When the bell rings for a fourth time, I send Mac out to oil the doggy door. I’m a lot better in confrontational situations, since I’m not so quick to escalate.
Although, really, odds are good that someone’s going to bring us a damn casserole soon and that we’re finished with all the Negative Nellies. We’ve already been yelled at by neighbors on either side and across the street. Surely there can’t be anyone left in our immediate proximity who has reason to dislike us without even having met us.
You know what?
There are a lot of angry people in this neighborhood.
My shoulders are killing me. Between yanking open the heavy front door and tensing up when strangers yell at me, I’m in desperate need of a massage.
By the time the bell rings for the fourteenth casserole-free time, I’m spoiling for a fight. I’m tired of being told that my driveway needs to be power-washed, that I’m remiss in planting my purple ornamental cabbage to show support for the high school’s baseball team, that I put my recycling in the wrong kind of bin, and that the moving van needs to be repositioned because it’s causing “an uncomfortable glare while I’m trying to watch Wheel of Fortune.”
How is everyone around here so mean? These people live in amazing houses on the most beautiful street in the coolest town and yet no one’s happy? How does that work? At this point I don’t blame this home’s caretakers for not keeping it in better shape; there’s no pleasing anyone around here, so why bother?
Despite the pain radiating up my shoulder, I whip open the door with all my might. “What now?” I bark into the shocked face of Liz, our Realtor.
“Is this a bad time?” she asks, then tentatively offers me an enormous basket filled with lots of wine and cheese and serving accessories.
I apologize profusely, call Mac, and crack open one of the bottles of pinot.88 We move to the couch, where we give her a rundown of our afternoon.
“I don’t get it,” I cry. “Everyone seemed really nice up here when we were looking at houses. What went wrong?”
“Why don’t we have any casseroles?” Mac adds.
“I don’t really know what that means, Mac,” she replies. “But I’m afraid what you’re saying makes sense. After the closing I ran into the trust’s attorney at Starbucks. I found out that if the trust wasn’t able to sell this place by April first, there was a plan to turn the property over to the community.”
“Turn over? I’m sorry. I’m lost,” I tell her.
Liz sighs and takes a small sip of her wine. “Meaning that this property was going to be torn down and made into open lands. Basically, your house was earmarked for a nature preserve that the neighbors would be able to access, and now that you’re here, they won’t get it.”
Mac leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table. I’m so relieved about finally having furniture that I don’t even dive for a coaster. “We were in a bidding war! If we didn’t buy this place, someone else was going to. The neighbors wouldn’t have gotten their park regardless.”
A pained expression flashes across Liz’s face. When we asked Liz to represent us, she balked, insisting she wasn’t that familiar with the Abington Cambs market and that having the inside scoop could be crucial. But we insisted harder, and now. . here we are.
“So what you’re saying,” Mac continues, “is that we’re already in the proverbial doghouse with these neighbors. They’re predisposed to dislike us.” Then he slumps back onto the couch, mourning the loss of casseroles in perpetuity.
“Unfortunately, that’s about the size of it. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I should have turned you over to a local Realtor and—”
I’m not accepting this brand of defeatism. “Stop right there.You did a great job, because we’re here, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll have to try a little harder to win over the neighbors, but I’m sure we can, because, need I remind you, we were destined to live here. I mean, if the Jablonskis could get over Babcia rewashing everything on their clothesline89 and the Pasquesis forgave her for annexing their yard for her vegetable garden,90 then we can rally. All we did was buy our dream house, and all they need to do is get to know us.”
Liz smiles at me. “I admire your determination.”
“Or your delusion,” Mac adds.
“Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to give it a little time. Trust me.”
After we finish our visit, I walk Liz to her car, hugging her briefly before she leaves. “Thank you for everything, and we’ll see you soon.”
When I close the front door, a blinding flash of pain travels up to my neck and the knob comes off in my hand.
This had better not be a sign.
Chapter Nine. FALLING THROUGH THE EARTH (OF SORTS)
“Love what you’ve done with the place.”
Tracey and I are standing in my front hallway. The area that had once been dated and dingy is now — hmm, what is the proper designer term for it? — ah, yes, a frigging war zone.
The Dumpster we requested a week ago hasn’t yet arrived, so Mac thoughtfully placed every piece of broken vanity top, each shattered tile, and four metric tons of drywall in the foyer beside the front door. He argued that the neighbors would have our heads if we placed the refuse outside without a bin, and I’m inclined to agree with him. We’ve already been on the receiving end of three different neighborhood petitions regarding our trees, our dogs, and our ability to accessorize.91
“You like it?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” Tracey dryly asserts. “Very fetching and postmodern. Reminiscent of Bosnia. Or Herzegovina. The broken tile has the insouciance of a land mine, while the plaster hunks scream ‘ethnic cleansing.’ I believe you’d describe this whole look as ‘bank.’ ”
All I can do is nod.
“Really, Mia — might I ask what you were possibly thinking?”
I explain, “Mac has a ton of vacation time. He’s been with his company since graduation, so the amount of time off he gets is ridiculous. He’s taken the whole month of May off, and he has tons more days accrued after that, too. Anyway, he decided that since we’re not going to be traveling—”
“As you’ve invested all your money in this house,”Tracey offers.
“That, and because I have a book due, we’re not going on vacation, so Mac was trying to figure out what to do with his time. Point? After spending a weekend watching Genevieve Gorder make over outdated baths, he decided he was ready to start renovating, and he’s been ripping out fixtures ever since.”
“Clearly this”—Tracey makes a broad sweeping motion over the shoulder-high piles—“came from more than one place. What happened to your plan to take your time and finish one room before moving on to the next?”
I exhale deeply, and my breath sends little plumes of construction powder into the air. Somehow when Mac explained things, ripping out all the upstairs bathrooms made sense, but now I’m not so sure. “I suspect he may have gotten carried away.” While we’re standing there, the core of Mount Drywall destabilizes, followed by a minor avalanche that spills across Tracey’s Pumas.
She shakes her foot, creating swirling eddies of dust motes. “You think?”
Before I can come up with a snappy retort, there’s another knock at the door. I wipe away the grime coating the side window and see a familiar dark head. “Hey, Kara! Welcome! How was your visit with your folks?”
Kara plows into the house so quickly that she churns up all the dust and she’s suddenly nothing but a blur of bangle bracelets and bouncy hair. “You mean other than the four hundred and twenty-seven conversations we had about my being in my thirties and not yet married? Great! Just great,” Kara responds through gritted teeth.