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Two weeks after Josh and Jacki moved in, Verna came down and rang their door bell.
“Hello dears!” she said, when Josh opened the door, “I don’t know your phone number so I just popped down to let you know that we haven’t forgotten about having you two over for dinner, but we decided we should invite the other half of the building as well as we’ve never invited them over either. We shouldn’t play favourites.”
“That’s fine,” said Josh, “Just let us know when. We’re not going anywhere this summer.”
“Where would you go, if you could? Cruise to Alaska, or Hawaii?” Verna asked, suddenly looking very serious.
“Hawaii, probably . . .” said Josh.
“Definitely the cruise!” said Jacki from the couch, “I’ve always wanted to go on one of those!”
“Me too!” said Verna, “Nothing sounds better than eating fabulous food you didn’t have to prepare for an entire week!”
“But you could do that in Hawaii too,” Josh objected. Verna dismissed this with a wave of her hand.
“A cruise is the perfect vacation,” she said, “everything is included, you don’t have to do a single thing after you step onto the boat.” And she nodded twice, very distinctly. Josh didn’t feel like he could say anything more. He just shrugged. Verna smiled.
“Have a nice evening, you two,” she said.
“A dinner party with the whole building, hmmm,” said Jacki, getting up to turn off the TV, “That should be interesting. Maybe we’ll actually meet Number 2 – I don’t think I’ve even seen him yet.” She put on her runners and dug through the junk basket on the counter for her gym card.
“I’m ready,” she said. They had just gotten memberships at the gym up the hill at Five Corners and with the hot days continuing so unusually, the gym really only became a palatable option around 9:00 in the evening. Downstairs in the garage, they climbed into their Jetta and noticed that Number #2’s car was gone.
“What does he drive?” Jacki wondered, “If he’s a banker, he probably has a nice car. Have you ever left for work at the same time?”
“He doesn’t drive to work,” Josh said, backing out of their spot, “I think he walks. He drives a Golf and it’s usually here. It’s black.”
“Oh,” Jacki sounded disappointed.
As they walked into the gym, Jacki momentarily panicked when she saw a short dark greasy head at one of the weight machines. She had worked with Misty for the first three days at work and each consecutively shift had gotten worse. The third day, they didn’t speak to each other at all unless they had to. On the fourth day, a Thursday, the manager came back and Misty didn’t come in. Jacki finally got her schedule. Thursdays through Saturdays 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.
“What shifts does Misty usually work?” she had asked as casually as possible.
“Misty works the 11:00-7:00 shift Mondays through Thursdays,” the manager said, “You’ll be working most of your shifts with a guy named Ethan.” Jacki’s huge sigh of relief had escaped before she could stop it and the manager had raised an eyebrow at her.
Josh and Jacki climbed onto two elliptical machines and started their warm-up.
“I think that’s him,” Josh said in a low voice, turning to Jacki.
“Who?” asked Jacki.
“Shh,” said Josh, “Number 2, our neighbour, I think.”
“Where?”
“On the treadmill by the door,” said Josh.
“How do you know?” Jacki asked, scrutinizing the shoulders and back of the tall man running on the treadmill, watching the Mariners game on the screen in front of him.
“He was walking out of his door when I was leaving a few days ago,” Josh said.
“WHAT?!” said Jacki.
“Shh,” said Josh, glaring at her.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” she hissed.
“There’s nothing to tell,” said Josh, “he was locking his door and he didn’t even see me.”
When they got back to their place, George was just coming back from a quick walk with Leroy. Leroy licked both of Jacki’s knees happily. Jacki patted his head.
“Good thing I like you,” she said.
“How are you?” Josh asked George.
“Fine, just fine.” George said, “Tell me, if you had your choice, what would you do? Take a cruise to Alaska or go to Hawaii?”
Jacki and Josh looked at each other.
“The cruise,” said Jacki at the same time that Josh said, “Hawaii.” George frowned.
“Huh,” he said. He appealed to Jacki,
“You’d really pick the cruise?”
Jacki wanted to laugh.
“Yes, I really would,” she said.
“But why? It’s a floating prison, you can’t get off . . . ” George sighed.
“Good luck winning that one,” Josh laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. George straightened up as much as he could.
“I haven’t given up yet,” he said, “Hawaii will happen!”
Jacki walked out the door to her first day of work, slightly nervous but mostly confident. She had worked in various cafes for years now. It was mostly about figuring out where everything was and memorizing the menu.
