Threading The Needle Part 12

I smiled as I cracked eggs into a bowl and set the sh.e.l.ls aside. "Where is she now?"

"Pa.s.sed out under our bed, sleeping off the trauma."

I pressed my hand to my mouth, stifling the urge to laugh. Poor Spitz. Poor, pathetic Spitz. "So how'd the pigs get out in the first place?"

Lee let out an irritated snort. "The gate to the pigsty was wide open. Somebody had actually tied it open with a piece of rope. And I found empty soda cans lying on the ground near the pen."

"Soda cans?"

Frowning, he nodded and took a gulp of wine. "Yeah. Two of them. Somebody's idea of a joke. Or a rescue mission. Stupid kids."

I couldn't help myself. I couldn't suppress the laughter, not even with both hands over my mouth. I dropped my hands and laughed so hard I had to wipe away the tears with the hem of my ap.r.o.n.

Lee put down his gla.s.s and spread out his hands. "What? What's so funny?"

In spite of the carnage Lee had inflicted on the veggies, we had a nice dinner together. I told Lee about Madelyn's return to New Bern, news that he found considerably less interesting than I did.

"I suppose she has to live somewhere, but I'd just as soon it was somewhere else. A penal colony on a desert island, she and her husband and everybody like them. Just drop them off in the middle of the ocean and let them rot."

I steered the subject back to the pigs, specifically to Spitz and her inept attempts at pig herding. Lee gave me a blow-by-blow description of the hapless dog's attempts at driving the porker back to her pen. By the time he finished the story, we were both laughing.

To celebrate the early arrival of winter, I decided to make snow ice cream, running outside in the wind to scoop the drifted snow into a bowl, then mixing it with sugar, cream, and a touch of vanilla. After dinner, Lee volunteered to clean up the kitchen. I went to the bedroom and got into my pajamas, then sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed and phoned Josh.

"Hi, Mom. Hey, what's with Dad? He sounded peeved when I called before."

"Oh, he's fine. The pigs got out. So, how are you? How's school?"

"Good. Everything's good. So far, I'm getting an A in organic chemistry."

"You're kidding! That's great, sweetie! You must get it from your dad. I had to take Geology 101 to fulfill my college science requirement. Rocks for Jocks, they called it. Just me, the defensive line of the football team, and an aging professor who mumbled as he narrated slide shows of geologic strata. He gave me a C."

Josh laughed. "At least you still remember what strata are."

"Sort of."

"So, Mom, not to change the subject, but I wanted to talk to you about Thanksgiving."

"I know. We need to get your plane ticket soon. We're just a little bit tight on finances right now."

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I might not need a ticket. Professor Kleypas and his wife are going to Aruba for Thanksgiving and they want me to house-sit for them. All I have to do is bring in the mail, walk and feed the dog, and make sure the place doesn't burn down. They'll pay me five hundred dollars for the week," Josh said. "And the house is really nice. They've got a pool."

"Oh." I paused for a long moment, trying to let this all sink in. "It sounds like a good opportunity, but . . . I hate to think of you being alone at Thanksgiving. . . ."

Not to mention how much I hated the idea of Lee and me being alone for Thanksgiving.

"What would you do about dinner?"

"Ted's mom already invited me to come to their house." Ted was one of Josh's college friends, a day student who lived at home. "They're having a whole gang of people over, kids whose families can't afford to fly them home for the break."

That was nice of Ted's mother to invite Josh to dinner, but we could afford to fly our son home for Thanksgiving, sort of. We had credit cards. Paying them off was another matter, but still . . .

I put my hand up to my mouth and chewed a ragged edge off my cuticle, sorting through my emotions.

We've never had Thanksgiving, or any major holiday, without Josh. It was bound to happen eventually, I'd always known that. Children grow up and move out, creating lives of their own. Roots and wings, that's what a good parent should give their children, so they say. And I know it's true, but at that moment, I couldn't help but wish that I'd bought myself a set of wing clippers a long time ago.

"Mom? It's okay. If you don't want me to do it, I'll tell Professor Kleypas I can't. I just thought it'd be a help right now."

"No, no," I said. "You're right. I'm being selfish. Five hundred dollars is a lot of money."

Josh's tone brightened. "And it might lead to other things. Professor Kleypas hires a couple of students to help with his research every summer. He usually picks rising seniors as lab a.s.sistants, but if I make a good impression on him, who knows?"

"Who knows?" I echoed.

"And I'll be home for Christmas," he rushed to a.s.sure me. "It doesn't make sense to spend money on a plane ticket when I'm coming back three weeks later. Right?"

