Someday Home (9 page)

Anselm returned with another steaming dish in one hand and a plate of pickles in the other. “Green bean casserole, made to order, the traditional way.” He sounded like a waiter announcing the works of a great chef.

“I haven't had green bean casserole since—since I don't remember when.”

“Did you ever learn to cook?”

Judith shook her head and shrugged. “No, not ever. Guess I better start learning.” She lifted a roll and inhaled the scent before putting it on her plate.

The conversation while they reveled in the meal caught them up on all that had happened since her father's funeral and of other things during his last days, along with the happenings of the family. When they finally laid their napkins on the table, Judith wasn't sure if she could even stand, she was so full.

“Dessert later.” Anselm picked up his plate and silver.

“Good. Much later, I hope.” Judith fought to keep from groaning.

“I'll go unload the car while you two clear the table, okay?”

Judith looked up from gathering plates from the table. “Don't bother with the boxes in the trunk yet. Anything I'm going to be needing is in the car.”

“Your sewing machine and the projects?” Melody asked.

“Yes. And clothes. I didn't bring a whole lot. Well, some are in the trunk, too.”

Melody stared at her. “You didn't get rid of everything?”

“No, but I put most things in storage until I have a place to live.”

“We can turn your bedroom and the one next to it into a suite, almost like a mini-apartment, only you'd have the whole house, too.” Melody followed Judith into the kitchen, both of them carrying things from the table. “You go sit down, you can be company tonight at least.”

“Sorry, if I sit down I will most likely be out before my back hits the cushion.”

Judith took over loading the dishwasher, since right now she was having a hard time remembering her name, let alone where things went in Melody's recently remodeled kitchen. “How's your mom?”

“Loving her new digs. We moved her to a retirement complex where she has her own apartment, lovely place. Much against her better judgment, she is seeing, as she puts it, a gentleman friend.”

“My word. Aunt Kit?” Kit was short for Catherine, her own mother's youngest sister. Her husband, Don, had passed away not long after Judith's mother died.

“I know. But he is delightful, and they share so many interests, opera being one of them.” She wrinkled her lip at the idea of attending operas on a regular basis. “They are talking of a trip to Italy in June. As he said, they have no time to waste and plan to use up every moment they have left.”

Judith looked around the kitchen, then poured soap in the dishwasher and shut the door.

“At least you know how to load a dishwasher. Just push the start button. Every machine is different.”

“I can clean things, just not cook them fit for human consumption. Where's Bozo?”

“Mom asked if he could come stay with her for a bit, until she gets used to her new place, said she feels safer that way.”

“Someday I want a dog or a cat. Or if I can find a place in the country, I would like chickens, not many, but a rooster and hens. I've been reading up on them in magazines, but when I mentioned it to Father, he about leaped out of his wheelchair in total disgust.”

“Why didn't you just get some? What could he have done about it?”

“Made my life miserable.”

“Miserabler, you mean?”

“Something like that.” The two adjourned to the family room, where Anselm had started a fire in the fireplace and was placing more chunks of wood on it as they sank into the cordovan leather chairs. Judith heard her cell beep and checked for the message.

“Oh, good grief, someone broke into the Rutherford House. Mr. Odegaard wants me to come back and identify what might be missing.”

“Will you go?”

“No. He has a complete inventory, right down to the canned goods.” She heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should go. Obviously someone needs to be there.”
And that someone should be you until they find a caretaker.
Guilt was a heavy burden.

Melody stared right at her and brought her back to the new reality. “Don't you even think about it!”

Well, she did think about it. Constantly. But Melody was right. She had not abandoned them; they had abandoned her.

W
ith a divorce pending, income dribbling in and perhaps drying up, Angela had no idea what to do next. The last week had passed in a haze. Yes, she had shown two properties, both private homes. The offer had been accepted on one. The parties were still negotiating on the second house. Her stab at commercial real estate development had failed with only the slightest possibility it might not be dead. Her possibility meter was fast slowing down.

There was no way she could afford keeping the family home. Jack did not want to buy her out, probably for the same reason. And so she was also getting their home of fifteen years ready for the market. She sent Jack the list of repairs, none of which were major. He had yet to agree to pay for them or do them.

If Jack wanted the divorce, he was going to have to pay for it.

One minute she wanted no part of him, to never, ever even see him again. The next she contemplated what she needed to do to bring him back. After those two options, she usually slid into a puddle of tears.

“Where is your pride, woman?” she demanded of the face in the bathroom mirror as she prepared to go to work. She had informed her assistant, Sandy, of the disaster, then ordered her to show no sympathy or even compassion. That's the way it had to be to keep their relationship normal with no leaks to anyone else in the office.

“I'll try,” Sandy said with a sniff and a swallow, blinking all the while. “But…”

Angela held up a hand traffic cop–style. “It's the only way I can maintain.” She dropped her voice. “I need this job and I need to make these sales. And more. I cannot do that giving in to the tears. So please…” She stopped and sniffed before pasting some semblance of a smile on her face. “We can do this. We can.”