She arrived at the front door at quarter to 10:00. It was still locked. She knew there had to be a back entrance somewhere, but they hadn’t told her were it was, so she decided to wait. It was a glass door and they would see her as soon as they opened up. Except that at 10:01 she was still standing outside. Were they doing something in the kitchen and expecting her to find the back door? She knocked tentatively, peering into the darker room. It didn’t look like anyone was there.
She hated situations like this. If she stood here, they might not see her for ages. If she went to find the back door and they finally came out to open up than it would look like she was late, even though she had been early. As she stood, trying to decide what to do, the door finally opened.
“Hi,” said a short girl with greasy dark hair.
“Hi,” said Jacki, not recognizing her, “I’m Jacki – I’m here to start training with the manager?”
“She’s not coming in today,” said the girl, “Family emergency.” She turned around and headed back towards the kitchen. Jacki followed her uncertainly. This was not a good beginning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, thought Jacki, that your new coworkers will not like you if you are better-looking. She sighed as Misty started to set up in the kitchen, ignoring her presence.
“What would you like me to do?” Jacki asked. Misty shrugged.
“I guess, I’ll have to train you enough to, like, get through the day, obviously,” she said, making it sound like Jacki wouldn’t last much beyond that.
It was well into the afternoon before Jacki got the chance to ask for a break. She didn’t know the normal procedure but she was starting to get a little shaky like she always did when she was really hunger. If I don’t eat now, I’ll end up breaking something, she thought.
“Misty, I need to take a break to eat some lunch,” she said, try to sound positive towards her. Misty frowned but Jacki knew the law was on her side – it had been at least four hours since she had started.
“I’ll only take 15 minutes,” she said, “I’ll be back at 2:45.” She walked out as quickly as she could before Misty could make up some excuse for her not to leave.
She pulled out the sandwich she had made that morning, and inhaled it on her way down 5th. Usually Jacki thoroughly enjoyed every bit of her homemade sandwiches which featured avocado, tomato, cucumber, ham and cheese. Today she barely noticed the taste as she thought, Don’t hate Misty yet, don’t hate her yet. Maybe she’s just having a bad day, maybe she’s mad she doesn’t have more help today. It could be any number of reasons but Jacki couldn’t kill the animosity it had only taken four hours to develop. Hopefully they wouldn’t have a lot of shifts together.
Matthews Gallery was open and she decided to go in, seeing that she still had ten more minutes before she had to be back. The gallery was cool and it took her a few second to adjust to the light after the bright glare of sun on the pavement.
The lady at the desk looked slightly exotic with her beautifully curly black hair (Not greasy, Jacki noted), gold jewelry and bangles on her wrists. She was wearing a black t-shirt and a long bright turquoise skirt that looked perfect for twirling.
“Hello,” she said, “Welcome to the gallery. Have you been here before?”
“No,” said Jacki, walking up to the desk, “My husband and I just moved in to a condo here on Saturday. Actually – we wondered if you’re the ‘Matthews’ on the mailbox.”
“Oh!” said Blythe, “Are you the new Number Ones? At 515 Walnut Street?”
“Yes,” said Jacki, “I’m Jacki and my husband’s name is Josh. Which one do you live in?”
“I’m Blythe. I live in Number 4″ she said, “Above Number 2.”
“Do you know who lives there?” asked Jacki, “We’ve only met the couple upstairs, George and Verna . . . and Leroy.”
“Leroy is hilarious,” laughed Blythe, “We’re not supposed to have animals larger than 25 pounds but nobody seems to mind. Number 2 is a very nice man. I barely ever see him. His name is Richard and he does something financial.”
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Jacki said, glancing at her watch, “I have to get back to work – I just started today at the Red Twig bakery.”As she walked towards the door, several elderly ladies started to enter the gallery, one with a walker and Jacki had to wait for them to pass. It was 2:43 and she had one minute before she had to be back. It took the ladies 1 minute and 35 seconds. As soon as they cleared the door, Jacki ran out, nearly colliding with another group of ladies.
In the kitchen the clock said 2:47 as Jacki rushed in, and Misty was glaring at her. She turned her back and wrote something down on a piece of paper. Great, Jacki thought, she’s going to tell the manager. She looked at her watch – it said 2:45:54. It was so unfair.
