She was shivering, goosebumps pimpling her flesh. She felt over the bed for the blanket, and finding it, quickly covered herself with it. She opened her eyes and looked around. By the light streaming through the crack in the drapes, she could tell it was morning. She turned, and seeing the crumpled pillows and mussed sheets on the other side of the bed, quickly sat up. What an ungodly mess! It looked like someone had splattered then smeared the sheets with paint. She was pretty sure they were ruined. Getting her bearings, she looked around for Connor, but he wasn’t there. She glanced over at the chair and then down at the floor. His clothes and shoes were missing.
‘Connor!’ she yelled at the top of her lungs. ‘Connor!’ she shouted again. But she didn’t get an answer, only silence. He was gone. She turned and glared at the pillow, then punched it hard. ‘Thanks a lot for stopping by,’ she snarled. Then added ‘You prick!’
She tried to scooch out of bed, only to find her ass still suffering the ill effects of Connor’s corrective ministrations. There wasn’t an inch of her butt that didn’t hurt. She quickly got on her knees and crawled off. Even that hurt. She eventually got to her feet and was hurrying to the bathroom when she stopped short in front of the mirror. Sylvie couldn’t believe her reflection. She was covered in splotches of color and looked like a freaking naked circus clown. He woke up to this? No wonder he left! She turned to the side and for the first time glimpsed the damage he’d done to her rump. She gasped in shock. Her ass was black and blue and covered in red welts. He hadn’t spanked her, he’d beaten her! Okay, so it was just her ass…but still! She shook her head as though finally waking up from a months’ long reverie. She hadn’t signed on for this.
Sylvie couldn’t move. Minutes passed, but her eyes remained fixed on the glass. It was as though she was seeing herself for the first time. The image was frighteningly familiar. Sylvie looked like the pictures of Marisol she’d seen…her ass all covered with bruises and welts. But she wasn’t Marisol. She didn’t want to be a sub, didn’t want to live this lifestyle or be subject to him. Sex with Connor was amazing; in his arms Sylvie came alive. But even the sex, as fantastic as it was, wasn’t worth this. If he was capable of this, what else was he capable of? Maybe it was simply that Marisol loved him more than she did; that she loved him ‘warts and all.’
The phrase brought back memories. Sylvie remembered her poor mother repeatedly scrubbing the kitchen tile floor. Her mom would just get it looking spotless when her dad would burst through the door. He might want to tell her some bit of news or gossip he’d just heard or about happenings on the farm. Sometimes he wanted her to get him something, or simply pour him a cold drink. Regardless of the purpose, he’d always neglect to take off his boots, tracking mud and cow shit across the freshly scrubbed floor. Her mother never complained or even said anything to him about it; she’d just sigh and rewash the floor. It might not have angered her mom, but it sure as hell infuriated Sylvie.
She’d confronted him about it, on her mother’s behalf, one day when she was about 12. Big mistake! He was irate that his own daughter would have the temerity to call him out on something that was so clearly none of her business. He’d indignantly reminded Sylvie that it was his house, his floor, and his money that paid the bills, put food on the table, clothes on her back, and a roof over her head. He wasn’t going to have a little ‘preteen pipsqueak’ like her telling him what he could and couldn’t do in his own house. If he wanted to track manure across the kitchen floor, hell, if he wanted to shovel it in, that was his prerogative, his right. Sylvie would have thought that being called on the carpet by a 7th grader would have made him change his ways. But it didn’t. He still refused to remove his boots. It wasn’t until they got the diagnosis of her mother’s cancer that it stopped. Maybe all men were self-centered, egotistical jerks, who disrespected their women and treated them like servants. Even the good ones! Maybe it was in their DNA. Sylvie had asked her mother why she put up with it. Not just his tracking manure across the floor, but his forgetting her birthday and their anniversary, or buying her canning jars for Christmas. Why she’d never challenged him about any of it? She’d told Sylvie that when you really loved a man, the way she loved her dad, you had to take the good with the bad, you had to accept him ‘warts and all.’
