On Turpentine Lane(63)

“You’re accepting this! Who do you have to call? Dickenson? Can you e-mail him?”

“I told him I wanted to talk with you first—”

“Fine! You just did!”

“I had to tell them about us. So now they have to think it over—the propriety of it.”

“No, they don’t,” I said. “You want propriety? Here it is. If we were boss and underling and we were doing what we’re doing? Okay, that’s against the rules. But coworkers, equals? Fine. Eventually, one of us gets promoted. That’s life. Do I need to do HR’s work for them?”

“Why didn’t I say that to Dickenson?” he asked.

“Because you were blindsided. And Reggie out on his ass? That probably shook you a little, too, loyal team member that you are.”

Well, almost. We both smiled guilty smiles because we never tired of ridiculing Reggie. “I know they want me to take it,” he conceded. “The idea came from the board—”

“Which saw Reggie in action at the retreat, right? And they probably had an emergency meeting by Skype or whatever, and said, ‘Why do we have a clown heading up Development when that intelligent Nicholas Franconi is his underling? What are we? The Topsy-Turvy Emperor of China?”

When that didn’t seem to register, I said, “Isaac Bashevis Singer? His book about the emperor who forces his subjects to do the opposite of what is true and good? It was our rabbi’s favorite launching point for his sermons.”

“Hmmm. Can’t say the same . . .”

“One more thing. If they withdraw the offer due to romantic complications, we’ll lie. Or I’ll do something else.”

“No way.”

“Maybe this is a wake-up call. Do I want to write thank-you notes for the rest of my life? What kind of job is that for a college graduate with a major in English literature and a minor in French?”

“You’re not quitting! What kind of wifey, old-school plan is that?”

“This might be the Fates knocking on my door, saying, ‘Okay, we got you back to Everton, and according to our plan, you met Nick. But he’ll still be there when you come home at night’—Right? That’s not an overreach, is it?—‘but is there something more meaningful out there? Can’t the kids on scholarship write their own thank-you letters, for Chrissake? Think about it, Faith.’?”

“You’re not quitting, and I’m telling Dickenson, ‘Frankel is not a factor because this thing—us—started when we were equals, coworkers, housemates.” At long last, a smile. “What we do in the privacy of our home has no bearing on our job performance at Everton Country Day unless you count the occasional feel I cop in the privacy of our office.”

“Bravo,” I said. “Now go over there right now and accept the offer.”

Finally on his feet, he gave his scarf a swashbuckling toss, and said, “Here goes.”

By the time he returned, I’d looked at the Everton Country Day job listings. There I’d discovered an opening—its five lines in red, indicating Need you yesterday—for a teacher of English in the middle school, for which I was, at least on paper, marginally qualified.





39





Good Try, Though


A WEEK HAD PASSED without any forward motion on what I was calling—inaccurately, but in homage to Nancy Drew—the Mystery of the 99 Steps. I phoned Brian Dolan and told him that I’d Googled “search warrants good for how long?” and discovered they were not for an indefinite amount of time.

He wasn’t impressed. “We had your verbal consent for our return visits,” he said. “Good try, though.”

“I just want my house back. I want to stop thinking about what might have gone on here.”

Was that an exasperated sigh I heard? “Can I give you a little advice?” he asked.

I could hardly say no.

“You’re too worked up over this. In the great scheme of things, we were underfoot for two, two and a half days.”

“Maybe true. But there’s the emotional side of it—the creepiness, living in a house that was a murder site—and don’t give me ‘alleged.’?”

“Ages ago.”

“Then why is there a whole website called DiedintheHouse.com if such a thing rolled off people’s backs? Not to mention the pragmatic side of it. How will I ever unload such a property?”

“We’ll be in touch,” he said.



At 5:45 p.m. that same day, I was the first one home, so why was my back door ajar? I carefully opened it to observe not the likeliest of visitors, my mother, but Anna Lavoie, dressed impeccably in a gray twinset, pearls, and pleated skirt, at my stove, heating water in my tea kettle.

I considering running for my life, or at least jumping back into my car, locking the doors, and calling 911, but I didn’t want to leave her to burn down my house. When I called her name, she didn’t startle or turn around.

I moved closer, switched on the overhead light, and switched off the burner with a snap. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Who let you in? This isn’t your house anymore.”

“Then why do I have a key if I don’t live here?”

“I bought it fair and square from your daughter who, I understood, had power of attorney.”