Blythe tried to smile graciously at Gary. Of course, he was the one waiting on her doorstep. The other two were, at least, a little more socially “with it” while Gary could only be described as happily oblivious. Most people put this down to the fact that he was an artist, an assumption that made Blythe fume.
“What a surprise, Gary,” she said, trying to keep any hint of sarcasm out of her voice.
“Where were you?” he asked, smiling at her.
“Walking,” said Blythe, irritated. Again, the other two would at least have known not to ask. They paused. He was obviously expecting her to invite him in. As Blythe moved towards her stairwell, she thought she saw the Venetian blinds in Number 2 move.
“I’m sorry I can’t invite you in tonight Gary,” she said, “My mother is visiting.” Oh dear, she thought, Why didn’t I simply say, ‘because I want to be alone’? But she knew he would never believe her if she said that. It was necessary to lie. It really was.
“That’s a surprise,” said Gary, “You didn’t mention it last week at the Art Walk.”
“That’s because I didn’t know then. My mother is spontaneous to a fault.” This was true at least.
“Goodnight Gary,” she said firmly, “Have a good weekend.” She walked up the steps and closed the door. And locked it. Then she thought about the Venetian blinds. Had Number 2 been spying on her?
She had barely spoken to him at all, even though he had lived at Number 2 for over a year now. A tall, fairly thin man probably about 35, with normal brown hair and brown eyes. His name was Richard Webb and he did something financial. That was all she knew. The two times she had spoken to him, he had come across as aloof. Actually she had always kind of assumed that he didn’t like her for some reason. He barely said hi. How refreshing, she thought.
Downstairs, Richard sat back in his lazy boy and flipped on his TV. Blythe lied to that man, he thought, therefore she must not like him. He smiled. Such conclusions were beautiful. He liked it when real life was able to supply him with equations like that. It didn’t follow that therefore she would like him, but at least that man wasn’t a serious threat. He sighed. Who was he kidding? Blythe could probably hardly picture him. He could often hear her coming down the stairs, clicking her high heels or flapping her sandals. He would wait until she was safely past before he opened his door. He just knew he would have no idea what to say to her. She was an artist and obviously saw the world through much more colorful lenses then his.
They had had two conversations that he could remember. The first one had occurred at the mailboxes on the corner of the house just a few days after he had moved in.
“Hi, you must be the new Number 2,” she’d said and smiled, holding out her hand, “I’m Blythe Matthews and I own the Matthews Gallery on Fifth. You should come by and see it some time.”
“I’m Richard,” Richard had said, “I’m a financial consultant at RBC Wealth Management.”
“What does the RBC stand for?”
“Royal Bank of Canada.” Her burst of laughter wasn’t offensive, but he had turned a deep full red, in a way he hadn’t done since middle school.
He still blushed when he thought of the second conversation. Three months after moving in, he had finally garnered enough courage to go see her gallery. When he’d gone in, she was busy with a couple at the desk so he had taken a few turns around the room looking at each piece, waiting for her to say hello.
“Hello,” she said, “Can I help you?” It was instantly clear that she didn’t recognize him. And there was the blush again, betraying him brutally. He saw the recognition creep into her eyes.
“Richard, right?” she said, “So glad you came in to check it out. What do you think?”
“It’s great.” He said. He wanted to say how vibrant the place was and how he liked the lighting she had used for showing off the paintings, that he was more interested in these exact representations of objects in the still life pieces than in the landscapes or the ones with people. She waited for more and he couldn’t say it. He wasn’t sure if it would be the right thing to say, if she would judge his ability to appreciate art. He wanted desperately to impress her, the way he could with clients – calmly explaining rows of perfect numbers, their balance, their meaning. He lost his chance. Another visitor approached Blythe and he had walked out.
Mother would never approve of her, he thought. Richard groaned, miserably aware of how much his mother still interfered in his life and how little he did to stop it. The path of least resistance had always been easiest. At least he had won out on becoming a financial consultant rather than a lawyer. He could still hear her voice, “I named you Richard so that you could become a distinguished doctor or lawyer.” He couldn’t see what his name had to do with any profession. But he hated it. Rich was just a bad joke in his line of work, Dick was completely unacceptable and didn’t even make sense as a shortened form of Richard. Rick sounded too much like a sleazy salesman. There was no way out.
He got up, suddenly antsy and did what he always did when he started feeling depressed. Zipping up Walnut, onto Bowdoin and finally to Five Corners, he hopped out of the car and walked into the gym.
