Quinn, dressed in a red tank top and her white jeans, sauntered down her now-clear driveway, admiring the magic that was her new-old home. The yard sale had turned enough money to help cover some other, unforeseen repairs. Quinn even had some left over to treat the girls—she now called her neighbors the girls—for a night out for dinner and drinks.
In the days after, Vivi and Elijah spent their free time helping her clean, repair, and arrange the furniture and décor she’d salvaged from ol’ Carl Carlson. In the end, she turned up with a mostly furnished house in working order. And, most importantly, it was so clean you could eat off the floor. Out of the tub, even!
Still, after salvaging what they could selling the rest, there remained heaps of things Quinn hesitated to part with. Call it instinct, but the stacks of newspapers, the boxes of paperwork…they felt too important to toss.
Jude agreed first. What if they found something interesting?
Beverly had agreed second, urging Quinn even more enthusiastically than Jude. You never know what people leave behind when they die. There could be cash hidden in those stacks!
Annette even offered up Elijah’s mancave as a storage facility for all the paper stuff, in case there were certain legal documents worth saving.
Quinn figured the girls’ efforts to help her save everything came each from a selfish motive. Jude, because she was, in many ways, like Carl Carlson—struggled with letting go. Beverly, because she also struggled to let go but more because she wanted a juicy story. And Annette, because she was a gossip, naturally. And any fodder for gossip was worth its weight in gold to Annette.
Quinn caved and stowed much of the boxes and the newspapers in the garage, thinking about them every moment of downtime she could steal between continuing to fix up the place and logging hours at the Herald.
Today, though, she had a true break. A holiday. It was the Fourth of July, and Apple Hill Lane was abuzz with celebration.
She strode to Annette’s table, where she filled a cup with ice and lemonade and curled it into her body, twisting around to take in the turnout.
Everyone in town had come, which made no sense. This was supposed to be a Crabtree Court block party, after all. So, what was her new boss doing there?
She turned back to Annette, who was chomping on baby carrots slathered in ranch dip. “Forrest Jericho is here,” she said.
Annette gave her a look of surprise. “Well, yeah,” she answered through a full mouth.
Quinn glanced left then right, as if searching the air around her for the obvious explanation. “Why?”
“He always comes to events with Beverly. She can’t get rid of him.”
This felt like a dangerous area to probe, but Quinn had to know. “Are they—” She gave Annette the eyes.
Annette cackled loudly. “Oh, heavens no! Forrest is her cousin!”
Quinn choked on her lemonade, coughing to the side until she recovered enough to laugh along with Annette. “Wow! She never mentioned it.”
“Probably figured you knew. That’s sort of how it goes around here. Everyone knows everything about everyone, so everyone assumes everyone knows everything about everyone. And anyway, she’s…well…distracted.”
“I get that,” Quinn answered more soberly.
“And it seems like he is, too,” Annette added, elbowing Quinn sharply in the side.
She winced briefly and was about to, again, ask for clarification, until her gaze settled on an oncoming figure.
“Quinn!”
Quinn turned, red-faced, to Annette, but she’d disappeared like a rabbit into a black top hat. Blinking three times, she felt her mouth for errant lemonade before smoothing her shirt—three times—and responding to him.
Grinning, she said, “Hi, Forrest.”
Annette practically dashed over to Elijah and Vivi who had with them Vivi’s friend, Mercy. The trio was too adorable, and she couldn’t resist snapping a candid photo as they chatted like mini adults.
Elijah moaned and groaned at her, but the girls played along.
She studied the picture on her phone, catching something glinting off of Vivi’s chest. A medallion, it appeared. With an…insignia? The little jewel ruined the photo, drawing a glare. “One more!” she trilled back, positioning her phone at an angle to avoid the sun. She snapped then looked again. “Perfect!”
“Annie,” came Roman’s voice. “You have a minute?”
She turned from the kids to see that he was standing with the Becketts. “Elora! Tad! Oh, I am so happy to see you here.” Her eyes widened at Elora’s form. “You’re about to pop, honey!”
“I know. I’m terribly hot and uncomfortable, and I definitely won’t stay long.”
Tad reached around her back and rubbed it. “The mortgage company reached out just yesterday,” he said, rocking Lincoln’s stroller with his free hand. “Everything is in order. All we need is the final inspection,” he said triumphantly.