A lump formed in her throat. She’d give anything to have her mother here now. She wished she could talk to her about this…about everything. Sylvie needed help. She was so mixed up. The things Connor did to her. The things he wanted to do. They weren’t just warts. She didn’t know if she could ever accept them. And at this point, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Sylvie needed to take a shower and clear her head. She couldn’t think straight right now. She sighed at the futility of her situation and headed for the bathroom.
Looking and feeling decidedly better than she had 20 minutes ago, Sylvie checked both the Android and iPhone, hoping to find a message from Connor. Nothing. She was getting sick of being seduced and abandoned. Fucked and forgotten! She wondered if Connor had treated Marisol with the same callous disregard he did her. Did he skulk away in the middle of the night to do God-knows-what, with God-knows-who, after he made love to Marisol too? Or was it just Sylvie that he held in such low regard? A note on the pillow saying he’d miss her and would call…was that too much to ask? Sylvie didn’t think she was being unreasonable. She looked out the window. It was gloomy outside, gray and drizzling. Figures. Nothing like a crappy day to lift your spirits. As if she wasn’t depressed enough already.
She picked up her cell, checking to see if anyone in her family had called or texted her. She was shocked to see all the messages. They were all from Roger Pearly, her aunt’s attorney and now hers. There were at least 15 of them, all asking her to call him as soon as possible. The first one was from Thursday night. She hadn’t turned her phone on in a couple of days. She was usually so busy working during the day and so exhausted at night that she hadn’t bothered. She looked at the clock. It was 8 AM on a rainy Sunday morning. He wasn’t going to be in his office now. And she didn’t have his cell or home phone numbers. She couldn’t help wondering what was so important to warrant 15 messages Last time they spoke he said he’d been contacted by a buyer who was interested in purchasing whatever remained of Tiz’s stock of figurines. Now that she was dead, her work was appreciating in value. Tiz had been a perfectionist. If the figurines didn’t come out exactly the way she wanted, she put them in the flower beds. The little terra cotta lumps people assumed were misshapen button mushrooms edging the Echinacea, Black-eyed Susans, and Shasta daisies were actually the heads of some 200 buried penises. Sylvie’d been bored one day and counted them. There were also several old wooden crates out in the shed filled with pottery too. She thought they were mostly Venus figurines, but wasn’t sure. She hadn’t been to the cottage in months. Sylvie really needed to see what was there. She decided to email Pearly.
She opened her laptop and turned it on. Two minutes later she was almost in tears when she read the email from the attorney and saw the photos he’d sent her. There’d been a storm on Tuesday afternoon that blew down and uprooted trees all along Peekamoose Rd. The narrow, two-lane highway had to be closed because of the downed power lines, broken limbs, and debris that blocked the way. When the road was reopened the following day, Berta Konitski, Tiz’s neighbor and friend, drove by to check on the cottage. She’d discovered the damage. The top half of a 100-foot tall sugar maple had snapped off and fallen on the cottage. Collapsing the roof, splintering the back porch, busting down the backdoor, and breaking almost all the windows in the house. It looked as though a bomb had exploded inside.
He wrote that Berta had tried to call Sylvie, but the old number she’d given the women when Tiz was failing wasn’t in service anymore. After Sylvie got laid off from the restaurant she couldn’t afford to pay the phone bills. Berta used to call Sylvie almost every week to give her updates on Tiz’s condition and was the one who ferried Sylvie to and from the bus station when she came up to visit her aunt.
It was Berta who discovered Tiz’s body. She used to drop by every morning to make sure her aunt was okay. No spring chicken herself, Berta was a godsend. She brought Tiz home-cooked meals, shopped for her, helped her do laundry, and pick up the house. But most of all, she was there for her: someone to talk to, to ease her loneliness, someone who cared.
Tiz died in her sleep. She always said she wanted to die in her own house, in her own bed. She got her wish. She’d refused to go to the hospital, refused to see a doctor. She was ready to die. More to the point, she wanted to die. She was tired of living, tired of waiting. She wanted to be with Glenn. Berta called Sylvie right after she found Tiz. She said her aunt looked peaceful. She was wrapped in Uncle Glenn’s old field jacket; and, under it, carefully covering her nightgown, was her tattered wedding dress. Tiz must have sensed that she was dying and wanted to surround herself with the two things that had always brought her comfort in life.