Blythe Matthews sat on the floor at the back of her gallery in the dark. It was 8:45 p.m. Usually she closed the gallery at 8:00 p.m. Since the early afternoon, she had been planning the perfect evening in her head. She would go home, take a long bath, open the bottle of wine her father had given her for her birthday and inaugurate the beginning of her weekend by going to bed early. That or turning on the TV and watching several of the thousands of decorating shows to which she was mildly addicted. Either option sounded good.
The threats to her perfect evening had occured at 7:35, 7:45 and 7:55 p.m. One of them was named Gary, another local Edmonds artist. He had been pursuing her acquaintance for the better part of a year. He walked past the gallery windows at 7:35 p.m. and surreptitiously glanced in (so Blythe thought) to make sure she was still there. She knew he would continue his walk and then circle back in time to coordinate with her exit. At 7:45, it was Andrew, the much-younger-than-her college student she had unfortunately collided with at the PCC while trying to find the rather exotic ingredients to a new bread recipe. Four months later, he continued to appear in her vicinity, no doubt hoping to be the victim of another collision. He sauntered past without looking in. Blythe could imagine him going into the Starbucks, ordering the nightly-caffienated coffee that contributed to his college sleeping habits and then watching the clock.
It was against her policy to close early, but tonight it seemed like a emergency. Any minute now, either of them would return, come in and offer to walk her home. So, at 7:53 p.m., she locked the front door and turned out the lights. Two minutes later, she heard the front door handle. She froze as she turned to see which one it was. Brad. Why is he in a suit on Saturday? she thought, as she held still and hoped he couldn’t see her in the dark. Brad was a new lawyer in Edmonds. They had met at the Edmonds Art Walk – his first time – and she had known right away he was going to be one of those difficult ‘How can you want to turn me down?’ types. Her mother would have said, ‘He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’
Blythe rolled her eyes. Here she was, sitting in the back of her gallery, hoping that if she waited long enough, they would give up and not be waiting somewhere outside to intercept her on her walk home. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head again. “Most women would give anything to have multiple men chasing after them – be a little grateful!” Most women don’t understand it’s like having three salesmen vying for your attention, Blythe thought bitterly. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get married. In fact, she was very interested in the idea. The cute young couple who had stared in the windows around 8:30 – she had definitely seen a ring on his finger. No, she was not against marriage, she was not even against romance. But she was very specifically against Gary, Andrew and Brad. Not one of them interested her, why could they not see that?
Her greatest fear was that eventually one of them would wear her resistance down through sheer persistence. Like the salesmen who talked so much, you said yes just so that you could get a little peace and quiet. She couldn’t let that happen. Her other greatest fear was that her mother would finally convince her that she was too picky and make her settle. Maybe I am too idealistic, Blythe sighed, why can I never find anyone who really makes me laugh? She couldn’t even count the number of men who had approached her out of nowhere to ask her out. Blythe couldn’t understand it. I must have available written all over me somewhere. The more she tried to ignore and discourage, the more interested they seemed to become. She was going to need some stronger tactics soon.
At 9:00 p.m. she decided that enough time had elapsed. She peaked out of the back door. No one was in sight. Quickly she locked the back door and set off at a brisk pace with another glance over her shoulder. It’s almost as if I’m in a spy movie, she thought, as she slowed down at the corner at Beck’s Funeral Home and checked to see if anyone was in the alley. Just a few more steps to freedom, she thought and hurried up the path to 515 Walnut Street.
“Well hi, Blythe – I didn’t think I’d run into you tonight!”
“LEROY!”
The dog stiffened. Jacki and Josh heard steps coming down the stairs. An elderly man with a comb-over and large thick glasses appeared at their door.
“I do apologize,” said the man, raising his very bushy eyebrows and glaring at the dog. Leroy ducked his head behind Jacki’s knee. Jacki laughed.
“He thinks you won’t see him that way,” she giggled.
“I’m George,” the man said, smiling at her, “You’ll have met my wife Verna. She must have left the door open a smidge when she came down to bring you the pie. Usually Leroy is a very good dog but he’s very excited today.”
“That’s ok,” Jacki said, completely forgetting the fear Leroy had caused her just a few moments ago, “He seems like a great dog.” She patted his head.
“Well, so sorry to intrude,” George said, “Come on, Leroy, home we go!”
“Do you think he did that on purpose?” Josh asked after closing and locking the door.