Annette forced a smile even though a sick feeling curled up her insides. “Oh, right!” She turned to Roman. “So, you’re not going to waive it, then?” She had figured they would. Especially after the screaming deal they were getting on Annette and Roman’s house. Then again, the sale was traditional, in the end. Not sold as is. After all, as is would draw attention. Annette was sure she’d rather have a quick inspection than be the focus of neighborhood gossip. She could hear the questions now. Why as is? That house is perfect! She could get twice what she’s asking! Why would the Bests settle like that? Weren’t they supposed to be the Best on the Block? Ha!
“My parents said we’d better get the inspection. Just in case,” Elora answered meekly.
“Roman.” Annette turned to her husband, running her manicured hand down his Tommy Bahama button-up tee. “Do you want to have Dean handle it? He does inspections, you know. Or—?”
“Oh, we’re going to get our own. Third party. That’s what my parents say is best,” Elora announced before shrinking back in on herself.
Her smile melting at the edges, Annette tried hard to stabilize it. The one thing she and Roman had not thoroughly discussed after her big idea to do a house swap was the inspection.
And, namely, what it would reveal.
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. After the festivities,” Annette suggested, narrowing her eyes again on Elora’s belly. “When you’re feeling better.”
And after Annette had time to make a plan.
Jude and Beverly stood together by the firecracker station. One per kid until it was time for the fireworks show, then they’d give out the rest. Spent watermelon rinds sat on each woman’s plate, and Jude felt bloated and happy.
Beverly seemed more chipper, too. She’d had a margarita from the margarita station. It likely helped take the edge off.
Jude recalled the summer before, seeing Beverly, Tom, and Kayla all together for the affair on Main Street. They’d been a model family. Happy and easy and beautiful, all of them.
As a leftover, Beverly hadn’t quite upheld that beauty. Even today, decked out in a pretty blue blouse and white Bermuda shorts with pristine white-and-beige wedges, there was a lingering hollowness to her.
“How’s your article going?” Jude asked between raucous children buzzing past.
Beverly’s face opened. “Oh, it’s—slow. I’m having a hard time getting to the main source I need to finish the series.”
“Who’s that?” Jude asked.
“Darry Ruthenberg. The principal.”
“You were in his office last week,” Jude pointed out.
“He turned me down,” Beverly answered mildly. “I guess he’s not ready to talk to the Widow of Hills High.”
Jude lifted an eyebrow at Beverly, only to see a smirk cross the woman’s face. It was a…joke? “Oh. Well, I’d be happy to give you a quote. Although, it’ll probably do you little good. Depending on your angle.”
“I’d happily take a quote. My angle isn’t quite fleshed out. I’m trying to dig deeper, you know? Deeper than—teachers die, teachers retire, teachers quit. Pay them more.” Beverly flashed Jude a look. “Not that a higher salary will keep anyone from dying.”
“It could keep us from retiring, though,” Jude answered. “Retiring and finding different, better-paying jobs.”
It was Beverly’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “You retired because of low wages? Initially, I mean?”
Jude shrugged. “People assume that private schools pay more.” She looked directly at Beverly. “They don’t. Anyway,” she went on, “that was back when I had other things going for me.”
Beverly frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. A generally functional marriage. The town council. Summer trips, winter trips. I had a life.” Jude considered her wording and added, “I had a different life.”
“Teaching will give you fulfillment, then?” Beverly prodded.
Jude nodded quickly. “Of course. I mean look at you,” she said. “You’ve returned to reporting. And why? For the paycheck?”
The conversation had turned a little deeper than Jude expected, but maybe that was okay. She glanced across the cul-de-sac to see Quinn chatting with Beverly’s boss. Nearby, along with two other couples, danced Annette and Roman. Country music blared from someone’s speaker, and the dance floor was nothing more than a bare nook of asphalt up in the little cove by Shamaine’s. But it was cute. To see that. To see couples in love. Maybe odd, too. Odd to see an affectionate middle-aged couple. Then again, maybe they weren’t quite middle-aged. Not yet. Still odd. Good, but odd.
“I think everyone works for the paycheck,” Beverly said. “But it’s working after hours—that’s when we work for the purpose.”
People like that Dean Jericho character came to mind. The sort who worked with a purpose when he was on the clock. Like he was destined to do what he did. Maybe this assumption came from Jude’s suspicion that the Jericho family was an old one. They’d probably been the first ones to bring electricity to Harbor Hills. And Forrest, too, had been given the Herald as an heirloom. All those Jericho boys were nothing more than local heartbreakers. The thought of Dean stirred something in Jude, but she tamped it down quickly. He was a fleeting moment in her summer. No more. No less.
Jude switched her mind back to Beverly’s point; she tried to make sense of it. Maybe there could be a bit of balance in one’s professional life: working for the paycheck and for the purpose. Still, was that what Beverly even meant?