Sylvie’d been upset to learn that her aunt had left explicit written instructions about the disposal of her body. Berta would handle everything; she didn’t want Sylvie involved. There would be no funeral, no memorial service, no anything to mark her passing. Tiz wouldn’t be embalmed. She’d be immediately cremated…wearing her wedding gown and wrapped in that old filthy jacket. Berta told Sylvie her aunt specifically asked that she not come to the crematorium and not attempt to clean out the cottage. Everything had already been arranged. Tiz had hoped to make things easy on Sylvie She knew her great-niece would take her passing hard, especially since she was still grieving the loss of her mother. The old lady was determined to spare her the pain of a funeral, burial, and all that they entailed. Berta had called Sylvie to see how she was doing after that, but when she couldn’t afford her phone anymore they’d fallen out of touch.
Sylvie stared at the pictures and shook her head. The walls were still up, but everything else was pretty much destroyed. The clapboard was ripped off on two sides of the house. And the inside was a shambles. Did she even have insurance?
Her father called at 9 AM on her work iPhone. He’d been trying to reach her since yesterday afternoon on her personal cell to tell her to get in touch with Pearly. The lawyer had called him four times; and when her dad couldn’t reach her either, he decided to try one of her work numbers. She’d told her family never to use them unless it was an emergency. She supposed this qualified as one. Her father didn’t understand why he couldn’t use the work numbers. Sylvie tried to explain that calls to her business line were monitored. But her Dad didn’t get it. She couldn’t come out and tell him that Connor spied on her and probably recorded every call she made on his phones. He’d think she was paranoid!
Her dad kept asking about Connor. He said he’d gotten the impression they weren’t together anymore. Was that true? ‘What exactly is going on with you two?’ he bluntly inquired. Funny, she was wondering the very same thing! She assured him everything was ‘good’ but he didn’t believe her. He wanted her to come home for Thanksgiving and Christmas and said to bring Connor with her. Fat chance of that! Connor would be spending his holidays elsewhere…without Sylvie. Her father was under the mistaken impression that since they were ‘lovers,’ his words not hers, they’d want to spend their first Thanksgiving and Christmas together. He didn’t understand her reticence when he pressed her on it. He had the bird all picked out and was going to make his famous sausage stuffing and cranberry chutney.
‘Do you already have plans?’
‘No. No plans,’ she admitted.
‘Then come!’
Sylvie tried to beg off, telling him they were busy with the book deadline and couldn’t spare the time to make the trip. But her dad was stubborn and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wasn’t buying her excuses. There was a sternness in his voice reminiscent of the time he’d caught her sneaking a smoke in the barn when she was in junior high school.
‘I don’t understand the nature of your relationship with him Sylvie. Are you two still romantically involved?’
Does fucking on the fly count? ‘Yes,’ she said uncertainly, not wanting to go there. Wondering why he was giving her the third degree. What had Leona, Sara, and the others told him? He was obviously worried about her, but Sylvie was a big girl. She needed to work this out on her own. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to her dad about Connor, their living arrangements, or their love life.
‘Sylvie I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but first you’re living together and now you’re not. You’re living in his penthouse apartment on Park Ave. and he’s still up in the mountains. What gives? From what I understand from you sister and Meagan, you rarely see each other. You’re depressed, unhappy…’
‘You’re talking to Meagan about me?’ Sylvie was shocked. Meagan was her father’s mole?
‘I’ll talk to whoever can tell me what the hell is going on with you! Every time I ask you about him, you become evasive and change the subject. May I remind you I’m still your father! I’m concerned. Is this…this thing you have with your boss leading somewhere? Or is he just using you?’
That was the million dollar question! One she’d managed to avoid up until now. She couldn’t tell him what she didn’t know herself. ‘We’re taking it one day at a time Dad.’
‘Meagan says you look thin and haggard. Are you eating? Getting enough sleep?’
