gunsmith’s tools and lock up his gun collection.
Brian adores the creek that meanders between the garden and the woods, inhabited by all the frogs, lizards, and snakes a boy could ever hope to collect and house in cages in his bedroom, from which they occasionally escape and turn up in odd places, like the laundry hamper or the washing machine. (Don’t laugh—it has happened.)
For me, the attraction is the sunny space behind the house, just right for a large garden, where I can grow plants that don’t fit conveniently into the display beds at the shop, and (until it became Caitlin’s) the round room at the top of the turret, which is the perfect place to read and dream.
With its five bedrooms and large downstairs, the house is too large for us. When we bought it, I liked the previous owners’ idea of turning part of it into a bed-and-breakfast and filed it away as something to do when I had the time. This hasn’t happened yet, and as long as both kids are with us, maybe it won’t. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have strangers in the house. Unless we need the money, when it might be the lesser of two evils, one of which is not being able to pay the bills.
For now, the extra elbow room helps to keep the peace in a family where something always seems to be going on. It proved to be a very good thing when McQuaid requisitioned the big corner room downstairs, the one with the outside entrance, as the office of his private detective agency, M. McQuaid and Associates. “Associates” does not refer to me or Ruby, if that’s what you’re thinking, in spite of our occasional involvement in criminal mischief. McQuaid draws a strict line between business, family, and friends, and I promised him I would not intrude.
And now that Caitlin—Caitie, as McQuaid calls her—has come to live with us, I’m glad of the extra room. When she visited the house with her father last spring, she was entranced by the round room in the turret: the Magic Tower, she called it. When she disappeared from the family gathering, I found her there, asleep on the window seat, my tattered child’s copy of The Secret Garden open on the floor beside her. The room belongs to her now. We painted it pink, like the room she had when her father and mother were alive, and she hung her drawings of fairies on the walls and filled the shelves with books and stuffed animals. She spends a lot of time here, reading and looking out the window. I’m hoping that her Magic Tower will be a magical place where she can heal.
WE’VE made it a rule that we all sit down to supper together, around a real table, with real food on it. We eat in the kitchen even when we have company, because the dining room table is usually taken over by our various projects (the kids’ homework, McQuaid’s paperwork, my crafts). Tonight, we had company. Sally was joining us. McQuaid—who was helping me fix the food—was irate.
“I can’t believe you invited her,” he growled. “For supper, yes. But the whole freakin’ holiday? Damn it, China, you know what Sally is like. She’ll do whatever it takes to make us miserable.”
“Shh,” I cautioned, ladling the corn chowder into the bowls—my favorite blue Fiestaware, which I save for company. “She’s in the dining room. She’s helping Brian with his calculus.”
“Helping?” McQuaid snorted. “That woman has no clue when it comes to calculus. She’s number-phobic.” He finished shredding the cabbage and tossed it into the bowl with the shredded carrots and chopped pecans. “When we were married, we were constantly overdrawn at the bank. She’d write five or six checks and forget to enter them. Or maybe it was this other character—Juanita—who wrote them, and Sally who forgot to put them in the register.” He slammed down the knife. “Whoever did it couldn’t subtract worth a damn.”
In his dog bed beside the kitchen range, Howard Cosell made a whining noise. Howard is McQuaid’s elderly basset
Brian adores the creek that meanders between the garden and the woods, inhabited by all the frogs, lizards, and snakes a boy could ever hope to collect and house in cages in his bedroom, from which they occasionally escape and turn up in odd places, like the laundry hamper or the washing machine. (Don’t laugh—it has happened.)
For me, the attraction is the sunny space behind the house, just right for a large garden, where I can grow plants that don’t fit conveniently into the display beds at the shop, and (until it became Caitlin’s) the round room at the top of the turret, which is the perfect place to read and dream.
With its five bedrooms and large downstairs, the house is too large for us. When we bought it, I liked the previous owners’ idea of turning part of it into a bed-and-breakfast and filed it away as something to do when I had the time. This hasn’t happened yet, and as long as both kids are with us, maybe it won’t. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have strangers in the house. Unless we need the money, when it might be the lesser of two evils, one of which is not being able to pay the bills.
For now, the extra elbow room helps to keep the peace in a family where something always seems to be going on. It proved to be a very good thing when McQuaid requisitioned the big corner room downstairs, the one with the outside entrance, as the office of his private detective agency, M. McQuaid and Associates. “Associates” does not refer to me or Ruby, if that’s what you’re thinking, in spite of our occasional involvement in criminal mischief. McQuaid draws a strict line between business, family, and friends, and I promised him I would not intrude.
And now that Caitlin—Caitie, as McQuaid calls her—has come to live with us, I’m glad of the extra room. When she visited the house with her father last spring, she was entranced by the round room in the turret: the Magic Tower, she called it. When she disappeared from the family gathering, I found her there, asleep on the window seat, my tattered child’s copy of The Secret Garden open on the floor beside her. The room belongs to her now. We painted it pink, like the room she had when her father and mother were alive, and she hung her drawings of fairies on the walls and filled the shelves with books and stuffed animals. She spends a lot of time here, reading and looking out the window. I’m hoping that her Magic Tower will be a magical place where she can heal.
WE’VE made it a rule that we all sit down to supper together, around a real table, with real food on it. We eat in the kitchen even when we have company, because the dining room table is usually taken over by our various projects (the kids’ homework, McQuaid’s paperwork, my crafts). Tonight, we had company. Sally was joining us. McQuaid—who was helping me fix the food—was irate.
“I can’t believe you invited her,” he growled. “For supper, yes. But the whole freakin’ holiday? Damn it, China, you know what Sally is like. She’ll do whatever it takes to make us miserable.”
“Shh,” I cautioned, ladling the corn chowder into the bowls—my favorite blue Fiestaware, which I save for company. “She’s in the dining room. She’s helping Brian with his calculus.”
“Helping?” McQuaid snorted. “That woman has no clue when it comes to calculus. She’s number-phobic.” He finished shredding the cabbage and tossed it into the bowl with the shredded carrots and chopped pecans. “When we were married, we were constantly overdrawn at the bank. She’d write five or six checks and forget to enter them. Or maybe it was this other character—Juanita—who wrote them, and Sally who forgot to put them in the register.” He slammed down the knife. “Whoever did it couldn’t subtract worth a damn.”
In his dog bed beside the kitchen range, Howard Cosell made a whining noise. Howard is McQuaid’s elderly basset
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