Jude, herself, had applied to the school in order to make ends meet, true. But the rest of Beverly’s assertion still confused her. “What do you mean?”
Beverly threw a sidelong glance at Jude. “I mean…” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I don’t know what I mean.” Then it came to her. “Well, I mean—it used to be, when I first started reporting, I’d be working a story at all hours. I was obsessed with it. It drove everything in my life. I was reading and studying around the clock. Facts became the structure to my day. Chasing down leads. Interviewing. Hounding people. I lived for it. And the paycheck was irrelevant. I’d have done it for free.”
“So, what happened?” Jude asked.
Beverly didn’t mind the question. She needed it. She needed it like she used to need those facts. Like lifeblood. Someone to talk to. Someone to confess to.
“What happened was,” she said, a smile drifting across her mouth, “I had Kayla.” Tears stung her eyes, and she swallowed hard, willing away the emotion. Today was supposed to be a good day. A fun day. Free of all that. She squinted through the sunlight to the margarita station. “I need another one of these.” She held up her empty plastic cup, shaking the salty ice remnants.
“Let’s go.” Jude joined her, and they both indulged in a second drink.
After a few sips, Beverly said, “Did anything ever interrupt your work? Get in the way?”
Jude seemed thoughtful for a moment. Then, “Yes. Gene did. My marriage consumed me in a way school never could have. I suppose it was only because of our divorce that I can return in earnest.”
“Yes. I get that,” Beverly agreed. “But you probably don’t have the guilt.” She didn’t mean it as an accusation. “I’m sorry.” Beverly shook her head. “That was out of line, I—”
“No, I understand,” Jude assured her. “You don’t know if it’s okay for you to turn your energy on something other than Kayla and Tom.” Her voice was quiet and soft, and her words echoed in Beverly’s brain.
She swallowed hard again, her nostrils flaring. “I just don’t know what I should do. Or what I shouldn’t do. It’s like with my door—you know?”
“Your door?” Jude asked.
“When I painted it, that was a good day. Right? You know, I was feeling okay. Like it was something I could do for me. But the next day, I hated the sight of it. Why couldn’t I just keep it natural oak, right? Tom liked the oak. Now I don’t have that bit of him.”
“At some point, Beverly, you have to move on and make these sorts of choices. Little choices that benefit you. Even if they don’t honor their memory.”
Beverly took a moment. She sucked in a deep breath and stared out at the party. People strolling and happy and normal. Annette and Roman, so in love. Quinn, talking to Forrest. Probably about work. Hah. The kids—Elijah and Vivi and their other friend—huddled conspiratorially and sort of meandering in Beverly’s general direction. Even after what had happened with Vivi, they were okay. That easiness eluded Beverly so. Her gaze landed on a surprisingly welcome sight. Darry Ruthenberg himself.
She looked at Jude and licked her lips. “I’m going to try again,” she declared.
Jude followed Beverly’s gaze as it returned to Darry, who’d come alone. He lived on Dogwood in a two-bedroom. Also alone. Just like Bev. Maybe she could start there, from a point of commonality. And then dig at the turnover rate. Find a way to turn an otherwise bland story into something juicy and wrought with the grit that small-town papers so often lacked.
Often, but not always.
“Yes, maybe he’ll be a little more loose here. Rather than at school, where he probably needs to be professional.” Jude was talking, but Beverly was only half listening. Her eyes had wandered up to Quinn’s house. The next feature she’d take on.
“Jude,” she said, quickly changing her mind. “What did you know about Carl Carlson?”
Jude’s face turned stricken. “What do you mean?”
Beverly eyed the house again. “I think there’s a story there.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Jude said it with such finality. Such assertion that Beverly was nearly persuaded.
“Maybe not,” Beverly agreed.
But she knew better.
Beverly knew that behind every confident, worry-free man or woman, there was a story.
There was a story behind Carl Carlson. There was a story behind Quinn. Behind Annette. Behind Jude.
And there was a story behind her, too. Behind Beverly.
All these stories of the people who lived on Apple Hill Lane. And no one who had ventured to tell those stories.
Until now.
Maybe her attempt to be near Kayla and Tom—by coming up with the school feature—was all wrong. Maybe there really was a better way to get close to them.
To honor their memory.
Maybe Beverly needed to find a new purpose. Something more than being the widow who lived in the house with the blue front door.
Continue the saga with book two: The House with the Blue Front Door. Available where books are sold.
Stay in touch with the author. Visit elizabethbromke.com today.