Borrowed Things

By Doris Schneider

Borrowed Things takes place in North Carolina, alternating between Durham and Pearl, a fictional town on the Lockwood Folly River. It traces a year in the separate yet symbiotic lives of five characters whose paths cross and sometimes connect.

Wishing to reinvent herself, Anne Gray sells her Durham home to Noah Levinson, who also negotiates for the temporary use of her things and their stories in the desperate hope they will infuse some of Anne’s spirit and resilience into his ailing wife, Elizabeth.
Anne finds a new home in the dying town of Pearl where she releases the memories of two failed marriages as she sails the waters of the Inner Coastal Canal with a haunted Latino priest and an elderly woman who rides a bicycle and wears No Fear t-shirts. Through Anne’s not-so-divine intervention, Father Paul and old Marjorie unveil their long held secrets, and come face to face with the embodiment of their abandoned hope.
At the same time, back in Durham, Noah and Elizabeth struggle with their marriage as they endure the myriad treatments for her cancer, finding diversion and an objective look at themselves as they read Anne’s stories.
Throughout, Anne and Noah exchange emails that eventually threaten the peace they both seek. Anne is finally forced to come to terms with her past and accept or reject the opportunity for a last and lasting love.

Borrowed Things honestly addresses issues about relationships and the struggle to bridge the gap between a conservative upbringing and a changing, sometimes permissive society while maintaining a sense of humor. Tia Bach, co-author of the award-winning Depression Cookies wrote about the manuscript, "Borrowed Things is Southern women's fiction at its best, capturing your heart within the first few pages. Anne Gray is a rare character, equal parts strength and compassion. Readers will identify with her struggles and lingering questions as they enjoy her exploits and journey toward friendship and love. But most of all, they will find themselves transported into a town rich in memorable characters, intriguing history, and many secrets."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doris Schneider
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301898114

Doris Schneider

Doris Schneider is a writer, artist, and former professor of theatre at William Carey University and North Carolina Central University. While directing a play in Singapore, extra time in a lush hotel room prompted her to continue writing a story she had begun years before in a not-so-lush tent in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The result is Borrowed Things. Her interests also include short stories and memoir.

Book preview

Borrowed Things

Doris Schneider

Borrowed Things

Doris Schneider

Copyright © 2013 by Doris Schneider

Edited by Tia Silverthorne Bach

Cover Design by Jo Michaels of INDIE Books Gone Wild

Cover painting by Doris Schneider

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Dorianne

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Jim

Acknowledgments

I have the life-experience and perhaps the DNA to feel great regard for family and friends, many of whom played a major role in enriching and refining this novel.

I want to thank Tia Silverthorne Bach, my editor and an award winning novelist, for her belief in this manuscript and her great skill at guiding without invading a writer’s vision, and Jo Michaels of INDIE Books Gone Wild for her cover design. I want to thank my husband, James L. Coke, without whom this story would not exist; my daughters, Elaine Woods and Jessica Rhyne, for providing support and real-life character models; and my friend Diane Bryson for her insight and challenging questions on motive and plot.

Many other friends and members of various writing groups provided feedback as well as specialized knowledge on sailing, psychology, and medicine. Of these I particularly wish to thank Jim Keen, Don Bryson, Dr. Dennis Sinar, Angela Silverthorne, Lucy Littler, Billy Rhyne, Eloise Currie, and Jan Lamoreaux.

Last, I want to express my sincere gratitude to Dr. Rachel Victoria Mills, my journaling teacher, for setting me free as a writer.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 La, God of Good Lungs

Chapter 2 Finding Pearl

Chapter 3 A Silver Basket & An Iron Armadillo

Chapter 4 Confession

Chapter 5 The Wooden Box

Chapter 6 Therapy, Land or Water

Chapter 7 To Teach or Not

Chapter 8 Sissy

Chapter 9 Wednesdays with Nana

Chapter 10 Gifts

Chapter 11 Sex & the Egg

Chapter 12 Purple & Red

Chapter 13 Phase to Logan

Chapter 14 Durham Revisited

Chapter 15 A Pearl Christmas

Chapter 16 The Hobnail Vase

Chapter 17 Valentine Pearls

Chapter 18 The Letter

Chapter 19 Luke

Chapter 20 The Story of a Day

Chapter 21 Another May

Epilogue

Borrowed Things by Doris Schneider

Prologue

Running backwards,

in slow motion,

leaning away,

twisting to side,

lifting heavy foot,

turning,

nothing gained,

no safety found.

