I sipped my coffee.

   “Tess...”

   I could do that, too. I cocked my head and gave a scowl. “Dave...”

   “I mean it.”

   I looked over his head, out the window. I’d slept for nineteen hours. During that time a foot and a half of snow had fallen. Winter had waited until March to start. Global warming probably. It was melting ice caps and making all the polar bears drown so why shouldn’t it fuck with my life, too?

   “I’ll call and reschedule.”

   He nodded. Proud. Big brother, heap big man. Kim said nothing; only smiled.

   “You’re not eating your breakfast.” His victory had made him over confident.

   “That’s because you made eggs. Eggs are an ingredient, not a meal.”

   “You need some protein. You’re pale.”

   “I’m pale because I don’t eat eggs?”

   He didn’t answer. Defeat. Can’t win ‘em all. He finished his coffee, wiped his mouth then stood up. All six foot three of him. Then he left, with a quick kiss for Kim and another stern look for me. Off to battle Injustice. He won most of those.

   I showered, brushed my teeth, then joined Kim in the living room. She was lying on the couch, practicing her breathing. I poked her big, fat stomach and was rewarded with a kick. “How’s Hezekiah doing today?”

   She glared at me. She hated being poked almost as much as she hated hearing me call her son Hezekiah. I couldn’t blame her.

   “He’s restless. I wish he’d hurry up and come out.”

   I shook my head. “He’s still cooking. Two more weeks?”

   “Twelve days.”

   “Ah.”

   “Is your cell phone charged?”

   I checked. “Yep.”

   “Drive slowly. Please?”

   I nodded. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

   The roads were slick. The speed limit on the interstate was down to forty-five and I set my cruise accordingly. Life sucked, but it was better than the alternative and I felt better than I had in months. I knew why. Sleep. It’s like sex. You know it’s good, but you don’t know just how good until you’re not getting any.

   I got into New Mills at ten o’clock. I was half an hour early and the apartment was only five miles outside of town--if what I was driving through could be called ‘town.’ New Mills was, indeed, a small lakeside community. In addition to its apparent rampant teenage drug problem and a brutal slaying, New Mills was known for having once been home to a textile mill and a shoe factory. Hence the horrid name. Both plants had closed their doors, like most mills and factories in the state, and those jobs were now in the hands of people who lived South and East of town. Very far South and East. By people who spoke Spanish and Chinese and were willing to work for a few bucks a day.

   Most of those former mill workers had lost their homes to foreclosure and back taxes. They’d been sold to foreigners who were only too happy to buy up a lovely, small Maine community so they could have a pretty place to spend their summers. Foreigners from South and West of town. They spoke English--if Massachusetts, New York and Connecticut accents could be considered English--and had surnames like Talbot and Caldwell and Pratt; but they were foreigners nevertheless. Still, former mill workers didn’t hire cleaning ladies. Talbots and Caldwells and Pratts did.

   I glanced at the notes I’d jotted down twenty four hours earlier. Typical rural directions; very vague with only landmarks as a guide.

   The place was hidden from the road by thick, bushy pines and naked maples. The driveway was a little rough but already plowed, which was a good sign. The house itself was white. Two story. Small and very old. Old enough to explain the low rent. Enclosed porch with lots of windows. There was no garage or barn, but there was a decent sized shed beside the house. It was white, too, but looked much newer than the house. And beside that stood a little orchard; five bare, snowy apple trees.

   There were no other vehicles in the driveway. I parked facing the orchard, kept the car running. Stared out the window at the trees. The heater was running at full blast. I still shivered. I’d been shivering for five months.

   No. I’d been shivering longer than that.

   My heart was Titanium White. Arctic Wasteland. Hard, trampled soil covered with ice. The frozen orchard seemed to say that it always would be and the tears came. Finally. Stinging and bitter, but quiet like always, and I looked away from the trees, looked down at the dashboard. Oil light flashing, neon red. I stared at it, tried to imagine my engine; tired, hot, low on precious blood. The neon light liquefied, blurred, floated as my eyes filled past the point of choking it all back. I glanced up to let them spill over, hoping I’d be able to dam up what would want to follow. Squinted my eyes against the tears.

   And that’s when I saw it.

   Bare, icy trees; eerie and still. They almost looked dead, but they were really only sleeping. Waiting for spring. The red light caught in the pool of tears; refracted, projected, and I could see it. I could see what the orchard would look like covered with blossoms. In the spring. Alizarin Crimson, Dusty Pink--starry, superimposed on the wintry scene. Like covering a photo with a clear sheet of plastic then drawing on it with dried out marker; shadowy and transparent. But real. So real.

   God, I know it’s been awhile and I hate to ask, but…please…please let me be able to paint the orchard. The way it looks right…now…

   Two streams, hot on my cheeks, and the blossoms disappeared. I wiped my face, took a deep, deep cleansing breath and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. Cleaned up the makeup. Righted the mirror. Saw, coming at me, a big yellow plow attached to a bigger red truck. I took another deep breath then practiced my smile. I thought about the orchard and the smile didn’t feel fake.

   I hopped out of my car and examined the truck beside me. It didn’t seem possible that the clunker managed to hold onto its plow, let alone that it was strong enough to use it to push aside snow and ice. There was faded black lettering on the door:

   LaChance Builders. And a phone number.