Haggard? She’d have to have a word with her blabbermouth cousin about that. ‘Dad, I’m fine. Really. It’s just that I’m overwhelmed with work. I’m working 10 to 12 hour days, 7 days a week, trying to get the book edited and ready. We’ve got a December 1st deadline.’
‘If you don’t come here, where are you having Thanksgiving dinner? Does Connor have family down there?’
Bad question! ‘I’m going to be working all day Dad. And no he’s got no family here. He has one aunt and she lives in Florida.’
‘If you’re going to work,’ he asked suspiciously, ‘where’s he going to be and what’s he going to be doing?’
Oh Christ here it comes.
‘He’s not spending Thanksgiving with you is he?’ His tone was somber.
Sylvie sighed. ‘No he’s not,’ she confessed. ‘He’s busy with the book Dad.’
‘Too busy to see you?’ He sounded dismayed. ‘Where is he spending Thanksgiving then?’
After a long pause she finally fessed up. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know?’ he repeatedly incredulously. ‘Sylvie I’ve got to tell you I don’t like this situation. Don’t like it at all. He seemed nice enough when he came to the wedding. But what do we know about him? He’s rich to be sure, but I’m beginning to wonder about his character. I don’t like the way he treats you. When you care for someone you want to be with them. You don’t ignore them for weeks at a time the way I hear he does you. Honey, I know you think you love him. But maybe he’s not the one for you. I don’t want to see you get hurt!’
‘Dad, things are fine…truly. Right now it’s a little crazy, but I can handle it. I went into this with my eyes wide open. I’m not going to get hurt.’ If only she could believe that! ‘We’re under a lot of pressure right now. But we’re trying to work things out. I saw him yesterday. He’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.’
‘Under what circumstances? What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Dad please! I can’t talk about this.’
‘Can’t talk about what?’ He wanted a straight answer. ‘What? Did you sign some kind of confidentiality agreement when you went to work for him?’
Confidentiality agreement? Sounded good to her! Without the least hesitation, she lied to him. ‘Yes, it’s part of my employment contract. I’m not allowed to talk about any of Connor’s personal dealings, pending litigations…’
‘Is someone suing him? Is that it? What does that have to do with you?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say. It’ll be resolved shortly and then everything will go back to normal.’ She wasn’t certain who she was trying to convince…him or herself!
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive!’ Sylvie was a horrible daughter. Lying to your father was a sin. Didn’t God strike you dead for that kind of thing?
He gave her Pearly’s home phone number, but not before making her promise she’d reconsider coming home for Thanksgiving. Even if it was just for the day. The book could spare her for that long! After telling her he loved her, he finally hung up.
Sylvie felt drained. She’d love to go home for the holiday, but had no illusions about what would happen if she did. Dealing with her father was a piece of cake compared to handling her sister Sara and her sisters-in-law. The queens of prying and probing made the CIA and KGB interrogators look like a bunch of witless pikers. Sara wouldn’t buy the confidentiality agreement story for a minute. Sylvie would rather spend Thanksgiving alone than have to face an inquisition at home.
Only 9:15 and her day had already turned to shit. She dialed Pearly’s number and prepared for the worst.
She was relieved when she got him on the line. Things weren’t quite as bad as they first appeared. The house was still standing. The roof, however, wasn’t. But not to worry, he told her, the roof had been in dire need of repair; now the insurance company would pay for a new one.
Since he hadn’t been able to get in touch with her, he’d gone ahead and had the house tarped to prevent further damage to the interior. Then he’d called in a private insurance adjuster to assess the loss.
The inside was a disaster. The 1960s style luan paneling which covered every wall had warped and buckled from the water and needed to be removed.
The old Youngstown metal cabinets that hung in the kitchen had been ripped from the walls. They’d come crashing down onto the countertops, smashing everything in their path: small kitchen appliances, utensils, and all kinds of crockery. They cracked the sink and broke the faucet, flooding the kitchen with water. The wooden kitchen table and chairs, were crushed under the weight of the tree.