“What? Let the dog out? Why would you think that?” Jacki rinsed their pie plates in the sink.
“He just had this smirk on his face when he left. Maybe you didn’t see it.”
“The man or the dog?”
“Well, both actually,” Josh admitted, “I just wondered if he wanted to steal his wife’s thunder by meeting us as well.”
“That pie was good.” Jacki said. She looked at the clock – it was only 8:30 p.m.
“Josh, I think I’m ready to go for a walk. I got my second wind.”
“Great! I just can’t find my flip flops.”Jacki walked to the laundry basket, stacked precariously on the pile of boxes in the middle of their living room.
“They’re right here, dear,” she said.
Outside their front door was a landing. To the left the stairs went up to Number 3. Straight ahead through an arch was the door to Number 2 and another stairwell up to Number 4. On the right a shallow flight of steps led down to the narrow alley way between Walnut Street and Beck’s Lane.
“Let’s go that way,” Jacki said pointing to the back of the building.
The path was well cared for, the rhododendrons were cut back, the ugly wilted flowers removed already. The three planters with petunias were probably Verna’s. At the back of the house was a large parking lot and a lane running through it. Beck’s Lane.
“What’s all this parking for?” Jacki asked, walking down the lane towards Fifth. She turned the corner and stared at the sign.
Beck’s Funeral Home. Wonderful, she thought. I’ll get to walk by that everyday on my way to work.
“Wow, how smart of them,” Josh said, coming up behind her, “They picked the right area.”
“Josh!”
“What?” He shrugged at her horrified look, “I’m just saying, it’s probably a strong market.” She just shook her head at him.
“It’s going to be a nice short walk to the cafe.” She said, changing the subject.
“When do you start again?” Josh asked. Jacki had just been hired as a barista at the Red Twig Bakery Cafe.
“Monday,” she said, “I’m going in at 10:00 a.m. I’m not sure what my shifts are going to be.” They wandered down Fifth and she pointed out the bakery as they went by.
“Everything closes early down here, so I don’t think I’ll have any late shifts,” she said. That was going to be a nice change after working evening shifts at Starbucks.
Josh worked at a chiropractic clinic up the hill. He was a certified athletic trainer and did rehab therapy with patients. On the side, he ran his own photography company. After almost five years, he was getting antsy to have a real studio. His dream was to find a great space in downtown Edmonds. He had an idea that there might be a niche market here for doing elegant and dramatic portraits of seniors.
“See Jacki,” he suddenly said, stopping in front of an art gallery as they neared the roundabout at Main, “Something like this would be perfect. I could display stuff here in the front window and then do studio work in the middle space where there’s still the high ceiling. I could put my office up in that balcony. It would be perfect.”
“Matthews Gallery,” Jacki read, “I thought I saw ‘Matthews’ on one of the mailboxes of our condo! I wonder if they’re connected.”
“We have to find a space like this – there has to be something available near here,” said Josh, still concentrating on his imaginary studio.
“Yeah, for a lot of money!” said Jacki, “Do you really think we could afford to rent something this big and pay our mortgage?”
Josh frowned.
“It could happen,” he said defensively.
Inside Number 1, Josh and Jacki, the new tenants flopped down on the couch, currently shoved against the wall rather than facing the fireplace because a mountain of boxes was still occupying that space.
“I just want to go to bed” said Jacki. Her feet throbbed. “I don’t think I ever walk this much in a day.”
“It’s only 7:30!” Josh said, “Don’t you want to go out and explore our new neighbourhood?” Jacki’s heart sank. That was the last thing she wanted to do right now. Sometimes, it amazed her that after two years of marriage, Josh still hadn’t quite figured out that when she was tired, all she wanted was a bowl of ice cream and a good book.
“If we go right now, we can walk down to the waterfront and watch the sunset!” Josh was already up and looking for his flip flops. “What suitcase are the shoes in, Jack?” he called from the bedroom. Jacki felt like she couldn’t answer. She could see them. They were right there in the laundry basket in the living room pile, but if she told him, it was almost as good as agreeing to go. Josh and his whole family could maintain a level of energy that endured long after she was exhausted. It wasn’t that she was a weakling, she just needed to recharge more often.
“Josh,” she said and paused.
“You don’t want to go,” he said, coming back into the living room.
“I’m tired.” she said.
“Right,” He sat down again. “Ok, so what do you want to do?”
“Nothing,” they sat in silence for a few minutes and then Josh got up,
“I’ll go get the computer set up.” Jacki just nodded and closed her eyes.