He follows,

wings beating,

watching as she

flails air

with weighted arms

and silent screams,

falling, pierced

by his song and sting.

Anne sits up violently, throwing the covers aside, reaching for her robe. God! I have to get out of this house!

She stops, hugging herself and finding control. The coffee has dripped and waits to be poured. She grabs a mug, fills it, and walks to the back door, shrugging into the robe and exiting the too-tight feeling of threat and hurt. On the deck, she pulls a chair against the wall, wraps the robe close against the morning chill, and raises the hood. She sits, pulling her feet up into the chair, almost fetal, sipping the warm caffeine, waking head and body, separating her essence from the recurring nightmare.

Anne’s deck overlooks the lake and gardens. For the thousandth time, she questions her need to sell this house and get away. It is the perfect home in the perfect location, and just ten minutes from her daughter. Above the steam of her coffee, she sees the beginning glow of light beyond the trees across the lake, and she looks away, her heart contracting at this warm reminder of her daughter and granddaughter. But Summer and Lindsay’s nearness do not erase Anne’s need to leave.

The real issue lingers in the rafters and beams of the house, in the siding and painting she and Steven had worked on together. Their efforts still permeate the sheetrock walls, their sweat still not dry. This perfect house is full of the haunting memories of a marriage gone berserk.

In addition, it is too close to the university where Anne’s generosity of spirit causes her to have difficulty saying no to requests for more of her time, although she is finally retired. And last, increasing traffic in North Carolina’s Research Triangle (Chapel Hill, Raleigh, and Durham) has made cycling difficult and dangerous, too easy for a planned accident—the ultimate contradiction. She wants to stay but she needs to go, to begin a fresh segment of her life—somewhere without reminders of her past. She breathes in deeply and slowly lets it out. Besides, she reasons, my children and grandchildren will want to visit me at the coast. It will be their getaway as well as mine—if I can ever get away. Six months on the market, and not a single buyer with a realistic offer.

Everyone says I need time to adjust to single life again. Time, powerless time. It can heal physical wounds, she allows, but not injury to the spirit and the heart. That kind of healing needs more . . . I suppose it requires forgiveness . . . but I can’t pull that out of my pocket.

Anne tries to brush the shadowy thoughts away. Like an ostrich, her head sinks beneath the sand of remembrance until she can accept the past as illusion. She has heard of people who dream fine fantasies that become the meat of novels, or others with dreams that foretell the future. Her dreams are always recycled reality, a detailed reliving of the betrayal that ended her second marriage and marked her as a relationship failure, incapable and undeserving of love. Last night and this morning, every time she closes her eyes, the moment returns—the instant his eyes looked through her and revealed his intent. But after each plunge into his darkness, she resurfaces wearing the Pollyanna mask that carries her through the day.

Anne looks up again to witness the orange glow slowly emerging, haloed by a yellow sky gradually fading to blue. The newborn light reaches the lake, shimmering, sparkling, and dancing on the water, performing for its singular audience.

Why now? I thought I had purged him even from memory, our story bottled up in some vessel to be forgotten. But it isn’t forgotten. It pervades every cubic inch of air in this place, seeping into the insulation between the wall studs and rising through the floor joists. It feels like there’s a cloud over this house raining negative memory. I have lived with that too long, and now there’s something new, something different—a sadness, mixed with anger and disappointment. This new feeling moves inside her, circling and tightening around her heart as conflicting emotions struggle for dominance. Shake it off, Anne.

A prehistoric sound draws her eyes above the sunrise, and a great blue heron soars into view, gliding gently down to the dock, wings open and feathers like fingers spread. Her lips curl upward as she imitates his sound. He turns, observing the woman who greets him every morning with a voice like his own. Click. The shutter in her eyes freeze-frames the bird, saving his image for a future painting. I should have painted you long ago, my friend. But something has suffocated the creative in me.

She calls to him, finally releasing a bright smile. Hello, Blue Bro. Rising and stretching, she sheds the morning’s melancholy. The hood of her robe falls away, revealing tousled hair that sparks red and gold in the early dawn light. In imitation, the bird spreads his wings, and the feathers on his head rise. For a tick in time, Anne feels her own arms are wings. The moment passes, and she lowers them, weighted by gravity, accepting her limitations. The heron walks awkwardly to the edge of the dock where he too pauses, accepting his own limits, keeping his watchful distance while longing, as she longs, for more. She pulls her robe around her again and looks up at the glowing sky with renewed determination. She raises a small balled fist and shouts in a whisper. Screw you, Time! I’ll heal myself!!!

