Of course, I knew Mia Pilmer was rich, was told that before I even met her. But I didn’t even think about her money when I was courting her. I was an established advertising executive and she was a young beauty just out of college. Why would I ever have thought of such a thing as her future inheritance from her parents, or an uncle or otherwise? That would have been shallow.
I have heard the rumors that Mia’s father is a corrupt businessman who learned everything from his father, Donald Pilmer senior. I’m sure you’ve heard them, too, so I’m not being a gossip. It’s just that whenever a certain family is that rich for generations, you can be sure they cheated somewhere along the line. Robber barons, investment bankers, bankers in general, you know the type. Especially when they’re from New York. You may think I sound like I’m jealous, but far from it. I appreciate a good con job, and I’m benefiting from the corruption myself, so more power to the Pilmers. It’s just that you have to be careful in families like this one. One day your luck runs out. You just don’t want to be the generation that blows it, the end of the line so to speak. At least my boys will carry the Strom name on their passports, even as they carry the Pilmer cash in their pockets.
I hear the front door open and wonder if Mia is coming or going. I place the photo of her parents back down on the hall table, next to the photo of my family, minus me. I notice I’ve left fingerprints on both of the silver frames. I don’t feel like wiping them off.
5:00 p.m.
9
I hurry down the stairs and discover Mia has gone outside; she’s standing on our front lawn, the phone pressed to her ear. She is probably driving the babysitter crazy with her check-ins every few hours. I know I’d want to smack her. Maybe that’s why Claudia is on drugs, to deal with Mia’s incessant calls.
I walk into the kitchen and note the time on the round clock tacked to the wall above the back door. It’s five o’clock. A perfectly acceptable time to enjoy a cocktail, I realize. I look around the simple kitchen, getting my bearings again after not being here since last summer. Everything is in place, thanks to Mia and the cleaning crew she called. I notice the bill on the counter.
Written in barely legible script are the instructions: “For spring opening and cleaning. Please send payment immediately. Thank you. Betsy.” I pull an image of Betsy from my mind, and see a woman with missing teeth who smells like an ashtray. She and her crew do a good cleaning job, despite her personal toxic scent. I haven’t opened the cottage before, but imagine it must be a messy job. The place has been closed up tight since the end of October. All kinds of bugs and grime and who knows what had accumulated, I’m sure. A distasteful job, far below anything I would ever consider doing for a living. How is it that some of us are housecleaners, and some are executives? There’s the universe again, bestowing brains and looks and charm on a chosen few of us, the lucky ones.
I open the cupboard and pull out a cocktail glass and then another for Mia. I’m going to wave the white flag, so to speak, with a vodka tonic. I open the refrigerator. It’s empty. We haven’t been to the store for limes, or anything else. I realize I should offer to go. I pull open the back door and step onto the driveway, walking around the house to find Mia. Her back is to me, and she’s still on the phone, her head tilted to the side, bending into the phone in her hand.
I quietly walk up behind her. She doesn’t know I’m here.
“I’m so glad. That is perfect...Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” she says, and as I wonder why she’s speaking to Phyllis, she turns and screams, dropping her phone into the grass. “Paul! Why did you sneak up on me?”
I hold up my hands, shocked by her outburst, and the fear in her eyes. I have no idea why she is so jumpy, but attribute it to our earlier tense talks. I need to calm her down, get our best day ever back on track. She needs a drink. I watch as she bends down and picks up her phone.
“Mia—” I begin, but she holds her hand out to stop me.
“Mom, I’m fine. Paul just snuck up on me, that’s all,” my wife says into the phone. A moment passes. I wonder what Phyllis is telling her daughter. “Good. Yes. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thank you again.”
She pushes the End button and then she looks at me. “What were you doing? Why were you sneaking up on me?” she says. I see panic in her eyes.
“Calm down, honey,” I say, taking a step closer to her, wanting to pull her into my arms. She steps back, shoulders at her ears, eyes wide and unblinking.
“You scared me,” she says. She has folded her arms across her chest, like a coat of armor.
“Obviously. I was just coming out to ask if you’d like a cocktail. And, if you’d like lime, I’d be happy to run to the grocery. I’d be glad to get anything you need,” I say. I want to tell her to remember that I am her knight in shining armor, but I don’t.
“Yes, that would be lovely. I have a whole list of things we’re missing. And did you transfer the money? For the boys?” she asks. She seems to be calming down now. Her eyes aren’t as wide or wild.
“Done,” I assure her. This is a lie. But I will handle it as soon as I go back inside. “Where’s the list? I’ll just be gone for a little while. Unless you want to come with me?”
“No, I’ll stay and finish getting the cottage in order. The list is on the table by the front door,” she says.
“Okay, I’m on it,” I say, turning to walk back toward the house. I pause and turn back to face my wife. I’m suddenly concerned. It is odd that she would be speaking to her mother on a Friday evening. Typically Phyllis and Donald’s social life wouldn’t allow for any type of evening chitchat. They appreciate cocktail hour more than most. I study my wife and I say, “Hey, is everything okay with your mom?”
“Yes, she’s fine.” Mia blinks, breaking eye contact, and then bends at the waist, eager to pull what must be a weed out of the garden bed that edges our house. I know soon she will be planting pots of bright red geraniums to complement the bright red door of the cottage. The garden beds will be filled with white flowers: daisies, hydrangeas and other varieties that I cannot name. Some magically appear and some Mia plants, carefully digging holes and tucking in the flowers as if they were little kids ready for sleep. By midsummer, her gardens, our gardens, are always the talk of Columbus. I know that will be the case here, too. She still doesn’t look at me, concentrating on her weeding. Her hands are covered in wet, smelly dirt. I sniff.
I haven’t moved. She stops weeding, stands up straight and says, “My mom and I were just touching base, you know.”