   The driver got out and strolled towards me. I wondered how many of the calls he got were actually work related and how many were local women hoping to reach out and touch someone. He was tall and sturdy. His eyes were Van Dyke Brown. So was his hair and it almost touched his shoulders. Probably mid twenties, twenty-seven at the most. He was good looking and he knew it, but not arrogant; the same way a person knows they’ve got blue eyes or big boobs or straight teeth. Genetics. Luck of the draw.

   He nodded his greeting. I nodded back and said, “Shit. I’ve got the wrong house.”

   He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. And then I saw it. Something other than Van Dyke Brown in the eyes. I recognized the Something right away and it made me smile again.

   He smiled right back. “Tess Dyer?”

   I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

   “Brian LaChance. I live downstairs.” He held out a hand and I slipped off my mitten to shake it. Bare, warm, calloused. “Charlie’s running a little late so he wants me to show you around till he gets here. Not,” he added, “that it’ll take that long. It’s kinda small.”

   I liked his voice. Deep. Maine French. Probably called his grandparents Memé and Pepé.

   He led the way. Cozy porch. Two doors. His was on the right, mine on the left. He unlocked my door then looked back at me. “Don’t worry. I don’t usually have this key.”

   I just nodded.

   We clomped up the stairs. He was three steps ahead of me. I knocked some snow off my boots while he unlocked the top door. I heard it open and looked up.

   His ass was right there. Right. There.

   I missed the step, slipped, grabbed the railing. I hung on with both hands and got my feet underneath me. He reached down and grabbed my arm.

   “You okay?”

   I nodded, then tried to explain away my clumsiness with: “Icy boots.”

   He helped me up the rest of the stairs, let go of my arm once I reached the top step, and I followed him inside. He was right. It was kinda small. Kitchen and dining area to the left, living room to the right. All open. Tiny bathroom. Small bedroom. But lots of windows and an extra storage closet. No tiny turds in the cupboards. No mold or mildew in the bathroom or on the window sills. Only one problem I could see.

   “How does he feel about his tenants painting the walls?”

   “Well, you can paint ‘em any color you like. As long as you like white.”

   It’s what I’d figured. Jason and I had been forced to keep the walls in our apartment beige. Beige was even worse than white.

   “He’s a good guy, though. Pretty easy going about most things. Oh, come here.”

   I followed him over to the living room closet. He closed the door and pointed to the wall. There was a gash there from the doorknob.

   “You show him that. Tell him you’ll fix it and he’ll let you in without a security deposit.”

   “I don’t know how to--”

   “I’ll do it for you. Slap on a coat of mud, let it dry, sand it. It’ll blend right in. Piece of cake.”

   “Ah. Well…I’ll think about it.”

   He nodded, and his gaze fell to the brooch that was pinned on front of my coat. He examined it for a few seconds then said, “Do you know you’ve got a stone missing?”

   “Yeah.”

   He stared at me for a few moments, waiting for an explanation, but I didn’t feel like giving him one. Fortunately I was rescued by a heavy clomp, clomp, clomping from the staircase. Charlie Baxter, huffing and puffing. He looked about seventy and had a red face, white hair, and a big pot belly. Bigger than Kim’s.

   Ho ho ho.

   “Sorry I’m late Mrs. Dyer.” I shook his hand and debated on whether or not to correct the Mrs. The reasons for and against such a correction were actually only one reason and he was standing right behind me.

   Twenty-five hours. And-a-half.

   I left the Mrs. uncorrected.

   Brian tossed Charlie the key and left us to dicker. I decided on the No Security Deposit Plan and wrote him a check for first and last month’s rent. Yes, white was the only acceptable wall color; yes I could move in this Sunday; and yes I could plant a flower garden in the spring, so long as I kept it weeded.

   Charlie left and I looked around the apartment again. Alone. Damn.

   I trotted carefully down the stairs. Brian was loitering on the porch.

   “So. We’re gonna be neighbors.”

   “Yep.”

   “Need any help moving in?”

   “Oh. Uh...”

   He’s wondering about the Mrs.

   Well. He’d find out sooner or later. Why not sooner?

   “I’m living with my brother, Dave, right now. He has a truck and most of my stuff’s at his place anyway. My dad’s not really up to lugging shit upstairs--”

   Completely untrue. But if he came then my mother would come.

   “--but I think Dave and I can manage okay.”

   I could see him tallying the score. Brother: check. Dad: check. Husband: nope. Then he gave me a big smile. I gave him one right back.

   Then he looked at me a little dubiously. “What are you? Five-foot-three?”

   I scowled. Almost literally. “Five-five.”

   With my boots on.

   “Yeah. Tell your brother I’ll be here to help him Sunday morning.”

   I walked out the door without answering. My car was frosted over just a little. I started it, turned the defroster on high, and stepped outside again for another view of the orchard. Bare and icy.

   On my way back through town I stopped at every business I came to, full of sympathy over the recent loss of their beloved cleaning lady, Mrs. Arsenault. I handed out three pages of references at each one. The doctor, a real estate agent and an insurance company all hired me on the spot, happy to have me start cleaning their offices next week. Because, naturally, all my references were glowing ones.

   I might be Brookfield’s town whore, but I could sure scrub the hell out of a toilet.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Table of Contents

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