The bathroom was completely destroyed. The hideous, stained, peacock blue fixtures that Sylvie hated had been smashed to smithereens; the cheap, pressed-wood vanity had swollen, then disintegrated in the rain. Even the ceramic tiles that covered the walls and floor had been damaged. The wall tiles had come off when the sheetrock they were attached to broke apart. Most of them shattered when they hit the floor.
The only thing still usable in the bedroom was the metal bed frame her aunt had specially made for the room. The French provincial furniture had splintered and broken under the weight of falling branches, the ornate mirrors cracked. The soggy, water-logged mattress was a total loss and destined for the garbage dump.
But the guns her aunt kept hidden in the space which would normally be occupied by a box spring were fine. The lawyer had been shocked to learn they were there. That Tizzy would keep loaded weapons not only in the house, but under her bed? Sylvie had to giggle at that. Pearly couldn’t have known her aunt all that well if he hadn’t known about her guns. Tizzy was a lifelong member of the NRA. She had a framed copy of the Second Amendment hanging on her bedroom wall with an old flintlock rifle mounted above it and two small American flags hanging on either side. The old lady was definitely a gun nut. A fanatic really! She’d had two bed frames welded together. The top one had planks laid across it side by side to support the mattress. The bottom one was covered by a large sheet of plywood. That’s where she stored her shotgun and rifles. They were always kept loaded. Tiz said she didn’t want to fumble for ammunition in the middle of the night while someone was trying to break down her door. She didn’t hunt. They were there strictly for protection. She said nothing would scare an intruder more than coming face-to-face with an angry little old lady carrying a very big gun. She didn’t aim to kill anybody with them. She just wanted to scare ‘the piss out of them.’ The double barrel shotgun was used to deter black bears from taking down her birdfeeders and rifling through the garbage. Tiz didn’t shoot at the bears. She always shot above their heads. But the boom was enough ‘to send them skedaddling’ as she used to say.
Sylvie asked about the two handguns Tiz kept in the drawer of her bedside table, and the .32 pistol on the shelf in the pantry. Pearly told her they’d found the guns in the nightstand. But the interior wall that separated the living room and kitchen, where the pantry once stood, had collapsed and was now just rubble. He’d have to get the workmen to look for the missing .32 pistol. He asked her what she wanted to do with the guns and was surprised when Sylvie told him she intended to keep them. Her aunt had taught her to shoot. Pearly asked if the handguns were licensed. Sylvie was pretty sure they were. But now they’d have to be licensed in her name. He said he’d talk to a local judge he knew and his friend in the sheriff’s office to see about getting her the necessary permits. Pearly insisted that since the guns had been exposed to two days of rain, it would be best if a gunsmith had a look at them. Insuring the water hadn’t damaged the barrels or firing mechanisms. He knew a guy who owned a gun shop who could check and clean them for her. The lawyer said he was worried that if she tried to shoot one of them now, it might very well explode in her hand. The workman who found them said they looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in years. That didn’t sound like Tizzy. She loved those guns. But Pearly was so persistent with his ‘better safe than sorry’ spiel that she let it go and agreed.
Sylvie asked him about the popcorn tins. She wanted to make sure they hadn’t been thrown out. He didn’t seem to know what she was talking about. Sylvie had given her aunt two big tins filled with flavored popcorn for Christmas one year. When she was maybe nine or ten years old. Her aunt had saved the tins and repurposed them. One sat in the bedroom closet and held boxes of ammo for her various weapons. The other was kept on the bookshelf in the living room and was filled with firecrackers and cherry bombs. Every once in a while, if the bears got too bold and too close to the house, she’d set off a bunch of firecrackers and a couple of cherry bombs at dusk to let them know they weren’t welcome. That always sent them scurrying back to the woods. The lawyer assured her the cans wouldn’t be thrown out. But she could tell by the tone of his voice that he suspected both she and her aunt were a mite peculiar. A few sandwiches shy of a picnic!
Pearly had already hired a guy to remove the debris and haul it to the landfill. He was going to have to make several trips in order to get that done. Right now there were huge piles of broken furniture, busted appliances, shattered glass, soggy rugs, and chunks of sheetrock filling the yard.
