“Oh, Albert, isn’t it lovely?”
Al tore his gaze from the towering monstrosity before him to cast a disbelieving stare at his wife. Hands folded beneath her chin as if in rapturous prayer, Millie’s eyes sparkled. She gazed at the house as if she’d just caught sight of Buckingham Palace. He glanced back at the colossal three-story structure looming on the horizon across a stretch of neglected lawn the size of a football field. In fact, the house did have a castle-like look about it, with that round tower spiraling upward from a disturbingly asymmetrical roof.
The weather had finally turned mild after a brutal Kentucky winter, and they’d been able to resume the pleasant habit of an evening stroll after supper. The slight breeze that ruffled Al’s hair—he must remember to stop by Fred’s for a trim this weekend—still held a chill, but nothing like the icy blasts that had persisted all the way through the second week of March. Al preferred their regular route, which took them down Goose Creek’s picturesque Main Street, but tonight Millie had wanted to walk through the town’s oldest neighborhood to see if she could spot any blossoming jonquils. They spied sprouts aplenty, clusters of narrow green leaves with slender stalks straining skyward to catch the last rays of evening sunlight, but the blossoms were still tightly cocooned within their protective wrappings. Kind of like Al. He huddled deeper within the collar of his heavy jacket and looked again at the house.
Millie seemed to be waiting, so he ventured an answer. “It’s the old Updyke place.”
A completely unenlightened comment, but a cautious one. Thirty-six years of marriage had taught him a few things. Until he uncovered the reason for that gleam in his wife’s eye, the wisest course was to stick with stating the obvious.
She ignored him, as she was apt to do when concocting an idea in that brain of hers. “Look at the gables, all those charming levels of the roof. And the chimneys. And that bay window! It’s absolutely gorgeous.”
He cocked his head to change his angle of inspection. Under no definition of the word would he call a broken, boarded-up window gorgeous. “Be expensive to replace that curved glass. Probably a special order.”
“And you know there’s a verandah in the back. It overlooks the lake.”
The faint sound of alarms began clanging in the recesses of Al’s brain. Surely this conversation wasn’t headed where he feared. “It’s not a lake, it’s a pond. Probably covered in scum. Water draws skeeters,” he cautioned. “And gnats.”
She dismissed his warning by waving a set of pink manicured fingernails in his direction. “That’s what screens are for. That verandah could be screened in easily, and think how peaceful it would be to look at the water over coffee in the mornings. I’ll bet there are geese or ducks or something. We could be like Katharine Hepburn and Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond.”
The volume of the alarms rose in his inner ears. Now she was imagining herself in that disaster of a house. Al didn’t like the way this conversation was going, not one bit. “Those shingles are in bad shape. Bet they leak. Probably water damage inside. I can’t even imagine how much it would cost to put a roof on that place.”
A faint nod in answer told him she was barely listening. He added a note of sternness to his tone.
“And I’d be afraid to step onto that porch. Looks like it might collapse. No telling what shape the rest of the house is in after sitting empty for so long. Must be ten years since the Updykes left.”
“What a silly thing to say. It’s perfectly safe.”
“How can you be sure? Nobody’s been in that place in a decade.”
“Of course they have. Louise Gaitskill says the interior is in wonderful shape considering the house is over a hundred years old.”
The ringing in his ears became a claxon. Louise Gaitskill was not one of Millie’s circle of friends. To his knowledge they didn’t know each other well enough to enter into a casual chat about a deserted Victorian eyesore like this house. But a professional conversation?
Louise Gaitskill was a realtor.
He whirled to study his wife head-on through narrowed lids. “What are you getting at, Mildred Richardson? Out with it.”
A wistful smile twitched at the corners of her lips. “Only that I’ve loved this house since I was a girl. I went to a birthday party there once. We ate cupcakes out on the verandah and played croquet.” A quiet sigh escaped her lips. “I used to wonder what it was like to be rich and live in an elegant house like this one.” She did not meet his eye but continued to stare at the house. “And I happened to hear that the Updyke brothers have finally agreed to sell it.”
Aha! The truth emerged at last. Well, he’d better put the skids on this conversation right now. “We are not buying that house. Under no circumstances. Not even the slightest possibility. I refuse to discuss it, so put the idea out of your head.”
To prevent the inevitable argument he stalked away from her in the direction of the perfectly good home where they’d lived happily for nearly two decades, using his long-legged stride to its full advantage.
Quick footsteps scuffed on the road as she hurried to catch up. “But Louise says they told her they’re desperate for money and need to sell quickly. She thinks they’d be willing to let it go at a fraction of its value.”
“Louise is not a very good realtor if she tells people her clients are desperate.” He stared straight ahead, not slowing one smidge even though she had to trot in order to keep up with him.
“But they want her to,” Millie argued. “They don’t care if everyone knows, because they want to unload—” She bit off the rest of the sentence.
Al pounced on the word with glee. “They want to unload a potential real estate catastrophe before the house collapses.”
