Buck has done this. He has poisoned everyone with lies. I may need to make a stop in Nashville, just to say hello to Lois, make sure she isn’t going to do anything crazy. But first, I need to get Gretchen back on team Paul.
“My love, listen, let me in. Let’s talk. I’ll help you pack up. We’ll have so much fun!” I put one hand on the window, enjoying its cool smooth texture. I want to touch Gretchen’s cheek, feel her warm body beneath mine. I smile my winning smile, adding a wink.
She does not return my enthusiasm and takes another step back, toward her bedroom door. “I’m not going anywhere with you. If you don’t leave now, I will call the police.”
Lights suddenly flood the driveway and carport area, and I am illuminated as if it’s daylight. Next door, the old lady’s brownstone pulses with light as her back door opens.
“Who’s out here? I’m gonna call the cops.”
She’s an idiot. If I were a bad guy I would jump her now that her door is open, bash her head in and take any money she might have around. But the old lady has balls. We are feet away from each other, but my pine tree is protecting me.
I look back through the window at Gretchen. She mouths two words: “Go away.” Fine. I hear her, loud and clear.
The old bat closes her door and turns off the outdoor floodlights, and once again I’m shrouded in darkness. I’m fine. I don’t need Gretchen. She’s not even rich. No, it’s best to start over, just the boys and me: the three musketeers against the world. Fuck you, Gretchen, my love. I flip her the bird but I don’t think she saw me, retreating as she did into her living room.
I cut through the yard on my way to my car, and for good measure, for fun, I pop my head into her living room window.
“Boo,” I say, with a wave goodbye.
The look on her face is priceless, and I laugh all the way to the car.
Women are so predictable, so easily manipulated. I’m glad we didn’t have any girls. Boys are transparent, easy to read, easy to raise. They’ll have so much fun in Florida, or Nashville, wherever we end up.
I pull away from Gretchen’s apartment thinking fondly of all the great sex I had there, enjoying the little zip of desire that courses through me as I make my way onto the familiar street that leads to home. Norah Jones sings “Come Away with Me” as I cruise down Lane Avenue. The street takes me on a straight path through my beautiful suburb, a place filled with high-end shopping, cozy restaurants, country clubs, lucky children and spoiled housewives. My boys will carry memories of this place forever. Come away with me in the night, boys. We’ll build our new home in the sunshine.
That’s the only negative thing I can tell you about Grandville—I mean, it is never sunny. From October to the end of April, it’s perpetual gray. And then, when the sun does start to shine, it’s great for a couple weeks until it turns to unbearable heat and humidity. We’ll be better off someplace else. Anyplace would be better than here.
The light is green and I turn onto my street. I haven’t seen another car since I left the office and I still don’t. It’s just the Ford Flex and me, cruising my neighborhood, heading for home. I only have one more little detour to make.
I pull over to the curb, and turn off my headlights. The Boones’ Grandville home isn’t as special as their cottage. Like you, I’ve checked the value of all of my neighbor’s homes online and I know ours is one of the top two. The Boones’, on the other hand, is in the middle of the pack. In fact, if you’d never visited their lake house, you would think they were barely hanging on.
Maybe they are. It seems Greg made a bad business investment, and he’s overleveraged. One little thing could push them over the edge, especially since they cut their homeowner’s insurance to a minimum. I don’t know that for a fact, it’s just what I hear, since we share the same insurance agent. I was only asking for myself, of course, since I’m in a bit of a pinch and wanted to save somewhere. My agent, Bob, took me to lunch, but advised against cutting coverage as much as my neighbor.
“What do you mean?” I asked, sipping my too-hot diner coffee—Bob’s a big spender—scalding my tongue in that annoying manner that makes you unable to taste food for the rest of the day. Thanks, Bob.
Bob leaned forward in the booth, conspiratorially. One good buddy to another and said, “Your neighbors, the Boones, well, confidentially, he cut his insurance to barely anything. I mean, he’s totally exposed. I wouldn’t recommend that.” Well, thank you, Bob. Great guy. Bob was such a helpful font of information. “Don’t say anything, please.”
I smiled, happy to have this newfound knowledge, my taste buds a small price to pay. “Oh, of course not. Not a word. What policy would you recommend, if I were to cut back? I know, not what the idiot Greg Boone picked.”
We laughed and then Bob droned on about his recommendations, of course, but all I could think of was how exposed Doris and Greg were.
“You’ve convinced me,” I said once Bob finally stopped talking. Our eggs had arrived, signaling the end of his diatribe. I couldn’t taste anything of the meal, but it was very satisfying. You know I don’t believe in gossip, but sometimes it comes in very handy.
Like now. The Boones’ home is lifeless, all of the family members nestled in their grand cottage at the lake. Unfortunately for them and lucky for me, the nearest streetlight is a house away, across the street, so their home is masked in darkness. I’m familiar enough with their home to maneuver in the shadows, of course.
Like most of us in the neighborhood, the Boones had a cord or two of wood delivered in September, preparing for the winter ahead. And, like most of us, the Boones hadn’t burned through all of the logs yet. I reach the side of their yard, and the neatly stacked pile that’s shaped, ironically, perfectly for a fire, tucked up against the house, kept dry by the overhang of the roof. With the warm, dry May we’ve been experiencing, it wouldn’t take much kindling for this to combust. I need a slow burn, though. I don’t want to draw attention to this little flame until it has made its way into the walls of their home, fingers of fire pulsing along the electrical wiring, shooting up the walls.