Pearly told her she needed to install new flooring in every room of the house. The carpet and padding couldn’t be salvaged and had to be ripped up. The kitchen floor tiles had come unglued and also had to be replaced.
The clapboard that covered the exterior of the house had popped off when a large branch raked down along the corner. There was damage on three sides. The front porch was still standing, but the back porch was gone. The roof, railing, and most of the floor boards lay broken and splintered on the lawn.
The house, it turned out, was made of poured concrete: both the floors and the exterior walls. Pearly thought it was probably supposed to be the basement of a larger house, but that the original owners had run out of money and couldn’t afford to build the upper floors, so they just slapped a roof on what they had. Furring strips had been glued to both the exterior and interior walls. A thin layer of insulation was under the clapboard outside, but none under the paneling inside. That explained why the place was always freezing in winter and smelled musty and dank in the summer.
The living room shelves on either side of the fireplace were still intact. Her aunt’s pornographic pottery had survived unscathed! That was a lucky break he told her. That pottery might be worth tens of thousands of dollars now. The frames of the Danish modern furniture were still in one piece but with many more scratches than before. The old, worn cushions had to be thrown away. The cast-iron fireplace insert had rusted from the rain as did the wood stove in the kitchen. He didn’t know if they could be salvaged or would have to be replaced. The electric baseboard heaters throughout the house had gotten soaked, so the heating system was kaput. He wasn’t sure about the rest of the electrical system. A friend of his knew a really good electrician, but he couldn’t come over till Wednesday at the earliest so they’d know more then.
He’d already hired a roofing contractor, who was another friend of a friend…pending her approval of course. They could start work tomorrow, putting in the beams and rafters. He’d also hired a contractor to start the inside work. They needed to replace the wall between the living room and kitchen as quickly as possible, he told her, since it was a bearer wall and held up the roof beams. The interior guys could also start tomorrow if Sylvie gave him the go-ahead. The roofing contractor had suggested a metal roof. It was normally double the price of an asphalt shingle one; but it just so happened that he’d bought brown metal roofing to do a job on a vacation cabin in the area, but before he could get to it, the cabin had burned to the ground. The roofing was sitting in a warehouse gathering dust. He would give her a good price on the job, charging her the same for the metal roof as he would for a shingle one if she’d take it off his hands. Pearly told her he’d been assured it would last longer than a traditional shingle roof, would be quick to install, and would be fire-resistant too. If she agreed, the new roof would be finished by next Friday, Saturday at the latest, if the weather cooperated.
The contractor Pearly wanted to use for the interior was recommending that they not replace the paneling. He suggested they only sheetrock the interior walls. The exterior concrete walls would be waterproofed, plastered, sanded smooth, and painted. He said he’d found both mold and mildew on the back of the paneling. That if Sylvie wanted to sheetrock or panel those walls, to do it right, he’d need to reframe the entire interior of the house, using two by fours and plenty of insulation so there’d be no chance of moisture or mold in the future. He said it would be expensive and wouldn’t make the house that much warmer. What it would do was make the rooms even smaller than they already were. It would screw up the windows and exterior doors too. The cottage would go from being cozy to cramped. He’d told Pearly that with larger, fancier baseboards, he could conceal the wiring for the heaters and the electrical outlets so you wouldn’t even realize it was a concrete wall. He said he could have all the work done in a week and a half, as long as the electrical system hadn’t been compromised. That sounded good to her.
The contractor had asked Pearly if she had any preference as to what colors he should use on the walls and floors.
Something neutral would be best she told him. The lawyer was happy to hear that because the contractor could get her a real deal on a factory closeout of beige travertine tile. That was the easiest fix since it would be laid directly over the concrete. The mortar used to affix it would even out the floor, repairing the areas where the concrete was beginning to crack and crumble. Was she interested? Sure. She liked beige well enough. It was a dull color, but it was light and bright. At any rate, the price was right. He said he’d try to make the slope in the floor less noticeable when he laid the tile, but wasn’t promising anything. The house tilted toward the back door for some reason.
