Volunteer, so Sam stops wondering what I do up here all day.
Fix the door to Sam’s office. He keeps complaining about it. It slams loudly every time someone comes or goes, disrupting the sessions. He’s said he’ll call the contractor himself, but I’ve assured him I’ll take care of it, that it’s the next thing on my list.
But I have no intention of taking care of it, and it’s never made it to any list. The truth is, I like the reminder that he’s downstairs, that I’m not completely alone here, roaming a house with a storied past. Because that’s another thing about this place. The last owner, an unmarried sixty-seven-year-old woman named Agatha Lawrence, died here, lying blue-lipped on the floor of her study for five days before her body was discovered by the housekeeper. The story has become part of the town’s folklore: the wealthy spinster dying alone, every woman’s worst nightmare. All that’s missing are the nine cats.
It’s no wonder I struggled with the idea of being alone here all day, and while Sam was originally intent on finding an office somewhere （air quotes） “downtown,” I convinced him to consider an office here, at the garden level of the house, in the large airy space once used for storage.
“You could knock out the wall in the back and make it all windows,” I suggested, showing him the rough sketch I’d drawn. “Right here would be the waiting room.”
“You’re right,” he said, having gotten a sense of the other options in town. “I think this is it.”
And as it turns out, I was right; everything has worked out spectacularly. I found a contractor who （for a hefty price） agreed to a rush job, transforming the once sterile space into a gorgeous office with radiant floor heating, top-of-the-line light fixtures, and a floor-to-ceiling window offering a view of the rolling backyard and the woods beyond.
I dress quickly and rush down the stairs, hearing the slam of Sam’s office door. In the kitchen I mix the drinks, and as I’m about to open the front door and step onto the porch, I see the patient through the pane of glass, Ms. Flimsy Sundress, loitering at the top of the driveway, absorbed in whatever’s happening on her phone. I step away from the door and silently will her to leave—Scram, lady! It’s my turn with him—and then Sam’s office door slams shut again.
“You’re still here,” I hear Sam say.
“Sorry, got distracted by some work thing.” I walk to the living room for a peek out the picture window that overlooks the porch and the driveway beyond, catching sight of Sam and Flimsy Sundress, noticing the dreamy look on her face. I’m accustomed to the way women respond to Sam and his square-jawed good looks, his face straight out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. “It’s certainly nice to see this place become a home again, after the sad story of the last owner,” she says. “And thanks again for today, Sam. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I hear the tinny beeps of her car door unlocking and wait until the sound of her engine disappears down the hill before opening the front door. Sam’s at the mailbox, sorting through the stack.
“Hey there, heartbreaker,” I say. “How was your day?”
He smiles at me, awakening that dimple. “Long,” he says. “I’m exhausted.”
He mounts the porch steps and hands me the mail addressed to me as I give him his glass. “What shall we toast to tonight?”
He looks up at the house. “How about to a new life for the Lawrence House?”
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
I clink my glass against his and then tip back my head to take a long sip, wondering if he can sense it, too. The wrongness of this place.
Chapter 3
Sam turns up the radio, a can of Brooklyn Lager gripped in his hand. “Bottom of the eighth, two outs,” the announcer known as Teddy from Freddy murmurs from the speaker, with that slow-rolling delivery that has made him famous across Maryland. “Bo Tucker takes the plate. Fast pitch. High pop up to right field. And . . . it’s an out.”
“Damn it,” Sam yells, squeezing the can so hard he sloshes lukewarm lager all over his lap. The game goes to a commercial as the phone buzzes on the passenger’s seat. A text message from Annie.
Hello dear husband.
He checks the stopwatch on his phone—forty-six minutes—and opens another beer as a woman appears suddenly, walking toward Sam’s car. He slides the beer can, his third in the last forty-six minutes, between his knees, and she startles when she sees him, clutches her purse. He can’t blame her. He’s a dude drinking beer and listening to minor league baseball in the parking lot of a long-term elderly care facility. He understands the optics.