The heron croaks. Faaarrrkkk!

She answers. Faaarrrkkk!

Chapter 1

La, God of Good Lungs

The sun also sets. Anne sighs and gazes for another moment at the dawn turning to day and the heron lazily flying away, close to the water, his wing tips touching, forming concentric ripples.

A personality can be affected by events, but no matter how traumatic or disillusioning those experiences may be, it doesn’t change the core of the individual. Anne Gray is the rare woman who looks delicate and sensitive, but her fair freckled skin covers a spine of steel-infused DNA, subject to periods of dark irrational self-loathing that segue into bright optimism and cheerful self-discipline. She sighs as responsibility, like a powerful magnet, draws her inside to begin the tasks of the day.

In spite of her ability to whistle and imitate bird calls, Anne cannot sing. So she tunelessly hums a love song from Phantom of the Opera while she roams the house and assesses the results of months of repairing, painting, cleaning, and discarding—trying to see it with fresh eyes, the eyes of a buyer. What remains of her once crowded, once bustling household is a spacious quiet home. She has only her most precious belongings on display. Their presence gives her courage.

For over twenty years Anne designed scenery, creating environments to fit characters and actions in plays for the stage, making visual spaces communicate to an audience. She also tried to do that with her house. But she knows that every audience member interprets what they see according to their own life experiences and needs. So far, no one needs this house. But Noah Levinson of Chicago may already be in the air, travelling to Durham to find a new home, perhaps this one. What strange circumstance brings him here? I wonder if he remembers me.

The mail truck arrives while Anne waters ferns on the front porch. Crossing the lawn, she stoops and replaces the fallen For Sale by Owner sign, a necessary result of divorce and early retirement. Oh, for the luxury of a realtor.

Continuing to think like a buyer, she turns and looks at the old place, assessing it for street appeal. She knows the current real estate trend is toward a big new house with oversized bathrooms and closets and a small lot with little to no yard work. Her house is large, but otherwise, the exact opposite. She looks up at the windows to the loft above the great room, both added ten years ago by a dyslexic contractor who kept reading measurements backwards. Anne and her husband Steven became his crew. Two years later, an attached garage and shop were added with a large recording studio over them. The studio was created for but never used by her former musician husband. After their separation, she turned it into a one-bedroom apartment to help cover the increased mortgage payment due to their property settlement. The apartment that saved her financially is now a problem. It has been called to her attention that this is a single-family residence and the apartment is against the Homeowners Association Guidelines. No one wants to pay for square footage they might seldom, if ever, use. She is looking for the proverbial needle/buyer in a housing-glut haystack, someone with a child-come-home or a dependent in-law who could legally use the outlawed space.

She sighs and waves to her neighbor Ben as he drives past, on his way to teach at the university where his wife resides in the campus cemetery. She looks next door but can’t tell if Barbara is home, now that she parks her car in the garage that was once filled with her ex-husband’s tools. Now Barbara spends most of her time in South Carolina with her new boyfriend. Soon-to-be-gone and long-gone friendships.

Formerly an ideal place to raise a family, the children are all grown and gone. So it’s quiet. Most people work and keep to themselves unless a large snowfall brings them together for chili and beer. Being snow-bound makes everyone lonely. Memories of chili, beer, snow, and old friendships pass through her mind, reviving the ambiguity of her need to leave.

Crossing the street to her mailbox and reaching inside, she finds an unexpected letter from Faye, her oldest friend, and instantly feels the beginning of dread. Standing in the street, Anne opens the letter. The first sentence tells of the loss of Faye’s father, one week ago. Clouded with emotion, her questionable gift of too much insight and empathy blocks the moment’s reality. A car rounds the corner, moving well above the residential speed limit. The driver honks and swerves, narrowly missing her and then narrowly missing the telephone pole on the opposite side. Anne stands frozen while unfocused images of Steven flash through her mind. When she can move and breathe again, she has already missed the chance to read the disappearing license plate. Anne shudders and slumps. Paranoia has long tendrils, and Steven still casts an even longer shadow. Why is he so much on my mind today? It has been years.