“No,” she said as calmly as she could while huffing with the effort of staying beside him. “They need the money to renovate the restaurant they bought up in Cincinnati before the building inspector shuts them down.”
From the corner of his eye he spied a flush splotching her cheeks. Guilt pricked his conscience, and he shortened his stride. “They had no business opening that restaurant to begin with.”
“Oh, don’t be an old poop.” She gave his arm a playful nudge and settled into the slower pace. “It was their dream. Everybody should follow their dream if they have the chance.”
A longing glance over her shoulder was no doubt designed to inflict the maximum guilt on the “old poop” who dashed her girlish dreams of living in a grand house. Well, he refused to succumb to her obvious machinations. He loved this woman intensely, so much that in quiet times of reflection he could scarcely breathe at the depth of his feelings, but he was not blind to her ways. Over the years he’d fallen victim to her womanly wiles more than once. That’s how they’d ended up with two sets of golf clubs collecting dust in the attic and a bright pink Volkswagen Beetle with obnoxious curling eyelashes over the headlights. And Rufus, the world’s smelliest beagle. Not to mention a third child, though Allison was a joy he’d never regretted for an instant.
He shook off the tenderness that always accompanied thoughts of his only daughter. Now was not the time for softness. Millie could sense the slightest shift in his mood and would not hesitate to press the advantage with a ruthlessness at odds to her sweet manner and delightful dimples.
“We are not buying that house.” He punctuated the statement with a firm shake of his head.
His proclamation was met with silence. Al risked a sideways glance, and was not comforted by what he saw. A smile, nearly imperceptible and composed of unbendable steel, hovered about the lovely full lips. He knew that expression well, and the sight of it set his insides to quivering. She had no intention of giving in. And the truth that he had come to realize over the years, the one he tried to hide from her at all costs, was that in a match of wills, hers was the stronger.
Millie held her tongue for the duration of their stroll. Aware of the cautious glances Albert shot her way every so often, she maintained a pleasant expression. Pouting, she’d learned long ago, would serve no purpose besides irritating her peace-loving husband. When Albert was irritated, he became even more mule-headed than usual. At this stage of the negotiations it was extremely important to keep every conversation cordial.
She knew how his mind worked. He would process their discussion over the next few days. At odd times he would utter an objection out of the blue. While buttering his toast he might say, “That lawn is a disaster, you know.” Or when he slid into bed at night, “The property taxes are probably triple what we pay now.” She would reply with a smile and a nod and revel in a secret satisfaction. Let him brood over the downsides, all the while becoming accustomed to the idea.
Turning the corner onto Mulberry Avenue, she eyed the familiar street with fresh eyes. Blacktopped driveways and arrow-straight sidewalks outlined squares of neatly maintained lawns, identical in size. Single-story homes of similar size and construction, though with enough individuality to give the neighborhood a pleasant, non-tract-like feel. Her gaze was drawn to their house in the exact center of the street. The holly bushes on either side of their mailbox, though winter-dull at the moment, were trimmed to perfect roundness. A row of carefully tended Camellia shrubs, equally spaced in a strip of dark soil lining the sidewalk, led to the front door. At the moment they were mere bundles of sticks but had recently begun to show signs of producing the glossy dark leaves and pink blossoms that would lend an air of glory to the Richardson yard that none of their neighbors had managed to replicate. Thanks to Albert.
She cast a fond glance sideways, ignoring the stubborn set to his strong jaw. Such a perfectionist. It was one of the traits she admired about him. He approached every task with a thoroughness and determination that sometimes bordered on compulsiveness, and he never left a job half-done. He might grumble but she knew he loved the work, derived immense satisfaction from tackling new projects. The sight of a broken toilet handle or a chip in the wall paint rendered him positively gleeful. Without a doubt, his efforts to landscape their yard saved him from suffering a stroke after that alarming episode three summers ago. She herself had seen his blood pressure retreat to the normal range whenever he plunged his hands into rich Kentucky soil.
But now all the chores were done, inside the house and out. Retirement was only a few years away, and then what? Their home was in perfect repair.
Ah, but the Updyke property had plenty to do. Years’ worth of projects to keep them both busy and healthy.
When they approached Violet’s house, the curtains in the front window moved. Her best friend and next-door neighbor for nearly twenty years stood inside, peering at them through the binoculars she kept in readiness on the hall table. Probably beside herself with waiting to see how the conversation with Albert went. With a cautious glance at her husband, Millie gave a very slight shake of her head. The curtains fell back into place.
They stepped from the sidewalk onto their walkway, and Albert’s face lost the perturbed expression. She spied the beginnings of a smile as he scanned the neat lawn, the gleaming windows, the front door he’d painted an inviting shade of red. Yes, their home was pleasant and welcoming, and in excellent shape. According to Louise Gaitskill, it would bring a good price.
She allowed him to open the door for her and let her hand linger on his cheek with a gentle caress as she passed inside. After all these years of marriage, you’d think Albert would learn that she always had his best interests in mind.