“All right. So be it.” Sandy straightened her shoulders and gave an emphatic nod. One nod. “You have three calls to return, an appointment to show a house at eleven, and an appointment with a possible seller at two.”

“Thank you.” Angela glanced at her watch. An hour and a half to get prepared, which included finding some backup properties to show if the buyer did not like the one they were walking through. She returned phone calls, one from the seller of the one house saying their last counteroffer was their final one. She thanked them and called the possible buyers back. They said thanks but no thanks and gave their reasons. When she offered to search for more properties for them, they said they'd get back to her.

Right. One of the calls was for a short sale. Short sales were a lot of hard work for little money, but anything was better than nothing. She arranged the appointment and set Sandy to researching the short-sale lists for her. A couple wanted a second look at a property out in Rosedale, so she drove out and met them there. Should she tell them the traffic around Rosedale had become much more congested in the last few years? Not a chance. They came from Chicago. They knew traffic.

By the end of the day, Angela dragged herself home to the emptier house. She had assigned herself one room at a time to stage for the showing. She was now on the master bedroom. She'd started with Gwynn's room, then Charles's and their bathroom. Those were the easiest. So far the packed boxes were gathering in the guest room aka sewing/craft room that she had appropriated after the children left for school and marriage. Preparing that room would be a nightmare.

Walk away.
Where had that thought come from?
I want out.
That was Jack's line. Why was she the one doing all the work when he was the jerk? Jack the Jerk, a perfect name.

Her phone buzzed; she had it set on vibrate, so she checked the face. Deep breath. “Hi, honey, good to hear from you.”

“Mom, what's going on?” Leave it to Gwynn to cut right to the chase.

Angela collapsed into her leather recliner in the family room. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I talked with Dad.”

“And?”

“And he seemed weird.”

—er than normal?
But she kept the sarcasm to herself. “How so?” She stretched her neck from side to side to try to alleviate the pending headache.

“Evasive. Like he is keeping some secret. I don't think he wanted to talk to me.” Her voice cracked.

Daddy's little girl was getting a dose of Jack the Jerk. Angela slammed her head back against the cushion. So unfair. What to say?

“Mom, are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here. Gwynnie, just ask him. You know he has always said you can ask him anything.”

“Somehow I get the feeling that old adage of his is no longer true.” A pause. “So what is going on, Mom?” Another pause, this time from Angela's side. “Mother, tell me!”

Angela pounded her fist on the arm of the chair.
Why, why do I have to be the one to dish out such disgusting news?
“How many times have you tried talking with him?”

“Three. I gave him every chance to tell me and he sidestepped every time. This just isn't like him.”

Not the Jack they used to know, but now…?

“Mother, do not give me the runaround or I will be on the next plane to Minnesota, job or no.”

Angela knew that tone; Gwynn did not make threats lightly. “Give me a minute, okay? Tell me something good about your life.”

“That bad? Is he sick?”

Only in the head.
“No, your father is not sick. Look, I need to do a potty run and then I will call you right back.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” She clicked off the phone, did what she needed, and swung by the kitchen for a glass of water. The dread of this talk parched her mouth. Back in her chair, she hit speed dial. Gwynn answered before the first ring was done.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Mother, you're stalling.”

“Your father has decided he needs to find himself and has filed for a divorce.” The words stumbled over each other in her rush to get it said.

“
What?
A divorce after twenty-five years of marriage? How can he? Surely you didn't agree to it.”

“It doesn't matter whether I agree or not. He filed. I was served the papers.”

“When did all this happen?”

“He told me at our anniversary dinner.” Angela shut her eyes to try to stem the pain.
Stay angry!
“I'm sorry, Gwynn. I had no idea.” The sounds of her daughter crying shattered her heart all over again.

“B-but, oh, Mom, I can't talk right now. I'll call you later.”

Angela laid her phone down and stared at the portrait above the fireplace. The perfect family or so everyone said. Should she call Jack and tell him what had happened? Nope. He wanted to find himself, he could go looking without her help. She was not going to be the buffer any longer. Gwynn and Charles were going to be hurt. She'd help them pick up the pieces if she could, but not him. Right now she could be totally furious with him and disgusted beyond belief. Something she'd read about men in midlife who did this very thing said they often realized their mistakes down the road and wanted to come back. But some bridges could not be restored after being burned.

He said he'd taken everything he wanted to keep and to do with the rest as she willed. His high school trophies went in the trash. She thought a moment and moved them to the giveaway box. Someone could take the engraved plates off and reuse them.

She'd lined up boxes in each room, labeled them
KEEP
,
DONATE
, and
DUMP
. She'd made a box for each of the kids, too. Those would go in storage until they could pick them up or pay for the shipping, should they decide to. There were no boxes labeled
JACK
. She left enough books, photos, and figurines on the bookshelves to be attractive. The goal for every room.

