Rise: How a House Built a Family(18)

“He announced the meeting was starting with this crooked little smile, that cat-who-ate-the-canary smile, you know?”

Yes. I knew.

“And then he closed the double doors with a little bow to us—to me and Tyrone.”

Her breathing went funny again and she was quiet for too long. “Did something happen?” I asked. “Did he throw them out or something?”

“Yes. Well, no, he didn’t throw them out, but something did happen. Or, didn’t happen.” She groaned a little. “Oh fudge. I’ll just say it. There was no one there. No one had gone in the room before he closed the doors. The folders were in front of each chair—I’d helped him make copies and they had all sorts of figures and sales lists in them—and the coffee mugs were full. We could hear him talking. Presenting. But there weren’t any people.”

“Videoconference?” I asked, even though it made no sense.

“The Furton Room doesn’t have equipment. Not even a telephone. And he didn’t have anything with him. And besides, the coffee…”

“Yeah. The coffee. And the papers.” I had shredded three tissues into confetti in my lap.

“When he opened the doors, Tyrone asked him how things went and he said, Oh, they went just perfect. He had them right where he wanted them. It was all even bigger than he thought. That’s what he said, it was bigger than he thought. And then he left. He didn’t take any of the papers with him and all that coffee was just sitting there cold. Some mugs were half empty. Some of them had used sugar and cream.” She laughed. “I mean—”

“I get it. He was alone in the room the entire time. There were no other doors in or out?”

“No. Just the main entry and a table down the middle that seats twenty-two. Sometimes we put chairs along one wall, there’s room, but he didn’t ask for extra chairs.”

“No,” I said. “I guess he wouldn’t need extra chairs, would he.” I wasn’t really listening to her anymore. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “Listen, I’ll talk to Adam about the bill and see what’s going on.”

“Oh my God! I shouldn’t have said so much. It was just so weird. Did I break some confidentiality thing?”

“No, no. You’re fine. We’ll get the bill straightened out. Thank you so much for explaining.” I hung up before she could say anything else, before she could hear the scream in my head.

He hadn’t sold a patent. He hadn’t sold anything. Why hadn’t they shown up, these people he invited? It didn’t make sense. Had he given them the wrong date? The wrong address? Anything was possible, anything at all. Until you thought for just one second about the coffee. Then everything unraveled into the explanation I’d been hiding from for too long.

Adam’s behavior had slipped beyond eccentric long ago. He had bridged over into insanity.





–7–

Rise

Plan B Is for Sissies

Every night after the kids went to bed, I worked on a book I’d been trying to write for too long. I had sold a couple of middle-grade novels, but I wanted to break into the adult mystery market. The goal gave me hope for a completely new future.

I was exhausted after doing the laundry and unpacking from our Thanksgiving trip and decided the book could rest for another night. I stacked my hoard of mystery novels on the other side of the bed just under the pillow, where I was pleased to know they would remain undisturbed. It was now the empty side of the bed, not someone else’s side, and that reminded me to breathe easy. I climbed in with a notebook, a pen, and a remnant of the smile I’d taken to bed in the cabin.

I started making a short to-do list of errands to complete before we built a life-size version of our stick house. I really meant to do this, and it felt good. It felt big and loud and real. It felt alive.

The list filled the first page, then the second, and was well on the way to flooding the third when I dozed off. Even though it was already apparent that we were in over our heads, I had no intention of backing down. A woman stubborn enough to stay with an abusive man is not a woman who gives up easily. We would do this. We’d dive in and keep working, eyes straight ahead.

At the top of page four, I wrote, “Plan B.” I stared at the blank page, imagining the depressing alternatives. We could buy a tiny house and stack bunk beds in the corners. I could write in a closet or just give it up and keep programming. The kids would go off to college feeling as low, afraid, and small as they did today. I ripped the page out, crumpled it, and threw it on the floor.

Backup plans were for quitters. They were for people who were scared. They were not for people brave enough to hang red curtains and wear V-neck shirts. I told myself we had faced our worst fears and had nothing more to be afraid of. I pretended I believed it. “It’s do-or-die time,” I whispered. “Do or die.” And then softer, moving my lips with nothing more than a hiss coming out to warn away the nightmares that turned out to be inevitable whether I whispered or shouted, “It’s a figure of speech. Do or die. It’s figurative, not literal.”

The next week was crazy busy, and I wasn’t one to use the “c” word lightly. I spent Monday and Tuesday patrolling a thirty-mile radius from our house, looking for land. Several promising properties were eliminated by the cost, one by a den of snakes, and several more by the strict neighborhood rules that required I use an approved, licensed contractor. I had already checked with the city and learned I could pull my own building and plumbing permits, and act as my own contractor. But that didn’t mean neighborhoods had to approve me as a builder.