Walking back to the porch, she sits heavily with legs crossed and re-reads Faye’s words. It’s too early in the day to call her. I’ll try later when I can give her the support and attention she surely needs. Like me, she was a daddy’s girl.

She carries the letter and the weight of her friend’s news inside, and then purposefully moves upstairs to tackle the remaining sorting problems. The usual clutter of a home office and studio, augmented by the physical remains of her campus office and many years of teaching, is in stacks on every scrap of horizontal space. Exams ended the previous week, and Anne’s retirement began. She donated most of her books to the Theatre Department library and still somehow managed to bring home a roomful of stuff. She wonders now at her foolishness. The collage of theatre office remnants morphs into a still-life arrangement for a painting, symbolizing the students, the colleagues, and that all-important sense of worth and purpose.

Worth and purpose. She laughs. Even that duo began to slowly erode, along with her patience and self-image, following her divorce. One day, she threw a chair in class in an emotional explosion at the tardiness of half of her students. She realized it was time to reassess or to take an anger management class. She began planning an early retirement.

Anne feels herself being sucked in by emotional memories. You need to walk away.

She bumps a chair, which in turn hits the computer and jars it to life. Checking her email, she finds a lower than low-ball offer that doesn’t even deserve a counter. She then opens a response to a previous message from yesterday.

Email to A. Gray: Arriving at 5:00 p.m. to look at the house. Thanks for the map.—N. Levinson

Yes, Mr. Levinson, I couldn’t get to you; maybe you can get to me. Anne moves on to her handsome easel, a gift from Logan, the last and best man in her life, dumped due to fear of a third relationship failure. She examines the unfinished portrait of her older daughter and two grandsons. The composition, a triangle with a strong diagonal of light touching only their remarkable eyes, cheekbones, and a few wisps of auburn hair reminds Anne of her set designs—bold and clean, and always triangles. This was the first painting after Steven left, but like most creative efforts in these last years, it is far from completed. If she can make herself open paint tubes and lift a brush, she will finish it before the move. Oh well, considering the real estate market, there may be time to paint a one-woman show—if only I could make myself begin.

The phone rings. A showing to a realtor with a potential buyer is scheduled. On impulse, Anne calls Summer at work. Hi, sweetheart. I’m selling the house today.

Really?

Her daughter’s voice betrays a touch of panic, making Anne’s heart tighten. Stop sounding abandoned. You know I have to do this or go bonkers.

Don’t bonk, Mom. So who’s the buyer?

I don’t know. I have a three o’clock and a five o’clock. One of them.

I see. Are we wearing our clairvoyant hat?

Maybe I am. The three o’clock seems very eager. If nothing else, I’ll keep her here until five when the gentleman from Chicago arrives. They’ll fall in love at first sight and buy it together. Of course he’ll have to leave his wife first, probably an answer to her prayers. Anne chuckles. How’s that for optimism?

Sounds more like depraved desperation.

Hey, I already got one offer in an email.

How much?

Seventy below asking.

Hell, I’ll buy it for that.

Really?

No. But I love you, Mom.

Back at you, Summergirl.

After the phone call, Anne takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. I’ll shower and then attack the studio—no more walking away.

At 3:30, the realtor with the 3:00 appointment calls to postpone until 4:00. At 4:00, she calls to postpone until 4:30. At 4:45 the doorbell rings.

Come in! Anne calls, controlling her irritation. Almost two hours late. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hear the doorbell from the studio and abandoned that project at 3:00, filling time downstairs while waiting for the realtor. After the second postponement, she decided to bake cookies for her granddaughter, Lindsay, and was unloading the last pan onto a cooling rack when the doorbell rang, and then rang again.

Please come in!! This time, she calls louder and with attitude. As the last cookie slides off the spatula onto the rack, she looks up and into the questioning eyes of a well-dressed middle-aged man standing in the kitchen doorway. Click. She suddenly feels frumpy in her jeans, t-shirt, and oven mitt, blowing a lock of hair from her face.

Sorry to surprise you. I’m a little early. Anne doesn’t respond but tosses the cookie sheet into the sink while regaining her composure. You obviously don’t like surprises. Did I let myself in too far? He smiles weakly, and her irritation disappears as her emotional guard goes up. When she still doesn’t immediately answer, he continues, releasing boyish charm. I could back into the living room, or just leave and drive around for fifteen minutes. But, can you keep the house smelling just like this? And may I please have a cookie to take with me?