Charles called the next night. “Dad won't talk to me.”

“Oh, really? Any idea why?”

“Probably because I yelled at him.”

“You talked with Gwynn?”

“Yes. What are you going to do?”

“I am getting the house ready to sell, trying to move some real estate, and in between, thinking what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“Would it help if I came back?”

Angela heaved a sigh. “Much as I would love to see you, the physical labor here is keeping me sane. Once the house sells, which I think will happen rather quickly, I'm going to look for an apartment and move. But everything will be boxed by then so the house is showroom ready. Stuff will go in storage, but I am being rather brutal in the sorting. After all, empty nesters downsize a lot of the time. I'm looking at it that way for right now.”

“Do you know what Dad is going to do?”

“Nope. He took all he said he wanted.” The fact that he'd taken no furniture made her wonder if he moved in with someone else. So far, Sandy and the kids had not asked if there was another woman. She was surprised at their lack of interest.

“I'll come if you want.”

“Thank you. I know you would. How's Gwynnie doing?”

“Alternates between anger and tears. Mom, he never calls either one of us.”

“I'm sorry.” What more could she say? She didn't hear from him much either.

“Mom, do you have enough equity in the house to give you some cushion?”

“All depends on what we can get out of it. Not enough to buy another place since we have to split it. Don't worry, okay? I'll be fine.” Charles had always been the worrier in the family. He liked things planned out, in order, no surprises.

“You'll let me know if you need some help? I mean, we can send you some money…”

“Thank you for the offer, but really I'm okay.”
Or at least I will be if I can get some properties sold.

“What happened with that shopping center?”

“Fell through, the major investor pulled out. It's a long and boring story.”

“Sorry.”

“Thanks for calling, Charles, I'll keep you posted.” After they hung up she allowed herself to relax into the chair, but when her mind took off again, she heaved herself to her feet and continued with the sorting. Good thing she'd gotten rid of a lot when she was doing the big Angela makeover. From happy little homemaker to successful career woman. And she'd done it. She could do this.

The next day she got an e-mail from Jack. “Schedule the repairs and send me the bills.”

She blinked and read it again. “Okay, I will do that.” She called a man from their church who had helped them before, read him the list, and agreed that Saturday would be a good time. One more thing down. She thought a moment and called him back.

“Sam, you have a trailer for hauling things, don't you?” At his yes, she added, “Good, I have some boxes that need to go to storage, a lot of boxes.” At his “no problem,” she made a note to check into a storage unit in the morning. Downsizing was going to become her standard reply when asked why she was selling the house.

That night she slept better than in weeks. Perhaps it was because the kids now knew and she didn't have to worry about keeping secrets any longer.

Her good news in the morning: the couple loved the Rosedale house and had put the money down. It was going into escrow, and she had a couple who were supremely happy. Closing was scheduled within twenty-one days, a record. After jumping through all the hoops, she closed on a short sale, and two new clients walked in cold looking for a house. She listed one new property, the cute little bungalow of clients in a divorce situation wanting out now. All in all a promising and productive day.

She and Jack met at the attorney's office, agreed on a fifty-fifty split on everything, including the outstanding bills, and signed the papers. “I do not have any money to pay attorney fees,” she said at the close of the meeting, staring at Jack.

“I'll pay them.”

She watched him. The kids were right, he was hiding something. He must want out mighty bad if he agreed to all this without a fight over anything. Maybe she should have asked for more. She turned to the attorney. “So what is the next step?”

“I'll prepare the paperwork for you both.”

“How long until the house is ready for the market?” Jack asked.

“I plan to list it next week, why?”

“For how much?”

“I'm going for top dollar. Ralph is listing it and we are looking at comps to see how the market is for a house like ours.”
Ours for not much longer. The end of a life, or at least a marriage.

“Will you have it appraised?”

“If you want to pay for it.”

“I think we should.”

We? Since when was there a we? You've not done one iota to make this happen. We!
At the rate her jaw was clamping, she knew she better get out of there. “I'll schedule it and send you the bill. Still at your office?”

“Yes.”

No thank you, kiss my foot, or anything. Jack Bishop, you are certainly not the man I married. When did you change?
All the way down the elevator and to her car, she thought about Jack. He'd not made direct eye contact with her at any time in the meeting. The urge to do something, anything, to punch a hole in his boat, into his dream for finding himself, made her clench the steering wheel with both hands and shake it. Just get through this; sound advice but something sure was bothering her. He was being too agreeable.

There, all done.
Angela walked through the house that was hers yet in deed only. A decorator could not have done a better job, but then showcasing came easily to her. She'd helped a couple of her clients do the same thing and they always got top dollar. Even the front door had been repainted. Inside and out, all was ready.

When her phone played Pachelbel's Canon, she checked the screen. Jack. “Hello.” She almost added,
Now what?

“I want to buy you out.”

“What? You said…”