Girls of Summer(12)

Well, ha! Who would want her? Ever, or especially now?

“Stop it,” she said to herself—she often spoke aloud to herself, and why not? “Don’t be maudlin. You’re healthy and well-off. You have two healthy happy children, and your life is good. You have nothing to complain about!”

Then the dining room ceiling fell on her head.





three


Not the entire ceiling, just a few fragments of plaster. But more was to come because the previous week Nantucket had experienced one of its gale force storms with whipping rain that went on for hours. Looking up, Lisa saw that rain had slithered from the upper edge of the fireplace chimney into her dining room, making wet spots and entire tunnels as if upside-down moles had burrowed all around the ceiling. It had to be fixed and she knew she couldn’t do it herself.

During the almost thirty years she’d lived here, she’d taken the best care she could of her children. She’d spent time choosing organic vegetables and making “real” meals instead of pizza every day. She’d attended swim meets, school plays, and basketball games. She’d volunteered at the school library. She’d kept the house clean, comfortable, and welcoming. She’d placed flowers on the table and electric candles in the windows during the winter. The furniture was well-polished, she built glowing fires in the living room fireplace, and her beautiful garden was filled with herbs and flowers.

   But she hadn’t taken note of the casual, extensive, sneaky deterioration of the house. When part of the ceiling fell on her head, exposing the wooden staves above, she knew she had to pay attention to the house or it would continue to fall apart.

She took up a pad and a pen and, feeling quite industrious, went through the house, looking at what needed doing. All of the “lights,” the rectangular glass panes at the top of most of the ancient interior doors, rattled, not just when the door was opened or closed, but also when wild winds blew and drafts whistled through the house. They’d been that way for years. It was just part of the house. Many things rattled in an old house.

Now she knew they must be re-caulked, or something like that. She couldn’t repair the dining room ceiling, but she could fix the lights. She googled a few sites and learned what to do. It seemed easy. The next day, she went to Marine Home Center and bought a tube of white caulking. She tied her dark hair back like Rosie the Riveter. She got out her stepladder—aluminum and light enough to carry, but strong enough to hold her—and climbed up to attempt to apply caulking in a nice straight smooth line along the base of the lights.

It was like trying to get a perfect stripe of toothpaste from the tube. Sometimes the caulk squirted and then exploded out. When she tried to spread it evenly with her fingernail, she smeared it onto the glass.

She was only making it worse.

She climbed down from the stepladder and sat on the floor and wept.

“I’m fifty-six years old,” she said aloud. After all, there was no one there to hear her.

“I should sell this house. It’s far too big for one person. I could buy a new house with crisp white paint on the woodwork.” She was beginning to perk up. She usually did when she had a conversation with herself.

   “I could sell my business, move off-island, buy a sweet charming place on the Cape, and have money left over for adventures. I could go on a cruise!” She nodded to herself approvingly.

Rising easily—yoga practice once a week—she stood and paced the room, thinking.

“Why would I want to go on a cruise? I get motion sick,” she reminded herself.

“And I love this house. Someday I hope to have grandchildren running up and down the stairs. I love the island. I love my friends. I love my shop.”

She looked out the window. It was May. Her tulips were in bloom and her daffodils were on the brink of blooming.

“I have the money to fix the place up,” she reasoned. “I should fix this place up!” Her gloom evaporated. Ideas blossomed. She found her phone in the kitchen and called Rachel.

When Rachel answered, Lisa said, “I need the name of a carpenter, or a contractor, or a painter. I need major repairs on my ceiling.”

“Good evening to you, too!” Rachel laughed. “What’s brought this on?”

“The dining room ceiling fell on my head.”

“What?”

“Well, just about a square foot, but the rest of it is bulging with water and I’m afraid it will collapse any moment. Plus, I’ve decided to have a lot of repairs done. Give this house a little love.”

“Okay, let me think. You don’t want just anyone. Plus, lots of guys won’t even consider working for you because your place is so old. If you solve one problem, you’ll find fifty others. You need someone responsible—what about Mack Whitney?”

“I think I know him.”

   “Of course you do,” Rachel said. “His daughter, Beth, is Theo’s age. She was the girl whose boyfriend committed suicide in high school seven years ago.”

“Oh, of course. Gosh, how could I forget—Theo used to hang out with Beth because she was dating Atticus. For a while they were all so close, the three Musketeers, and then…Atticus died. Poor boy. Poor girl. The whole town was in mourning.” Lisa hesitated. “I made Theo see a therapist.”

“Yeah, lots of kids saw therapists after that.”