Chapter 8
Jo Dolan and I live on the same block, but she is on one end, and I am on the other.
The ground slopes upward, so if you considered our block to be a hill, I would be at the top of the hill, and she would be at the bottom.
Jo says she doesn’t walk that well anymore, which is why she doesn’t often come up the hill to my end of the block.
Looks like she made an exception when Nita Geisler was here.
I don’t bother to change out of my dress, but I do kick off the uncomfortable heels I’ve been wearing and trade them out for a pair of ballet flats that I bought on sale, two for the price of one.
I tried to give the other pair to Lexi, but she looked at me like I was offering her poison, so I ended up keeping them both.
And then I walk the block down the road to Jo’s house.
Her house is nothing special. Like a lot of the properties around here, including my own, it’s old.
It was likely built in the late 1800s but renovated on the inside, although not very recently.
The outside is painted a dull gray color with the trim painted a slightly different shade of gray.
It’s the sort of house you could walk by a hundred times without noticing it.
Except for the spectacular rose garden.
It’s beautiful. I have to give her that.
She’s got roses that are yellow, red, light pink, and white.
They line the edges of her yard, sprouting vividly colored flowers that I can see from halfway down the block.
She works hard on those roses, but that said, it’s a rose garden.
Of course they’re going to be beautiful.
Jo brags that her house still has the original door that it was built with.
Hingham has a long colonial history, and a lot of the houses were built back in the nineteenth century, although more recently renovated to include luxuries like electrical outlets.
My own house is about the same age as Jo’s, but much of the original woodwork has been replaced, including the doors.
I can’t say I’ve shed any tears over not having a two hundred-year-old door, but this one does have a large ornate bronze knocker. I opt for the doorbell.
Jo takes her sweet time coming to answer the door—long enough that I feel compelled to ring a second time. After that second chime, a voice from behind the door barks, “Okay, okay, hold your horses! I’m coming!”
Jo is wearing a dress like me, although hers is the sort of billowy dress that you can’t really wear if you’re going anywhere outside your own backyard or possibly the grocery store, because it looks like you’re running around town in a nightgown.
It would be impolite to ask how old she is, but based on her close-cropped gray hair and the lines on her face, I’ve guessed late sixties.
She’s never married or had children, and she doesn’t have any pets either—she yells at anyone who so much as walks their dog past her house.
I get the sense that she doesn’t really enjoy any species from Kingdom Animalia very much. But she likes roses.
Either way, I’m absolutely positive that she doesn’t like me.
“Oh.” Jo seems visibly disappointed to find me at her front door. “What do you want?”
“I just got off the phone with Home Gardening.”
That particular revelation puts a smile on Jo’s face. “Oh?”
“They told me that you talked them into photographing your garden instead of mine.” My hands ball into such tight fists that my fingernails bite into my palms. “I can’t believe you’d do that.”
Jo is several inches shorter than me, and when she raises her eyes to meet mine, there isn’t the slightest bit of remorse.
“I didn’t talk them into anything. I saw them here, looking at your pathetic little garden, and I asked them if they wanted to see a real garden.
Whatever happened after that was entirely their decision. ”
“I called them about my garden,” I point out. “I already had an arrangement with them. This was my article. You stole it from me, Jo.”
“I did no such thing!” Jo insists. “Honestly, you should be thanking me. I saved you the embarrassment of having your pitiful excuse for a garden in a magazine.” She looks me up and down, a smirk on her lips.
“Apparently, I also saved you the embarrassment of being in a magazine looking like you were just butchering livestock.”
I should have predicted this would happen. What did I think? That Jo was going to fall to her knees, begging me for forgiveness? I should have guessed she would defend everything she’s done.
I feel a sudden buzzing in the back of my head. Like a fly is trapped inside my skull and trying to get free. I wonder what that’s all about. Does it mean I’m having a stroke? Am I going to drop dead now, right on Jo’s front porch, in front of the original door her house was built with?
“I’ll tell you what,” Jo says. “When the article comes out, I’d be happy to give you a copy. I’ll stick it in your mailbox. That way, you’ll have the thrill of telling people that your very own neighborhood is in a magazine.”
The buzzing gets louder. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm myself. When I open them, Jo is still standing there in her housedress, a smug expression on her mean little face.
“There’s such a thing as karma, you know,” I say.
She waves a hand. “I don’t care about that hippie nonsense.”
“Do you know what karma means?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
My jaw tightens. “It means what goes around comes around.”
Jo actually laughs in my face, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I’ve never liked Jo Dolan, but at this moment, I hate her.
“Whatever you say, Debbie,” she snickers. “But that sounds like loser talk to me.”
Loser. I’ve been feeling like a loser a lot lately.
I can’t control my kids, we’re strapped for cash because my husband won’t ask for a raise, and I can’t even get a second-rate magazine to photograph my garden.
I’ve never felt like more of a loser in my entire life.
Jo clearly noticed that I was weak and went in for the kill.
“Karma,” I repeat.
Jo just shakes her head. “I’ll send you the article, Debbie.”
Then she slams the door in my face.