As for the kitchen, the contractor said they might have to gut the whole thing. Some of the metal cabinets hadn’t been touched at all, while the others were banged around and had gotten dented. The old metal cabinets might be dingy and ugly as sin, but the suckers were built to last. He told the lawyer he knew someone who would take the refrigerator, stove, dishwasher, washer, dryer, freezer, and all the smaller metal appliances away for scrap metal. But Pearly had told him he had to talk to the other hauler about that first. Scrap metal was worth good money and the other guy had given him a very good price on the debris removal. Pearly wasn’t sure if he’d factored in recycling the scrap metal when he’d quoted him the price. The contractor also indicated that he’d have to get back to them about new appliances. He had a couple of contacts who might be able to get them some decent scratch and dent stuff: nothing serious, just minor dings. He’d put out some feelers, but he wouldn’t know for a week or so.
As for the bathroom, that required a complete redo. Nothing in there was salvageable.
The lawyer had been assured that repairing the outside of the house wouldn’t be that difficult. That contractor, evidently all these guys were specialists like doctors, was suggesting they put dense cell thermal insulation board over the concrete and use two by twos instead of furring strips on the outside. He proposed that they replace the damaged clapboard with aluminum siding instead; saying it would add even more insulation and would be maintenance free. They’d replace the broken and old windows with new vinyl clad ones. Everything would be replaced except for the picture window, which surprisingly hadn’t sustained any damage. The only problem was the back door. It wasn’t a standard size and had to be specially milled. Whatever that was? They’d replace the front door when they did the siding and windows, but the back door would take several weeks.
Pearly had gotten an estimate on taking down the trees and chopping up the wood that now littered the yard. The man had been recommended by a friend. He’d agreed to leave her two full cords of wood and take the rest away. He’d also grind down the stumps, cover them in topsoil, and seed them with grass.
The adjuster had gone through the house and made a list of everything that needed to be replaced from dishes to toasters, sheets to window shades, soap dishes to lamps. He’d give Sylvie a copy of the list and she could either begin buying the items herself or he could arrange for a personal shopper to buy everything she wanted. That sounded good to her. Better than good. It was one less thing she’d have to fret over.
Pearly had a neighbor who did upholstery out of his home. He could arrange to have him replace the cushions on the Danish modern couch and chair if she liked. Maybe buff the scratches out of the wood and touch it up. He said the fellow could do them up in plain cotton duck for now and make the actual zip-on fabric covers after she settled on a color scheme.
Color scheme? Sylvie’s head was spinning with all the details. ‘Is the insurance going to cover all this?’ she asked nervously.
‘Yes. I’ve already talked to the company’s claims department. They’re not contesting our adjuster’s estimates. Your aunt’s policy was for the current replacement cost of all the damaged items, so everything is covered. The contractors are hurting for work this time of year so they’re willing to make deals. You’ll have plenty of money to complete the job. Within a month, you won’t even be able to recognize the place. Oh jeez! I almost forgot to tell you. I picked up your aunt’s ashes. The urn she ordered for herself finally came in. I was going to drop it off at the house before all this happened. But I’ll hold onto it until the house is done.’
‘She ordered her own urn?’ Sylvie asked in disbelief.
‘Yes, it’s quite lovely. It’s a bright cobalt blue. There’s a medallion affixed to the base etched with her name and the dates of her birth and death. She wanted you to have it.’
Sylvie shook her head. Aunt Tizzy and her lawyer had thought of everything! She could understand why her aunt had hired him. He certainly knew how to get things done. If he couldn’t do the job himself he knew a guy, who knew a guy who could. ‘How much am I going to owe you for taking care of all this for me?’
‘Nothing! As I told you, your aunt provided a generous retainer for me in her will. I was to make sure that you weren’t burdened by the property or any problems with the estate. I was to fix things, ease your way so to speak.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much!’ She spoke the words to Pearly, but they were meant for Tiz. The old girl was still looking out for her. Sylvie had enough to contend with right now. The book. The Connor situation. She was physically and emotionally exhausted…overworked and underappreciated. And there was still the matter of a deranged psycho running around loose! When she hung up the phone she felt a little better about things. Maybe her life wasn’t turning to shit after all!