"Right," I said hesitantly. "I'll talk to Dad, but I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Hey, is Dad there? Can I talk to him?"

"He's doing the dishes. Hang on and I'll go get him."

"Mom? You're sure you're fine with this Thanksgiving thing, right?"

"Sure," I said, making my voice deliberately light. "I wasn't in the mood to make a big meal anyway. Sometime after you cook your twentieth turkey, the thrill wears off."

Josh laughed. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"Hold on while I get Dad. You'll be happy to know he's in a much better mood now. Josh? Have I told you recently how proud I am of you?"

"Yes. You have. Two days ago, the last time we talked. And every time before that."

I laughed. "Well, it bears repeating. I'm proud of you, Jos.h.i.+e. And I love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

It had been a long day and by the time ten o'clock rolled around, we were both exhausted, but I couldn't sleep. Lee was snoring, and Spitz, who had emerged from beneath the bed and wedged herself between Lee and me, protected on all sides from any marauding swine that might break into our bedroom, was doing the same. But that wasn't what was keeping me awake.

I kept thinking about Josh and how strange it would be to have Thanksgiving without him. In our current circ.u.mstances, it was for the best, a G.o.dsend really. But it didn't feel like one. Why did we ever let him go to school in Florida? Why couldn't he have stayed in-state? What was wrong with UConn?

I rolled over and punched my pillow, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Still, it said something good that Josh's professor was willing to entrust him with the care of his home, didn't it? Lee said it said something good about me and the way I'd raised him, but Lee gets as much credit for that as I do. Anyway, I'm not sure we're better parents than anybody else. Josh is just a good, responsible kid. Always has been. I miss him.

Spitz twitched and jerked in her sleep, probably dreaming of lions and tigers and pigs, oh my. I rolled onto my back again and cast a resentful glance toward Lee's peacefully dozing form. He never had any trouble falling asleep.

Giving up, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling and turned my thoughts toward the day's other disturbing development: Madelyn's homecoming.

What was she doing in New Bern? Was she happy to be back? Was she lonely in that big house by herself? What had she said to Abigail? If I knocked on her door and said h.e.l.lo, would she invite me in? Or slam it in my face?

Alone in that big house, that repository of so many of her childhood memories and mine, was she able to sleep?

19.

Madelyn Even folded, the quilts were bulky. I chose the two whose chances for repair seemed most promising, put them into a shopping bag, and loaded them in the car before going back inside to make a pot of very strong coffee. I needed it. I'd hardly gotten any sleep the night before; I'd been too excited. And nervous.

After three weeks of research, three weeks spent reading everything I could get my hands on about home repair, remodeling, innkeeping, and general business, taking a detailed inventory of the attic to decide what could be repaired and reused, what was beyond hope, and what might be sold to raise a bit of extra cash, checking out zoning restrictions and commercial building codes, rejecting my original idea of an eight-room inn as too expensive, then refiguring budgets for a five-room, and adding up projections for expenditures, cash flow, and profits, my business plan was done.

Just before midnight I took a deep breath, punched the equal sign on my calculator, and whooped in triumph.

$81,265.00! Yes! It was possible!

If. If I was careful, efficient, imaginative, and just a little bit lucky, and if I did as much of the restoration and remodeling work myself as was possible, it could happen. But it was a risk. I'd be betting everything I had left in the bank on this one roll of the dice. But it was a risk I had to take, wanted to take.

I stood next to the coffeepot, drumming my fingers on the counter-top, impatient for it to brew. I couldn't wait to get started.

The hardware store opens at seven-thirty on Sat.u.r.day, so I went there first.

As I read the list of tradesmen who I needed to hire, the manager, a bear of a man, handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and wide muscular shoulders, the kind of man who looked like he'd spent a lot of time at the business end of a hammer (exactly the kind of man whom Sterling was not), looked me up and down in a way that made me uncomfortable.

At the risk of sounding egotistical, I'm used to men looking me over like I was a piece of meat in a shop window, but this wasn't that. I wouldn't have thought twice about that. This man seemed to be studying me, searching me, and not just my body but my face, my expression, the inflection of my voice. It was strange. The fact that one of those searching brown eyes was made of gla.s.s might have had something to do with it, but it wasn't only that. He kept looking at me like he knew me.

Of course, since my outburst in the bank, I'd had the feeling that everyone was looking at me that way. It made me feel self-conscious.

