“Yeah, well,” Bridget said, “we don’t play much tennis anyway.”
“You want Kevin to come take a look?” He seemed fixated on the fence, while Bridget was certain that the big rocks protruding through the asphalt all over the court were a much bigger impediment to the game.
“I thought he moved to Maine.”
“He came back home,” Walter said, pointing vaguely to the north. “He’s living with his mom just up the road.”
Bridget shuddered; Walter’s grandson Kevin was a few years older than the twins. Was it possible he was already thirty?
“Kevin can come by,” he said, “give you a quote for some new cedar posts. And then maybe…” He glanced across the overgrown field at the old board-and-batten barn. (“Bird-and-bat barn” was the misnomer Isabelle had used as a child, and then more recently “Batshit Barn” was the nickname Oscar had given it, an appropriate moniker given the neglected structure’s broken windows, rickety stairs, and shitting bat squatters.) “…Maybe it’s time you take on that big project?” Walter said.
Bridget adored the barn, the steep roof, the silo, the muted gray paint. “Grand” and “historic” were the words the Realtor had used to describe the eighteenth-century building when she’d bought the property, but after another two decades of decay, even Bridget had taken to saying things like Batshit Barn lost a lot of shingles this winter. The truth was, Bridget hadn’t dared look inside in a decade. It looked like it needed a demolition team rather than a renovation expert, but Bridget couldn’t even imagine. Who was she to tear down a barn that had made it through over 220 Connecticut winters?
“Maybe someday I’ll restore it,” she said.
“Kevin’s got time to help you out this summer. He’s working part-time for the park and rec commission. Trail maintenance and the like.”
Bridget figured outdoor work might suit Kevin well. Lacking muscle tone and snappy synapses, he looked like he belonged in the woods, carrying an axe over his shoulder, bootlaces untied. Bridget had often worried about him when he was a young, chubby-handed, nearsighted, excessively drooly child; he’d believed in Santa Claus until he was twelve.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, hoping Walter didn’t plan on chitchatting much longer. She wanted to put clean sheets on her bed, arrange flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter, clear off the desk in Will’s loft to give Sterling a proper writing space, and buy a case of wine.
As if he were reading her mind, Walter said, “So you don’t need me stopping by? You’ll be around?”
“With my boyfriend,” said Bridget. “He’s never been here before, and I think he’s going to fall in love with the place.”
She didn’t mention that she was hoping to see if her relationship with Sterling might get bumped to the next level. Sterling had an eleven-year-old daughter who was heading off to sleepaway camp for eight weeks, and they were going to spend all that time together, a summer of romance, quiet, and privacy. So, no, she didn’t want anyone stopping by.
“I hope your new guy’s handier than Bill—”
“Will.”
“—because you need to clean out your flues.”
Bridget couldn’t quite picture Sterling as a chimney sweep. “I sort of doubt it.”
“Well, enjoy the summer.” He walked back to his truck, saying, “They say we’ll be getting a lot of rain.”
“Thanks for the eggs,” she called after him.
She turned to go back in the house, standing in the doorway while the cats made up their minds whether they wanted to come in or stay out. Eliza Doolittle decided to come in, while Henry Higgins stayed out.
Bridget walked under the leaky skylight in the entry, through the living room, and into the kitchen. She needed to shower and get dressed in decent clothes before she went to her lunch, but her laptop was sitting in the center of the table in the breakfast room, as if to say, Pssst, remember me? She sat down and opened her email; right at the top, above a message from her sister, Gwen, was a new email from Sterling, with the subject line Airflow? She started reading, something about allergens and his need for a fan that made a nice breeze but wasn’t too loud, but before she could get any further, the battery gave out and her computer went dead. She got up and found her power cord, leaned over, and reached for the outlet under the window. A flash of heat rushed up the length of her arm, all the way to her heart, and—just as the wind had shoved the tennis court fence onto the ground—an electric shock knocked her flat onto the floor.
* * *
After driving to the Sharon Hospital, Bridget found herself lying on a gurney, hooked up to an EKG, with a red streak running from her hand to her elbow.
“We’ll get you out of here,” the nurse said. “Just taking precautions.”
Bridget closed her eyes and pretended she was getting a facial.
“What’s your name, hon,” the nurse said, verifying that the person in front of her matched the chart on her laptop. She was wearing eggplant-colored scrubs with bright pink Crocs, an outfit that clashed with itself and the peach-colored walls. She was a cheerful creature, making Bridget feel as though her electrocution had absolutely made her day.
“Bridget Stratton.”
“Date of birth?”
“June third, 19—”
A quick inhale. “I don’t suppose you’re related to Edward Stratton?” The nurse was looking down at her with excitement.
“No.”
“He’s from England, they say, but he’s got a house around here.”
“No kidding.”
“Our local celebrity.”
Bridget pointed and flexed, pointed and flexed her feet.
“Even at his age,” the nurse said, happily nodding her head, “they say he’s got that… appeal, you know. He’s still got it.”
Staring at the ceiling, Bridget listened to the EKG machine as it beeped an A, at the same pulse of that Pachelbel piece she’d always hated.
“Your blood pressure’s high,” the nurse said, sounding pleased.
“Thanks,” said Bridget.
“No, I mean you should keep an eye on it, watch your diet. Are you exercising?”
The doctor came in past the pastel room divider, saving Bridget from having to answer. He studied her results, took off his glasses, and told Bridget she could go home. She sat up and turned so she was facing him, ready to get the stickers off her chest. The nurse began detaching the wires.
“This happened at work?” the doctor asked.
“She was at home,” said the nurse.
The doctor looked at her like he felt sorry for her. “You should have an electrician check out your wiring.” Lifting her arm, he turned her wrist over and examined the streak. “A shock like that can kill you.”
He got his prescription pad and scribbled on it as Bridget wondered what painkillers or relaxants he was giving her. She didn’t feel like she needed anything but had no intention of turning down meds.
“Braxton & Sons,” he said, handing her the prescription with the name of a local electrician. “They did my outside lighting, and the whole entry is much more inviting.” He looked down at the e-chart again. “Stratton? Say, are you—”