My family lived in a part of town that was considered old money, blue blood money, with the occasional new money like us thrown in. We’d been solid middle class until my dad struck gold in computer technology. So while money was something we enjoyed, we also appreciated its value. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table one morning, one of my older brothers pestering my dad for an advance on his allowance to buy some new something or other. “It’s only a hundred dollars” was the phrase he used, and a phrase he will never forget. The tirade my father launched into about how we will never be the kind of people who say things like it’s only a hundred dollars became a family legend.
Now don’t get me wrong, my father gave a lot to his family. We enjoyed a very comfortable life, we belonged to a country club, we went to private schools, we vacationed every summer, Christmas, and spring break, and my parents each drove a new Mercedes every two years. But when my friends at school were driving their parents’ two-year-old Mercedes, I was driving the Blue Bomber, an old Buick LeSabre that had been passed down to each brother and in turn, to me.
For the record? I loved that car. When it finally went to the junkyard, I shed an actual tear. I’d lost my virginit—wait. I’m not sharing that story. All I will share is Beck on the radio, a foot on the ceiling, and a seat belt buckle imprint still on my ass the next morning.
But I digress. The point is, my family had done well. And my brothers had done well.
And when I sold my app to Google, I did rather well myself. But not nearly as well as the worth of the land this house was sitting on. Although, could you sell a house that was on the historical register? Is that even possible? I could think of a certain librarian who would know the answer to that . . .
“You think Maude knew I wouldn’t sell it, huh?”
“I know she did, Vivvie.”
“But, Ma, you should see what a wreck it is. I can’t even imagine how much it would cost to renovate this place.”
“So sell your business to your father. You know he wants it. That’ll give you some breathing room to decide what you want to do.”
“Sounds like you and Aunt Maude already know what you think I should do.”
“She was crazy, not stupid.”
I snorted. “She keeps her Johnny Mathis records in the fireplace, Ma.”
“I rest my case.”
After I hung up with my mother I weighed my options, my thoughts swirling. If I stayed and tried to make this work, I’d have to sell my business to my dad, which wasn’t the worst idea in the world. I was proud of the little business I’d built but I could do it again. If I wanted to. The cash would allow me the opportunity to decide what I wanted to do. I looked out the window, to see if the answers were out there.
They were. Jessica was walking up the front steps carrying a pizza. With a smile, I pushed myself off the sofa and reached the front door just as she was about to knock.
“I know I called you nosy, but this is bordering on Single White Female,” I joked as I opened the door.
“You’ve met the pizza man, you know I ain’t single,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I told you I’ve been dying to see the inside of this house.” She started to walk back down the steps in an exaggerated way. “Or I could just take this box away; I’m sure you’ve already got lunch plans.”
“Get in here. But I’ll warn you in advance, it’s a freaking mess,” I said, holding the door open so the pizza and my new, insistent friend could come inside.
“If I’m going to make the Butcher Block special a constant in my life, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t do exactly that, I’m going to have to start running again.” I groaned, patting my stomach. Jessica and I were seated around the grand dining room table, the dolls now uncovered and arranged so we had an audience. She didn’t find them as creepy as I did.
“There’s some great trails around here. You know where the state park is?” she asked, also patting her own stomach.
“I think so. I passed it on the way into town. The Headlands?”
“Yep, there are some fantastic trails in there. Also around Big River. I’ll draw you a map,” she said, gesturing for the stack of napkins and a pen.
“Awesome, thanks,” I said, getting up and stretching. I avoided looking directly at the dolls.
“So what’s your story?”
“My story?” I asked, looking back at her. Though I might have been looking out the back window for a certain someone. Who was supposed to be coming back to ride Paula. Lucky horse.
“Yeah, your story. Everybody has a story.” She broke off a piece of crust and pointed it at me. “C’mon, you’re stalling.”
“I literally just got here two days ago. There’s plenty of time for my alleged story,” I protested. What I got in return was a very exaggerated display of her getting comfortable.
“Okay, okay, my story. Well, let’s see . . . I was born a poor—”
“I’m going to go position these dolls all around your bed.”
“I’m from Philadelphia, Maude Perkins was my great-aunt who I hadn’t seen since I was twelve years old, I’m a computer software designer, and I like pizza. And beer. Especially together.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“Gay?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Leave anyone behind?”
“Like in a fallen soldier kind of way?”
“Like in a dating someone kind of way.”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“Fabulous, I know this great guy that—”
“No, no, and no. I don’t even know if I’m staying here and—”