Why hadn't I left my Prada handbag at home? My jeans and sweater were generic enough, but my bag screamed two things-"I am not from here" and "I have money to burn." Not the message you want to send when you're trying to negotiate the best price on a plumbing job.

"Seems like a pretty big project you've got in mind here," Grizzly Man said, tugging on his beard.

"It is."

He nodded slowly and made a sucking sound with his teeth. "Why not hire a general contractor and let him deal with it? It'd make everything easier."

"And add fifteen percent to my budget." I shook my head. "I've got to squeeze every cent I can out of this project and do as much of the work myself as possible. Sweat equity. You're a businessman, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

I looked at him straight on, intent and unblinking, letting him know that I was someone to be taken seriously.

He gave his beard another tug. "All right, then. I'll get you some business cards. There's a lot of good guys out of work right now. You'll have your pick."

"Thank you," I said, and pulled a shopping list from the depths of my bag. "I'm also going to need prices on paint, primer, stain, varnish, brushes, sponges, and an electric sander."

"Sure thing." He beckoned to one of his young clerks. "Just give your list to Matt. He'll ring you up and carry everything out to your car for you."

"Oh. Thank you . . . but . . . that won't be necessary," I stammered, feeling like a complete idiot. "I'm not really planning on buying anything today. I just want to get prices. I need to check with a few suppliers. . . ."

"You mean with the big box store?"

He turned to a young clerk without waiting for my response. "Matt, go shelve those bags of water softener salt that came in this morning. I'll take care of this customer."

Matt scooted off on his errand while I stood there, blus.h.i.+ng and feeling like a kid who'd been caught telling a fib. When the clerk was gone, he turned to look at me.

"Ms. Beecher . . ."

"Madelyn."

"Madelyn," he said with a slight inclination of his head. "I don't want to make any a.s.sumptions, but I've got a feeling that you'll need a fair amount of guidance to see you through this remodel. I don't mind taking time to answer questions. We offer our customers a level of personal attention that the big box stores can't compete with. On the other hand, I can't compete with their prices. Not entirely."

He trained those big brown eyes, even the gla.s.s one, on me to see if I was catching his meaning. I was.

"Now, since you're planning on acting as your own contractor," he continued, in a tone that was direct but not unkind, "I'm going to give you the same professional discount I'd give to any of the contractors here in town. If you do business with me, it'll probably cost you one or two percent more than it would if you were buying from those other guys. But for that two percent, you'll get the best customer service in the state and the peace of mind that comes from doing business with people in your community-the same people who will support you once you open your doors."

He smiled faintly. "As a businesswoman, I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

He'd seen right through me. I smiled back. I couldn't help myself.

"I'm starting to. As you've probably guessed, I've only been a businesswoman for something less than twenty-four hours."

"Everybody has to start somewhere," he said without a trace of mockery. "If you're willing to put in the work it takes to be your own contractor, it's obvious you're not afraid of hard work. That's about half the battle right there."

"If you don't have a lot of money to invest, you've got to replace it with something. In my case that means time-and elbow grease. And I used to have a kind of knack for scavenging, finding old things and fixing them up again. At least, I think I did. It's been a long time since I've had occasion to test my skills, but I'm willing to try.

"Speaking of that," I said, "do you rent sanders for wooden floors? Beecher Cottage is full of them and they're all in terrible shape. If I could do them myself, it would probably save me quite a lot."

He stared at me and frowned. I thought I'd said something wrong.

"Wow. What they're saying is true, isn't it? You really are broke. That jerk hung you out to dry just like he did everybody else. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."

His words caught me by surprise. I'd known it wouldn't take long before my presence in New Bern was generally known, but it annoyed me to know that speculation about my fortunes, or lack thereof, had become fodder of the gossip grapevine. I'd always hated this town, and now I remembered why.

"Do you always make such personal observations about complete strangers?"

The big man ducked his head.

At least he has the good grace to feel embarra.s.sed.

"Pardon me. I was out of line. But, Madelyn, we do know each other. Can't blame you for not recognizing me. I didn't have the beard back then and I was about twenty pounds lighter. I can't chase down a hockey puck the way I did back in high school. And, what with the missing eye, I know I look different, but I'd recognize you anywhere. You haven't changed a bit."

Hockey puck?

I mentally shaved off the silver-flecked beard, looked more closely at his face, the remaining eye, the long, angular nose with that slight b.u.mp in the middle, a souvenir of the league champions.h.i.+p game between New Bern and Litchfield, when he'd taken a hit so hard his helmet got knocked off and then he'd gone on to score the winning goal-broken nose and all.

Jake Kaminski.