had been built before the economic crisis hit. Over the last couple of years half of those homes had been repossessed or abandoned. Living two miles from the Gulf of Mexico should have been wonderful, but this development was no longer anyone’s idea of gracious living. Streets led nowhere and weeds reclaimed the scarred land.
We were there in splendid isolation in the burbs from hell because someone had defaulted on a brand-new house. At least with us living in the house and paying rent it would keep the vandals out. There had been more people when we first moved in, but one by one they’d lost the battle with a bank or a mortgage company and moved on. And then the builder of the subdivision had gone bankrupt, leaving unfinished homes where the weeds grew high and the plywood grew black. Piles of lumber meant for homes had been left behind to blow about when the next tropical storms hit us. Two-by-fours turn into projectiles with the forty-mile-an-hour winds that come with our summer storms.
Now, in March, our neighborhood was silent and empty and just too damn depressing. There was one exception, one good thing on our block. Every morning before work a man biked slowly by while his small daughter pedaled furiously behind him on a pink bike with training wheels and silver tassels flying from the handlebars. I watched for her glittering pink helmet and warned Clay that when she left, so would I. I’d rather make the hour-and-a-half drive out to Clay’s ranch every night than live here without those silver tassels.
Clay was waiting at the open door when I pulled up in front of the double garage. Escaping down the canal, I’d become intensely aware of all the things that were important to me. At the top of the list was Clay.
I sat there with the engine running and considered his rigid body, trying to read what he was feeling. Beside him the pot of annuals that I’d planted with such hope back in January looked bedraggled and thirsty.
Normally, when Clay saw me his eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he knew the most delicious secret, but not today. There was no lifting of his mouth, not even a brow wrinkled in concern or annoyance . . . nothing but a silent mask of waiting.
Slim and muscled, Clay made women turn and take a second look when he walked by. His black hair and those black eyes over a hawk nose told of the far-off native ancestor who mixed with the English transplants back in Georgia before the civil war.
I stopped hoping he’d come to me. I turned off the engine and opened the door. Leaving my suitcase behind, I stumbled for him.
He didn’t move towards me and didn’t speak even when I stood in front of him. Trembling with exhaustion and emotion, I said, “Hi,” before I reached out to hug him. His body was unyielding and as stiff as a store mannequin.
I didn’t even try to break down his anger. I just said, “Fine,” and walked past him into the house. I dropped my purse on the small half wall that divided the living room from the foyer. Behind me Clay quietly closed the door.
An enormous bouquet of red roses was on the coffee table in the living room. I turned away and walked down the hall to my right. Clay didn’t follow.
In the bedroom, a tray of candles waiting to be lit sat on each of the night tables beside the king-size bed. The homecoming Clay was planning had been destroyed, but I was too whacked to give a shit about any of it. I just headed for the bathroom medicine cabinet and poured everything that might be the least bit antibiotic over the blisters that had broken on my hands. After I’d showered, I slathered them with more ointment. Then I went back to face him.
I seldom lie to Clay. I avoid telling him lots of stuff, but when it comes down to the line in the sand, he pretty much always gets the truth. He didn’t like what I had to tell him about that final martini and where it had led. My story ended with heated words over what he called my “reckless behavior” and
We were there in splendid isolation in the burbs from hell because someone had defaulted on a brand-new house. At least with us living in the house and paying rent it would keep the vandals out. There had been more people when we first moved in, but one by one they’d lost the battle with a bank or a mortgage company and moved on. And then the builder of the subdivision had gone bankrupt, leaving unfinished homes where the weeds grew high and the plywood grew black. Piles of lumber meant for homes had been left behind to blow about when the next tropical storms hit us. Two-by-fours turn into projectiles with the forty-mile-an-hour winds that come with our summer storms.
Now, in March, our neighborhood was silent and empty and just too damn depressing. There was one exception, one good thing on our block. Every morning before work a man biked slowly by while his small daughter pedaled furiously behind him on a pink bike with training wheels and silver tassels flying from the handlebars. I watched for her glittering pink helmet and warned Clay that when she left, so would I. I’d rather make the hour-and-a-half drive out to Clay’s ranch every night than live here without those silver tassels.
Clay was waiting at the open door when I pulled up in front of the double garage. Escaping down the canal, I’d become intensely aware of all the things that were important to me. At the top of the list was Clay.
I sat there with the engine running and considered his rigid body, trying to read what he was feeling. Beside him the pot of annuals that I’d planted with such hope back in January looked bedraggled and thirsty.
Normally, when Clay saw me his eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he knew the most delicious secret, but not today. There was no lifting of his mouth, not even a brow wrinkled in concern or annoyance . . . nothing but a silent mask of waiting.
Slim and muscled, Clay made women turn and take a second look when he walked by. His black hair and those black eyes over a hawk nose told of the far-off native ancestor who mixed with the English transplants back in Georgia before the civil war.
I stopped hoping he’d come to me. I turned off the engine and opened the door. Leaving my suitcase behind, I stumbled for him.
He didn’t move towards me and didn’t speak even when I stood in front of him. Trembling with exhaustion and emotion, I said, “Hi,” before I reached out to hug him. His body was unyielding and as stiff as a store mannequin.
I didn’t even try to break down his anger. I just said, “Fine,” and walked past him into the house. I dropped my purse on the small half wall that divided the living room from the foyer. Behind me Clay quietly closed the door.
An enormous bouquet of red roses was on the coffee table in the living room. I turned away and walked down the hall to my right. Clay didn’t follow.
In the bedroom, a tray of candles waiting to be lit sat on each of the night tables beside the king-size bed. The homecoming Clay was planning had been destroyed, but I was too whacked to give a shit about any of it. I just headed for the bathroom medicine cabinet and poured everything that might be the least bit antibiotic over the blisters that had broken on my hands. After I’d showered, I slathered them with more ointment. Then I went back to face him.
I seldom lie to Clay. I avoid telling him lots of stuff, but when it comes down to the line in the sand, he pretty much always gets the truth. He didn’t like what I had to tell him about that final martini and where it had led. My story ended with heated words over what he called my “reckless behavior” and
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