Stop! She laughs, pushing the stray lock of hair out of her vision, angry with herself for the blush of pleasure rising to his compliment. I was expecting someone else, an unpunctual and inconsiderate realtor. She has already postponed three times and might show-up while you’re here.

Will that be awkward?

No. I have actually fantasized that the two of you will fall in love and buy the house together—or start a bidding war. Is your marriage stable?

Not very.

See, perfect solution. Here, have a cookie. Have several. If you buy the house, you can have the whole batch.

His smile takes on a wooden effort as he reaches for a cookie and dutifully tastes it. Oh .. . my . . . God! Then he takes two more.

A little too effusive, you kiss-up. Anne cools her blush, reminding herself she has a house to sell, and that she isn’t interested in men, especially this one. Once fooled, twice foolish, and there won’t be a third time. Besides, I don’t think foolishest is a word.

My childhood just flashed before me. If you don’t have children, buy some. This shouldn’t be wasted on old taste buds. I know this is oatmeal, but what else is in it?

Raisins, cranberries, pecans, and a certain spice I can’t divulge without killing you. Would the old taste buds like some iced tea?

Yes, if it isn’t southern sweet. By the way, I’m Noah Levinson.

And I’m Anne Gray. Ring any bells? Of course not. You would only know me by my married name. You’ve come a long way, Mr. Levinson. How was your flight? Humor gone, her words are stiff, tinged with sarcasm.

Please call me Noah. May I call you Anne?

Of course. She hesitates, knowing they’re fighting for control, and he’s winning. Naturally! He’s a big time publisher and she’s just a retired teacher, one whose work he once rejected. She looks at him more carefully. The teasing done, he seems tired and drawn. The flight couldn’t have been too rough—not a hair out of place on that upper management salon-styled head.

One side of his mouth lifts and then abandons the beginning of a smile. The flight was the usual. No time wasted. I used to like to read a novel between naps, meals, and cocktails. Now it’s a laptop and a cell phone between a soft drink and pretzels.

Anne agrees. There are disadvantages to modern technology. We’ve become our own secretaries, and carry our office with us. Why don’t we go relax in the great room? A few more cookies, and then you get the tour. Is your move to Durham due to a job transfer? They walk through the dining room and into the great room where large windows face the lake.

Not exactly. Wow! Your pictures didn’t do it justice.

The room?

The view! He opens the door and walks out on the deck as if he already owned it. Perfect. The lake is a deep blue, reflecting the late afternoon sky. The weeping willow on the left at the edge of the water is yellow-green with new growth. The Chinese redbud, just past its peak, is still covered with intensely pink blooms, and the ornamental grasses which dominate her gardens are beginning to show their varied colors. Everything looks fresh and young and hopeful.

Are you overwhelmed every time you step out here? You didn’t send me pictures of the island. I think I understand. Some people would have come just to see it, with no intention of buying.

Anne shakes her head at the way he jumps ahead of her answers. She tells him about her first summer here when the lake’s dam was being repaired and the water level was low. Many neighbors took advantage of the dry lake bed to enlarge their back yards, reclaiming land that had washed away from lack of retainer walls. Instead of adding to her yard, Anne built a small island, which fit neatly into the cove that water and wind had sculpted through years of neglect. She mortared stone retainer walls around the island and on the water’s edge of her lot. A short bridge spans the six foot distance from yard to island. Beside it hangs a sign given by a latter-day-hippie friend printed with the words, Welcome: Children, Animals, Unicorns, and Lovers. And then she met Steven.

Pure fantasy, Noah muses, almost too precious. How would Elizabeth react? He walks slowly down the deck steps, down the slate path, across the bridge, around the Chinese redbud in the center of the island, and onto the dock on the far side. He turns, looking back at Anne and the house, observing the brick patio surrounding the maple, the garden shed providing privacy from the neighbor on one side, and the natural fence created by trees and tall shrubs on the other. He notes the low garden walls made of stone. A secluded fantasy world in the middle of a suburb—Elizabeth might just love it.

From this distance he really looks at Anne for the first time. Her hair’s too short and her temper too quick. She’s trying to play me, but she doesn’t have the killer instinct. And I don’t have the time or energy for games.

