than pants. I also have an ancient, olive drab, waterproof overcoat with plenty of pockets and a favorite silk scarf I tie over my hair whenever I walk my property, but these are superficial similarities. Our styles are nothing alike. Her hats; dear God! Not to mention, I’ve always been slim.
From the front porch, I can see down the white gravel drive to the point where it disappears into a copse of large maples with broad pointed leaves beginning to turn a dusky red. The hills roll away from the house in waves, reminding me of the sea, only this sea is grass green and solid. They end calmly at the foot of the humble mountains that surround all in this valley. This time of year they look subdued and patchy, almost like a shabby old couch, but this is only temporary before they will explode into a carnival of fall colors.
I never tire of this view, and I never tire of this porch. It’s one of my favorite places. It runs the entire length of the house and is fully wide enough to drive two cars, side by side, from one end to the other. The white stone columns set in square bases of red brick reach to the second story.
I have it furnished eclectically with various odd wicker and rattan piecesI’ve collected over the years, which are scattered with plump cushions and draped with fringed Spanish shawls.
My brother built this house more than fifty years ago. He chose basic red brick and white mortar, designed it simply and impressively. It is enormous and imposing and unlike many of the mansions I’ve visited in my lifetime, it still looks and feels like a home, not a palace or a tomb or a Marriott.
We lived here together for close to five years before he married the Mouse and brought her here to live also. It was understood I would stay on not only because the house was more than big enough but because of Calladito.
Even though the bull caused one of the worst fallings-out Stan and I ever had, he allowed me to keep him here. I could be cynical and say it was because after the prodigious amount of money I spent on him, Stan regarded him as an investment and felt he needed to keep an eye on him, but I think it was his way of trying to be good to me.
Stan was incapable of expressing compassion with words or caresses or even overt acts of kindness. He could only show he cared by putting you into his debt and then allowing you to be thankful to him.
Life with the Mouse never bothered me. I was deep into my mourning and barely noticed her existence.
I knew he would eventually marry—despite his unabashed womanizing—because I knew he wanted a son, but considering the number of beautiful women he’d had in his bed it was nearly impossible to imagine him inviting the Mouse into it and keeping her there for the rest of his life. She was such a strange choice.
But I suppose that’s often the case with men like him. They marry the dowdy ones. They don’t want pretty, active wives they have to keep happy and entertained or ones who other men might find attractive. They want someone to share their lives who will be unobtrusive, blindly devoted, tied to the home, and who will keep her mouth shut. The Mouse was all this and more; she also gave him the all-important son.
When Cameron was born, Stan was the one who decided he didn’t want to live in “the goddamned sticks” anymore, as he put it. He built another mansion closer to Centresburg—which is still very much the goddamned sticks in my opinion—where J&P Coal had its headquarters and moved the Mouse and the Turd with him.
He gave this house to me. It was the beginning of my fortune.
I decide to look for Shelby in the barn first. I’m on my way there when I come across Jerry tinkering with one of the tractor mowers.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Afternoon, Miss Jack.”
“Have you seen Shelby?”
He straightens his long thin frame slowly from a crimp in the middle like the unbending of a stubborn wire. His gray work pants, shiny at the knees with age, and his
From the front porch, I can see down the white gravel drive to the point where it disappears into a copse of large maples with broad pointed leaves beginning to turn a dusky red. The hills roll away from the house in waves, reminding me of the sea, only this sea is grass green and solid. They end calmly at the foot of the humble mountains that surround all in this valley. This time of year they look subdued and patchy, almost like a shabby old couch, but this is only temporary before they will explode into a carnival of fall colors.
I never tire of this view, and I never tire of this porch. It’s one of my favorite places. It runs the entire length of the house and is fully wide enough to drive two cars, side by side, from one end to the other. The white stone columns set in square bases of red brick reach to the second story.
I have it furnished eclectically with various odd wicker and rattan piecesI’ve collected over the years, which are scattered with plump cushions and draped with fringed Spanish shawls.
My brother built this house more than fifty years ago. He chose basic red brick and white mortar, designed it simply and impressively. It is enormous and imposing and unlike many of the mansions I’ve visited in my lifetime, it still looks and feels like a home, not a palace or a tomb or a Marriott.
We lived here together for close to five years before he married the Mouse and brought her here to live also. It was understood I would stay on not only because the house was more than big enough but because of Calladito.
Even though the bull caused one of the worst fallings-out Stan and I ever had, he allowed me to keep him here. I could be cynical and say it was because after the prodigious amount of money I spent on him, Stan regarded him as an investment and felt he needed to keep an eye on him, but I think it was his way of trying to be good to me.
Stan was incapable of expressing compassion with words or caresses or even overt acts of kindness. He could only show he cared by putting you into his debt and then allowing you to be thankful to him.
Life with the Mouse never bothered me. I was deep into my mourning and barely noticed her existence.
I knew he would eventually marry—despite his unabashed womanizing—because I knew he wanted a son, but considering the number of beautiful women he’d had in his bed it was nearly impossible to imagine him inviting the Mouse into it and keeping her there for the rest of his life. She was such a strange choice.
But I suppose that’s often the case with men like him. They marry the dowdy ones. They don’t want pretty, active wives they have to keep happy and entertained or ones who other men might find attractive. They want someone to share their lives who will be unobtrusive, blindly devoted, tied to the home, and who will keep her mouth shut. The Mouse was all this and more; she also gave him the all-important son.
When Cameron was born, Stan was the one who decided he didn’t want to live in “the goddamned sticks” anymore, as he put it. He built another mansion closer to Centresburg—which is still very much the goddamned sticks in my opinion—where J&P Coal had its headquarters and moved the Mouse and the Turd with him.
He gave this house to me. It was the beginning of my fortune.
I decide to look for Shelby in the barn first. I’m on my way there when I come across Jerry tinkering with one of the tractor mowers.
“Hello, Jerry.”
“Afternoon, Miss Jack.”
“Have you seen Shelby?”
He straightens his long thin frame slowly from a crimp in the middle like the unbending of a stubborn wire. His gray work pants, shiny at the knees with age, and his
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