We stayed till closing time, and I got drunk enough so that when Miranda and I stumbled to the suite at the back of the inn, then fell naked across the king-size bed, I barely thought of the reasons I was in Maine for an entire week, or of Brad Daggett, or even of Lily.
The following morning the rain was done, the clouds all swept out to sea, and it was one of those October days that sell calendars. The sky was a hard, metallic blue, and the trees had turned into bouquets of red and yellow. After lunch, Miranda and I walked to the house. I timed it; it took twenty-five minutes along Micmac Road, not much longer than it took along the cliff walk. Route 1A was the busiest road in this part of the world, but this section of Micmac was scenic, with its periodic views from the bluff above the Atlantic, so a lot of cars went by during my walk. Micmac Road branched out from 1A at Kennewick Center, then passed Kennewick Harbor and Kennewick Beach, the three major sections that formed the town. Kennewick Beach was the less exclusive section of the Kennewick shoreline, a long sandy stretch bunched with rental cottages and, across the road, a campsite that became filled with Winnebagos in the summertime. I didn’t know this for a fact but I thought I remembered Miranda telling me that Brad owned one of those semicircular clusters of rental cottages, and that, since his divorce, he was living in one of them year-round. I hadn’t paid attention when she told me these facts because at the time I didn’t know that he was sleeping with my wife. But now I was paying attention. To everything.
There was only one vehicle parked in our driveway, a Toyota pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read IF GOD DIDN’T WANT US TO EAT ANIMALS, HE WOULDN’T HAVE MADE ’EM OUTTA MEAT.
“That’s Jim,” Miranda said. “Brad’s having him do the drywall in the basement.”
We walked around to the back of the house and entered through the patio doors. It was impossible to not think of the last time I’d been here, of first spying on Brad and Miranda sharing a cigarette in the kitchen, then later, crouching at the terminus of the cliff walk, watching them fuck in our future living room.
“Wait till you see the bar downstairs.” Miranda led me across the finished hardwood floors of the foyer, her steps echoing sharply in the empty space. Jim was downstairs, listening to classic rock on a dusty radio, and eating his lunch, perched on a plastic Quikrete barrel that had been turned upside down. He seemed flustered and embarrassed by our presence, as though he’d been caught asleep on the job instead of simply eating a sub.
He turned the music down. “Brad’ll be out a little bit later. You looking for him?”
“We’re just looking. Ted hasn’t even seen it down here since, since . . .”
She turned to me, and I shrugged. I didn’t think I’d been to this part of the house since just after the house had been framed. I knew that Miranda was insisting on making an extensive man cave for me, even though it was something I had never asked for. She was picturing leather furniture, a pool table, a full bar, and dark red walls. When she had first mentioned this, I had viewed it as a sign of Miranda’s generosity, that she wanted to make a special place in the house just for me. Now, thinking about it, it just pissed me off that she was spending my hard-earned money on something I wasn’t sure I would ever use.
She gave me a tour, showed me the finished bar shelving, the space where the pool table would go, and let me see swatches of the possible color she had in mind for the walls. When we left, Jim had finished his lunch and resumed his work. A Steely Dan song played from the radio.
We didn’t see Brad that day till we were all done with our tour and walking back down the driveway toward the road. He roared up in his truck, scattering gravel as he came to a sudden halt. He killed the engine and swung out of the driver’s seat. He wore navy blue chinos and a tucked-in flannel shirt, and moved with an easy athleticism. He shook my hand, as he always did, and made solid eye contact when he asked me what I thought of the progress so far. As we talked, Miranda appeared disinterested, gazing back toward the house, and its view of the ocean, placid and still in the quiet afternoon.
“I hear you’re here all week,” Brad said.
“Thought I’d take a little vacation. Keep an eye on Miranda.”
Brad laughed, and maybe I was overanalyzing, but he laughed a little too heartily. I could see the fillings in his teeth. In my peripheral vision I saw Miranda swing her head back to take a look at him.
“She’s the real general contractor on this job. She missed her calling, this one,” Brad said.
“That’s what she keeps telling me.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Miranda said. “You can include me in this conversation.”
Before Miranda and I left to walk back to the inn, I told Brad that he should swing by the tavern that night, have a drink with us. He told us he’d try and make it.
“Aren’t you chummy,” Miranda said when we were back on Micmac.
“He’s your chum. I was just trying to be friendly so that he doesn’t feel like he has to stay away now that I’m in town.”