Walking back, he notes the good condition of the siding and the roof, the freshness of the paint. What about boats? He stops on the steps and looks up at Anne.

Rowboats, canoes, bass boats with electric motors, and small sailboats are allowed, but no gasoline motors. That’s my canoe over there. It goes with the house.

Good.

We have a variety of fish and waterfowl. The gardens are mostly ornamental grasses and hardy perennials that practically take care of themselves. The only invasive grasses are in containers. I plan to mulch heavily, so weeding will be minimized.

Is that the apartment? He gestures to a door on the left of the deck.

Yes. That door opens to stairs that lead to the apartment above the garage. Would you like to look at it since we’re out here?

How do you get to it from the front?

There’s a gate to the right of the garage as you face the house. It opens to a courtyard garden that leads back here to the patio and the apartment door. Would you like to see the garden?

No. Is the apartment still occupied? Anne takes a deep breath, and he knows she is controlling her negative response to his selective interest, but he doesn’t have time for her full sales pitch.

Sue is moving to a condo in a converted tobacco warehouse in downtown Durham. It’s a great place for a single person, close to restaurants, jazz clubs, theatres, Duke Hospital, the Durham Bulls stadium. Have I talked you out of this house and into a condo? Should I cut out my tongue?

You’re funny. Is the apartment furnished?

It is now, but Sue’s taking her furniture with her. Would you like to see it?

No, my schedule’s tight. I’d like to see the master bedroom.

Anne hesitates, then turns and walks inside to a French glass door with lace curtains. It opens from the great room into the master bedroom. Noah follows her, understanding her reluctance. She probably wanted to show me the smaller bedrooms first so this one would seem larger by comparison.

Struck by the calmness he feels in this room, Noah pauses and notes each detail, surprised to see the walls are stark white. The tall queen bed, white down comforter, and several pillows in varied shades of green dominate the space. A burgundy throw is casually draped over the corner of the bed, a novel on it. Beside the bed, in place of a night table, is an antique sewing machine with a reading lamp, several more books, and a vase of dried grasses. Above the iron headboard hangs an artfully framed waterscape. Other art work and photographs of five generations of family hang in carefully planned groupings. On the faux-painted chest of drawers, a carved statue of Don Quixote holds a sword in one hand and a book in the other. Beside it is a plain wooden box, contrasting with the ornate jewelry boxes on her dresser next to pottery lamps, perfumes, and a Mardi Gras mask with plumes and sequins. He feels like a voyeur in this room that exposes the woman quietly watching him, laying bare her pedigree, her sensibilities, and her sensitivities.

Above is a slow-turning white ceiling fan. I believe there’s a fan in every room I’ve walked through—an excess, even in the South, but nice. You have a strong sense of color and design. But why are only these walls white?

Whenever my life begins anew, I cut my hair and paint the bedroom white. She blushes as if this information was too private and unplanned. "This isn’t a large room, but you really live in the other spaces—the great room, the dining room, and the kitchen—and they actually are large."

This room feels bigger than it is. I think it’s because of the glass door and all the light it gives. That’s a good decorator choice.

Let me show you the other bedrooms and guest bath.

I have to go. I can’t be late for my next appointment.

Stunned, she leads him to the front door. Did I tell you the roof and heating and air conditioning units are new? And wouldn’t your wife like to see it?

Noah stops at the door and turns. It’s all perfect. Why are you leaving?

That’s a long personal story. Why are you coming here?

Equally personal!

Anne pauses, realizing she is being rude in response to his rudeness, but she can’t resist a bit of sarcasm. Sorry. But for future reference, Mr. Levinson, what exactly turned you off? Was it a spider web I missed, the apartment and bedrooms you didn’t see, the shop you didn’t even ask about?

You’re funny, Ms Gray. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Walking to his car, he hears the door close, soundly.

As she storms away from the slammed door, Anne resists the urge to scream, glad she didn’t remind him of their past connection. She didn’t want him to know he had rejected her a second time. The phone rings. What!

Whoa, Mom. What’s up? Have you sold the house?

Do I sound like I’m celebrating? Anne takes a breath and softens. Sorry, Summer. I need to calm down. I just spent a day preparing for two serious buyers. The guy from Chicago refused to answer questions about himself, and didn’t even look at half of the rooms. Instead of showing him the house, I felt like I was being pulled around behind him. He was more interested in my decorating than in the property, and he ate half the cookies I made for Lindsay.

