Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(3)
And the fact that Lauren’s about to serve apple slices with a side of peanut butter for dinner doesn’t exactly cancel it out. But why bother cooking for two—one finicky preschooler and one mom who lost her appetite, along with a lot of other things, in the divorce drama.
The screen door squeaks as Lauren steps out the back door into the hot glare of late afternoon sun. The neighborhood at this hour is so still she can hear the bumblebees lazing in the coneflowers beside the small service porch.
She could cut some of the purple and white blooms and bring them inside.
But again, why bother? It’s just her and Sadie.
Why bother…why bother…
So goes the depressing refrain.
There was a time when she didn’t consider cooking or gardening a bother at all.
She remembers wandering around the yard with pruning shears on summer days as Ryan and Lucy romped on the wooden play set. She’d fill the house with a hodgepodge of colorful flowers arranged in Depression-era tinted glass Ball jars discovered on a cobwebby shelf in the basement. Then she’d feed and bathe the kids early, letting them stay up just long enough to greet Nick off the commuter train. He’d tell her about his day as they shared a bottle of wine over a home-cooked dinner for two, something decadent and cooked in butter or smothered in melted cheese.
That was before Nick became overly health conscious—which, surprise, surprise, was not long before he left.
But she doesn’t want to think about that.
Nor does she necessarily want to think about the good old days, but she can’t seem to help herself. It was on one of those hot summer nights, Lauren recalls, that Sadie the Oops Baby was conceived, after an unhealthy, fattening romantic dinner laced with cabernet and Van Morrison.
The pregnancy put on hold their plans to remodel the house. They were going to expand the kitchen, add a mudroom, replace the back stoop with a deck—something that wouldn’t clash with the Queen Anne style. Nick was a big believer in preservation of architectural integrity.
Only when it came to marital integrity did he run into trouble.
They never did get around to remodeling.
Now they never will.
Lauren gazes up at the house—two stories, plus a large attic beneath the steep, gabled roof.
The clapboard fa?ade, fish-scale shingles, and gingerbread trim are done in period shades of ochre and brick red. The classic Victorian design—tall, shuttered bay windows, a cupola, and a spindled, wraparound porch—charmed her the first time she laid eyes on it, years ago.
Painted Lady Potential, proclaimed the ad in the Sunday Times real estate section.
She kept reading. It got better.
Four-bedroom, two-bath fixer-upper in family neighborhood. Eat-in kitchen, large, level yard, detached garage. Walk to shops, train, schools.
It was located, the Realtor told her when she called about the ad, on Elm Street in Glenhaven Park. Elm Street—evocative of leafy, small-town charm. Elm Street—where families live happily ever after.
Sight unseen, Lauren was sold.
Nick was not. “Nightmare on Elm Street,” he told Lauren. “Ever see that movie?”
She hadn’t. But lately, she’s been feeling as though she lived it.
How did she end up alone in the house of their dreams?
She’ll never forget the day she and Nick first set foot inside, looked at each other, and nodded. They knew. They knew this house would become home.
It—like the fact that they’d found each other, fallen in love, gotten married—seemed too good to be true.
They marveled at the china doorknobs, gaslight fixtures, cast-iron radiators, chair rails, and pocket doors; high ceilings with crown molding; the ornate wooden staircase in the entrance hall. There were even a couple of hidden compartments where the nineteenth-century owners had stashed their valuables.
Yes, the place needed work. So what? They were young and had a lifetime ahead of them.
Now Lauren wonders, as she often has for the past few months, whether she’ll have to sell the house. Some days, she wants to list it as soon as possible. Others, she’s certain she can’t bear to let go.
What’s the old saying?
If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.
She takes a deep breath, inhaling the green scent of freshly mown grass. The lawn service guys must have been here today while she and Sadie were in the city. The flowerbeds have been freshly weeded and the boxwood hedge has been shorn into a precision horizontal border.
The yard looks a lot tidier than it did in summers past, when she handled the gardening and Nick mowed. But when they moved up here from the city, they never wanted that manicured landscape style. They never wanted to become one of those suburban Westchester families that relied on others to maintain the yard, the house, and the pets, even the kids.
Yeah, and look at us now.
First came the weekly cleaning service Lauren’s friends insisted on hiring for her right after she had Sadie. By the time the two-month gift certificate expired, colic was in full swing, and Lauren was relieved to let someone else continue to clean the toilets and do the laundry.
She kept the cleaning service.
By the time Sadie was toddling, her older siblings’ traveling sports teams kept the whole family on the go. Chauncey was left behind so often that Lauren was forced to hire a dog-walking service. Sure, she occasionally misses those early morning or dusk strolls with Chauncey—but not enough to go back to doing it daily.