The knock on the door made Jacki jump. Her first instinct was to yell “Who is it?” but she realized she wasn’t likely to know. She wrenched herself up from the couch and went to the door. A little lady with a cloud of white hair and bright red lipstick stood there holding a pie in frilly pink oven mitts.
“Hello, dear,” she said, coming in, “I’m Verna. I live upstairs with my husband George.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Jacki automatically. Verna set the pie on the counter and looked around. The furniture looked very uncomfortable and modern but she didn’t mind the colors. The couches were a dark green and the arm chair was light blue. The table and chairs were that dark wood everybody loved these days. She looked at the blond girl, who was looking down at the pie.
“It’s apple pie,” said Verna, “What’s your name?”
“I’m sorry,” said Jacki, “It’s been a long day. I’m Jacki and my husband’s name is Josh.”
“JOSH,” she yelled. The spiky haired young man appeared. His hair wasn’t naturally spiky – it was held in place with a very strong hair product. Verna had never seen such a carefully designed head on a man before.
“I’m Josh,” he said, shaking Verna’s hand, “It’s nice to meet you. How long have you lived here?”
“George and I moved in here when he retired about five years ago.” said Verna, “but I need to let you two enjoy your pie” (this glancing at Jacki who was again staring at the pie),
“We’ll have you over for dinner soon and then we can get into all the details. I need to go check the flower pots outside before it gets dark.” She nodded good night.
“That looks like a great pie!” Josh said as she closed the door behind her. Jacki was already cutting it. There was silence for awhile as they both enjoyed the truly perfect apple pie that Verna had created for them.
“What a nice neighbour” Jacki said, “I wonder if all our neighbours are retired?”
“It is Edmonds,” said Josh.
Just then, they both heard shuffling and heavy breathing outside of the door. Then a steady banging sound started, as if someone was hitting the iron railing that led up the stairs to Number 3.
“Something’s out there,” Jacki whispered, suddenly scared.
“Sounds like a large animal,” said Josh, “I think it’s sniffing around our door.”
“I thought cats were the largest animal we were allowed to have in the building?” Jacki said as the snuffling sound got louder, “Josh, it’s right at our door!”
“Don’t worry, Jacki, it can’t get in.” Josh laughed at her, “I’ll go shoo it away.”
“Be careful Josh! What if it’s some kind of guard dog?” But Josh thought the snuffling sounded friendly. He threw open the door. A large overweight Bernese Mountain dog looked up at him surprised and for a second the banging stopped as his tail went down. Then he let out a joyful bark, bounded into the living room, spotted Jacki as she shrieked, and gave her a big lick on the knee.
It was a Saturday morning in Edmonds, Washington. Cafes and galleries were opening, and cars were parking, passengers emerging to enjoy large breakfasts. Down by the water, early morning joggers were able to see the peaks across the water emerging as the sun began to burn off the clouds. For once, June was acting like a real summer month.
On Fifth and Walnut, a large moving van was parked outside of a condo building. 515 Walnut Street was an unassuming pinkish building with four units. The ground floor unit closest to the street was finally going to be occupied again.
Directly above Unit 1, in Number 3, Leroy knew something unusual was taking place. On the street below, he could hear banging and raised voices. He let out a tentative bark, wondering if someone would respond. Verna, owner of Leroy, shushed him. She sat at the dining room table, drinking a cup of tea while she finished the crossword in the paper.
“It’s just the new neighbours at Number 1,” she said to the slightly overweight Bernese Mountain dog who turned to look at her, “They’re moving in today.” Leroy wagged his tail. Maybe the new neighbours would have a friend for him. George and Verna had lived in Number 3 for almost five years, ever since George had retired from teaching history to high school students.
Verna couldn’t quite see the Sound from their living room window, but she liked knowing it was there, within walking distance. George had wanted a view.
“George dear, we can enjoy the water everyday by taking a short walk. We don’t need to pay to own a small piece of the view,” Verna had nodded her head twice, in that certain decisive way of hers and the next thing George knew, 515 Walnut Street #3 was their new address. His consolation was realizing he finally was fulfilling a small and secret dream to live on a street that had a name.
“Verna,” George called from their bedroom, “The new number ones look quite young. Straight out of college, I’d say.”