Oh, he is no good, especially the cookie part. Why were you questioning him? Good looking?

No! Yes! I simply wanted to know what he’s looking for . . . in a house. He says he’ll be back. Right! He couldn’t wait to leave and look at other houses.

You’re famous for your insight. Couldn’t you get a read on him?

If I had to describe him, I’d use the words: angry, controlling, very smart . . . and sad.

Sounds volatile. Also sounds like the type you tend to bring home and take care of. Be careful. What about your three o’clock realtor?

She postponed about four times and never showed up. I’m sure I’ve heard the last of her. To be honest, I thought I’d already heard the last of him.

Excuse me?

He’s a publisher who rejected my textbook years ago.

"Ouch! So, a book-rejecting, cookie-mooching be-back and a no-show she-rat. You have had a bad day."

Put that to music, and we’ll take it on the road. Anne laughs and then exhales her frustrations. Thank you, honey. I feel better already. But don’t be surprised if I give up my Pollyanna attitude and turn it over to a realty company.

I thought that wasn’t an option.

What, giving up Pollyanna or calling a realtor?

Either one, my believer-in-the-human-race, financially-depressed mother.

I’m not destitute. I just want to maximize my buying power at the coast. I thought I would be sensible for once in my life and hold out for some financial security.

Come on, Mom, you wouldn’t know what to do with a flush bank account.

That’s right. Who needs it? And you don’t need an inheritance, do you?

Hmmm, bribery. All right, what can I do to help you? Come to the gym tomorrow. We’ll exercise and strategize. And in-between, I’ll tell you all the problems I’m having with my second line manager. What a creep. I think it’s therapy time for both of us.

Anne winces as she listens to her daughter putting up a brave front, trying to mask the longing for her mother to stay, but also trying to reciprocate the support she has always been given.

I’ll be there. Give my angel a kiss. Tell her I’ll bring the cookies tomorrow. And give the big palooka a hug for me.

Would that be my husband or the dog?

Anne chuckles as she sets the phone down. It rings again. Forget something?

Yes, my manners.

Noah?

Right! I want to apologize. My life is a little out of control right now, and I’m really tired. I like your home, and I’d like to come back tomorrow morning at nine, if that’s all right. I want to look at everything, but I have another appointment across town at eleven.

You’re considering another house?

No.

Finally, Anne listens to his voice. "And you’re not going to another house now, are you?"

After a long pause, he responds. I have a conference call with my wife’s oncologist in Chicago and her new one at Duke.

You don’t have to explain. I’ve been so focused on selling the house that my antenna for other people’s problems has been out of order. I’m not usually so insensitive.

You’re fine. I much prefer humor to sympathy.

So, I’ll see you at nine? I’ll make coffee. She gently touches the off button.

After a simple supper of stir-fried vegetables and rice, she makes the postponed call to Faye, and they talk about her father, pulling Anne into her friend’s pain and loss. Then she calls her brother Earl, who listens and soothes, always her rescuer from deep moods or deep water.

For a change, sleep comes quickly only to be disturbed by a dream of Steven. In it, they are walking, talking about his betrayal. He looks like the vulnerable boy/man she first married. As they pass through an unknown whispering town, he confesses and then begs for her forgiveness. Before she can respond, strange people gather around them and drag him away. She is silently screaming as they place a rope around his neck. His eyes look directly at her, burning with condemnation. She slowly climbs out of the dream-become-nightmare.

The next morning, following coffee and a more detailed tour of the house, Anne and Noah sit in the great room, the sunlight filtering through bamboo shades, at once exotic and soothing. He seems different, no longer the CEO, man in charge. Or maybe she is just looking at him differently. On the outside, he appears to be in his mid-to-late forties, average height and build, wel-proportioned, but a little soft from a sedentary job. His hair is dark and, without the salon styling gel, it curls. His eyes are brown and watchful.

Because he doesn’t offer, she asks. Is your wife’s cancer treatable?

You go straight to the point, don’t you? He moves forward, sitting on the edge of the couch as tension follows the opening of a subject he never shares with others.

Sorry, I do tend to say what I’m thinking, a little trait I inherited from my mother.

"I don’t talk about it, but I probably should. There are lots of treatments. She has ALL—Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. Whether the treatments will make a difference, we don’t know. When I say we, I