the rusting chaise lounges and prodigious vegetable garden, footsteps sweep through the tall grass in need of a good mowing.
Lorraine emerges from a thicket of hydrangeas, her bouncy salt-and-pepper hair held captive under a sun hat.
They’ve spoken little since Cece replied to the post on Craigslist: Seeking independently minded boarder with a sense of adventure for New London pool house.
Utilities included. Men need not inquire.
Initially, Cece had been wary of renting a place on the same grounds as the owner, but what choice did she have?
Lorraine accepted cash, didn’t need references, and didn’t ask any questions.
Lorraine’s Crocs make a squishing noise the closer she gets; a noticeable musk (wet earth and coffee grounds) emanates from her. “Came by to see how you’re settling in,” she says, digging around in her overalls for something she’s misplaced.
“Fine,” Cece says, “just fine.”
Lorraine looks to the street, eyes narrowed, crow’s feet tucked deep into the corners of her eyes. Nostrils flared, she sniffs the air like one of Bernard’s brethren. “I don’t like that man.”
Cece knows exactly who Lorraine’s talking about, but she feigns ignorance.
“I have half a mind to call the DMV and report his truck. No way that vehicle passes an emissions test.”
Maybe Cece’s losing her faculties. She can’t smell a thing. Regardless, she needs to stay on good terms with her new landlord, no matter how nutty. “I was wondering what that smell was.”
“Men,” Lorraine says, screwing up her face. “They’re not happy unless they’re destroying something.”
There are so many questions Cece yearns to ask—how long has Mr. Shipyard lived on this street, has Lorraine ever seen him with anyone, does he seem like the kind of man who’d entertain a summer fling?—but she resists, nodding in silent agreement instead.
Lorraine leans from one leg to the other, looking like she has something to say but doesn’t.
Cece is keenly aware of how quickly her living situation might go wrong, and she’s intent on staying on Lorraine’s good side.
Their agreement is strictly verbal. There was no lease to sign, only a handshake and a long and ponderous up-and-down assessment from Lorraine when they first met.
“I better get back,” Lorraine says. “Groundhogs aren’t gonna trap themselves. I was hoping your dog there would scare them off.”
Cece apologizes for Bernard’s canine inadequacies and watches Lorraine lope back to the house while she nurses a second glass of wine, mosquitos nibbling at her ankles. She resists the urge to take a stroll by Mr. Shipyard’s house, the wine goading her on. Too soon, she thinks. Way too soon.
Back inside, Cece sits at the banquette and eats Chinese food leftovers for dinner.
She forces herself to see the good, the silver lining, the glass half-full.
Her confines are cozy, bespoke, vintage even!
People would kill to have a place by the water for the summer (even if it’s a dingy pool house), especially all her friends who are stuck in the city, sweating it out with everyone who can’t afford to escape.
Except that none of Cece’s friends live in the city anymore.
They’ve all grown up, married, moved to not-so-far-flung places like Hastings and Tarrytown, Rye, and Beacon.
Long gone are the heat-soaked days of July and August in cramped apartments, battling the oppressive humidity with early-morning walks in Central Park, taking turns in front of the air conditioner, catching the Jitney out to the Hamptons for one, maybe two, measly days.
Cece hasn’t spoken to her friends of late.
They still think she’s gainfully employed, engaged to Jonathan, planning a wedding.
They’d all sounded so excited, almost relieved, when she’d told them the good news.
They’re still waiting for their save-the-dates, eager to slip the cards from their thick envelopes and proudly display them to their husbands—their last friend, the final holdout, getting married. It’s finally happening!
Through the window, tree limbs crisscross the darkening sky in menacing silhouettes.
With only yellowed light from an overhead ceiling fan, the living space feels menacing and strange, unpacked boxes sending shadows up the wood-paneled walls, dusty valences hanging above the windows like morose specters.
Cece gathers Bernard up in her arms for his walk.
She pauses on the deck, the night warm and deep.
She’s embarrassed, a grown woman afraid of the dark. For now, she’s glad Lorraine’s nearby.
Before she knows it, she’s passing Mr. Shipyard’s house, a ramshackle Cape with weather-beaten cedar shingles and a sagging roof.
Scaffolding adorns one side of the home, running all the way up to the chimney draped in a plastic tarp.
Out front, the yard is littered with pieces of freshly cut wood—molding, from the looks of it.
Despite the carnage, there’s something charming about the picture, and Cece wonders how long he’s been working on it.
She wonders what allows a person to see the beauty and potential in run-down things.
Potential isn’t something Cece’s ever put much stock in.
No lights are on, as she suspected, but Cece still stands there for a moment, letting the breeze cool her aching neck, and she imagines what’s behind those walls and under that roof.
She imagines the smell of the house, the muskiness, and she wonders if Mr. Shipyard dreams. And then she’s wondering whether it’s too late to start her life over, or if she ever started at all.