Looking at the situation from Lloyd’s point of view, I could see where my own stubbornness to have the cistern removed, instead of walled in, was messing with our agreed-to schedule. It was my change, not his, that slowed the renovation.
Of course, when I walked through the house last July, it hadn’t registered that there even was a cistern in the basement. So technically, Lloyd should include its removal as part of the project.
I fingered the banister leading to the second floor, pulling back at the stickiness of the original finish. With everything else to do, there was no time to dwell on the cistern. The matter was now up to the Historical Committee. Once I got an official rejection, and not just some off-the-cuff denial from the village overlord, I could decide my next step.
I toyed with a loose dowel along the stairwell. It would be simple to wall in the cistern as Lloyd suggested. Preferable, even. No more concrete image dangling in my mind at bedtime. No more wondering how a body ended up buried in my basement, and worse, who put it there. But somehow I knew I wasn’t being honest. I already had the overwhelming urge to pick up a hammer and chisel and see for myself what lay under the concrete. A mere layer of drywall couldn’t dampen innate curiosity. If I thought I could maneuver the basement steps, I would be down there even now disproving my morbid theory.
I looked up from the broken dowel to the wallpaper that lined the room. Small pink and yellow roses were arranged in tidy columns. In between each was a strip of larger bouquets tied with blue ribbons. From my place at the stairs, the pattern looked like mama flowers holding hands with baby flowers.
I leaned close to the edge of a leaded-glass window and picked at a gap in the paper with one pointy fake nail, peeling off the time-worn surface in a long strip. The next owners would have inoffensive, off-white paint interspersed with a coat of polyurethane to create a subtle striped effect.
Just for fun, I pulled off every loose section and picked at every long-suffering bubble throughout the parlor. When I’d finally exhausted my urge, the floor was covered in curls of pastel and white paper, like the remains of a hit-and-run baby shower.
I plopped to the carpet and massaged my ankle. Pain or not, I had just made the parlor my next project. The thought of someone walking in and seeing peeled, unfinished walls reviled my sense of pride. I plotted a trip to the paint store, hoping I could still operate a car with my foot in such bad shape.
I was getting up the gumption to stand when the doorbell rang. I looked at my mess in panic, wondering if I should pretend I wasn’t home. Footsteps crossed the porch and the room darkened as the uninvited guest peered in the front window.
It was Dorothy, keeping her promise to return and check up. One hand shielding the glare, she spotted me amidst the evidence of my parlor paroxysm.
Dorothy shuffled around to the door and let herself in, probably feeling sorry for the turtle thrashing around on the floor.
She waded through the shredded wallpaper.
“Give me your hand,” she said with a tinge of frustration. “Thought I told you to rest.”
She pulled me to my feet.
“Sorry.” I brushed off little wads of sticky flowers stuck to my clothing. With all Dorothy’s nagging, I could almost believe I was still living with my grandmother.
“Come get something to drink,” she said.
I followed her into the kitchen, feeling like a visitor in my own home.
Dorothy turned the knob on the water dispenser, filling a glass with the refrigerated liquid. She passed it to me.
I took a long swallow. I hadn’t realized a nap could be so draining. Refreshed, I set the glass on the counter.
“Better?” Dorothy asked, her pale face almost phosphorescent in the waning afternoon light.
“Much,” I replied, smiling.
An awkward moment passed. I scrambled to figure out ways to be hospitable without furniture to offer.
“Thank you for all you’ve done today,” I groped.
She nodded. “Glad you’re not too laid up.”
Guilt oozed in her tone.
I fidgeted with the short ends of my new cut. “You know how it is. I have to stay busy or I’d go nuts.”
Dorothy grabbed a paper bag from under the kitchen sink and started toward the parlor. I hobbled after her.
She scooped up handfuls of debris and loaded them into the sack. I gave my best shot at pitching in, but fell short of her capable efforts. Her navy stretch polyester slacks rose to flood level as she bent over to pluck the last tiny speck from the shag.
“Got an old love seat for you,” Dorothy said, straightening. “Need something to sit on while your foot’s healing up.”
I pictured a tattered, dust-mite-scented sofa. “No, thank you. Really. I’ve still got to pull the carpet from this room. It won’t be ready for furniture until Christmas, at least.”
“Never heard of anything so foolish. ’Bout as comfortable as a prison cell.” Dorothy’s look said volumes.
My throat tightened as my wall of defense went up. Apparently Brad had spread the news of my past. From the look of judgment on Dorothy’s face, the unethical Officer Walters had filled her in with all the details.
I could only hope the news hadn’t traveled to David. All I wanted Friday was a night of pleasant conversation. Fluffy, even.
I checked my stick-on nails. Nine were still intact. I might as well make the rest last until the special night. Then they could pop off in unison for all I cared. David had a one-night shot at seeing me at my girly best. After that, like it or not, I would be back to my normal, frumpy renovator self.
Dorothy headed for the front door.
“Bring you some soup tomorrow,” she said.
I noticed she walked with a slight limp of her own and wondered if it was arthritis or the legacy of some injury from her mid-thirties. At the thought, a lightning bolt of pain shot up my leg, along with a heavy dose of self-pity.
It was bad enough that I was living my life alone. I could hardly handle the thought of becoming old and run-down. Still, at least Dorothy had a grown child to keep her company. I might never have one to call my own.
I watched Dorothy cross the street.
Not that I wanted a child, of course. From what I could tell, kids meant heartbreak. You could never get them to do what you wanted. And if they ever did do as you asked, sometimes the outcome was worse than if they had disobeyed.
No, it was better to be alone. My children were the homes I resurrected.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the parlor window and sighed. If only someone could revive me in the same manner I revived houses.
I tapped a snappy rhythm on the window, quite certain that David was that someone.
I’d find out for sure this Friday night.
16
Friday morning showed up ahead of schedule. I hadn’t even picked out what to wear and it was already the day of my big date.
Shower. Blow dry. Get dressed. I worked through my morning routine, furious with myself for putting off what I should have done a week ago. Sure, my parlor looked pristine. But tonight, sitting across from David wearing heaven-knew-what, would I care that I’d gotten the entire room done in two short days on one working leg?
I slipped into my best jeans, the ones without paint splotches or holes. With a painful tug, a nail tip dropped to the floor.
Great. Only seven remained after the one I’d shed yesterday into a can of paint.
Now, not only did I have to track down the perfect outfit before seven o’clock, but I also had to stop in to see Tammy at the Beauty Boutique for a repair job.
First, however, I’d pick up a roll and coffee at the Whistle Stop. Two days of seclusion made me thirsty for human interaction. And while the girl behind the counter was no conversationalist, at least I could look forward to the possibility that she’d added a new nose ring to her collection or an old movie to her repertoire.