“George! Are you spying on them?” Verna sounded horrified, but was at the window next to him, faster than he expected. At 63, she was still as energetic as she had been at 50. She’s not getting old as quickly as I am, George thought as he looked at her. She had a halo of white hair and deep laugh lines, but she was still looked thin and fit in the pink jogging outfit she was wearing from this morning’s walk. He patted his more significant waistline unconsciously.
“Which ones are they?” she asked, as she raised herself on her tip toes in order to peer over the lace curtains.
“It’s hard to tell,” George said, “They seem to have pack of friends helping them, but I think the spiky-haired one with the big glasses is directing operations. The one in the red t-shirt. He doesn’t look old enough to be buying a condo!”
“You were 25 when we bought our first home, dear” Verna said smiling at him, “He could easily be 25 – they don’t dress their age the way we used to.”
At this point, Leroy, who had followed Verna into the bedroom, squeezed himself in between them and jumped up to rest his paws on the window sill. In the one-second glimpse he got before George ordered him to get down, Leroy saw his nemesis, Henry, prowling on the pavement below. He let out a distressed howl as he landed on all fours again. Cats were so lucky. There was Henry, getting in on all the action and excitement, allowed to go outside unsupervised, while Leroy had to stay in the house or on a leash. Life just wasn’t fair. He looked mournfully up at his owners but they didn’t pay any attention to his big sad brown eyes.
“I think that’s his wife,” George said, as a pretty blonde girl came around the corner from the condo entrance.
“You can’t assume that they’re married,” said Verna. They don’t get married the way we used to, George thought, rolling his eyes.
“I’ll have to bake them a pie,” Verna said, turning around, “They’re going to need some good food tonight. What should I do, apple or banana cream?” Without waiting for an answer, she was gone, and George heard cupboards open. I hope she makes one for us too, he thought.
Dear Readers,
I hope to shortly start posting daily excerpts of a novel (well hopefully daily – that may be overly ambitious but we’ll see). I was inspired to embark on this adventure by Alexander McCall Smith’s fabulous serialized novels, 44 Scotland Street and Espresso Tales. I haven’t gotten to read the third, Love over Scotland, yet. He was challenged by a newspaper to write a novel about Edinburgh in daily segments, just like writers like Dickens used to do. The books are fun, light-hearted but never meaningless and they follow the inhabitants of 44 Scotland Street.
After finishing my novel that I had mulled over for almost six years, I spent the last several months wondering if I would ever get a new idea and new characters. I could hardly imagine coming up with new characters after knowing my last ones for so long. But, after just recently finishing Espresso Tales, I thought that it would be so fun to try out this form of novel-writing and almost immediately I had my characters – six of them! All I needed was a four unit condo complex in downtown Edmonds. So I went on Redfin, my favourite real estate website and what do you know? There it was: a unit for sale at 515 Walnut Street, a four unit building. I was thrilled!
I haven’t prepped as much as I probably should, but in a way, I am viewing this as a writing exercise to help me develop the habit of writing daily. I have scoped out the condo building (ignoring the no trespassing signs for once in my life!) and spent some time figuring out what my six new characters look like. I hope you’ll find the excerpts interesting enough to follow along, comment and even suggest things if you want to. Smith says in his introduction to 44 Scotland Street, that he was greatly encouraged by one lady who wrote to him regularly with her thoughts on how the story was progressing. You should see the first post in a few days.
The seaweed in pieces, like so many exploded balloons, in purplish reds, greens, white - as if some grand celebration had taken place the day before
The driftwood, scorched white by sun, scoured by sea until smooth
The sand fleas, disturbed, leaping into a million directions like small fireworks
The sky clear, with only the most elegant thin line of cloud, like a heron stretched in flight
The rocks on the shore, shaped like dark avocados, looking like wet sealskin
And the sun going down, so that suddenly the air is chilled with the loss of light and everyone turns to go home.
It felt weird yesterday to simply say for the first time, in answer to the question “What do you do?”, “I’m a writer.”
It felt good because it finally felt valid. I’ve spent this entire week labouring on my screenplay which isn’t technically pure writing since it’s an adaptation. It’s the joy of problem-solving and organizing information, the challenge of removing what isn’t needed. I’m finding it fascinating and totally fun.
Instead of saying “someday” or “my career goal” is to be a writer, I’m sitting here actually being one. And it feels right. Although a bit lonely . . . I do think I’ll need extra social interaction, if I’m going to be at home for awhile. If I get a part-time job, shortly, that would probably be perfect.
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