On the other hand, there were loads of things I didn’t like about the place: the noise, the ugliness of city living, and the lack of a beautiful view. Grabbing my list and coffee, I relocated to my window. In Pitchford, my view would be of endless trees and distant green mountains still frosted with snow, but here, my apartment faced another apartment complex.
In the parking lot below, a couple was having a fight. A woman in an open-topped convertible wagged her finger at a man who threw his hands in the air and stalked off to his car. Backing out of his spot, he lowered his window to get in a last yelled word and with spinning tires spitting gravel, sped out of the lot. The woman gave him a one-fingered salute. Crazy — I would have thought she’d be happy to get his parking spot; they weren’t easy to find in this part of town.
Also on the cons side of the list was the fact that I hated the long brutal winters here. Yes, Pitchford had freezing winters with plenty of snow, but snow in the city was different, nice for five minutes, and then it became a filthy, muddy mess with rivers of slush and pelting ice shrapnel that made walking a misery. I also wasn’t wild about the vitriol-spewing, bone-deep, take-no-prisoners fundamentalist religion that was sports in this city. For someone who had no clue about ball games, and even less interest, it could be hard, even isolating.
Isolation. That hit home because in Boston, I was deeply and profoundly alone. I didn’t feel lonely precisely, or at least didn’t feel it very much. I’d been flying solo for a long time, and I’d been emotionally and mentally disconnected from others for even longer. But recently, I’d become aware of an increasing tendency to navel-gaze and talk to myself. On Wednesday, I caught myself muttering out loud about the limp serrano peppers at the local Stop and Shop. I was at definite risk of turning into a mad cat lady — minus the cats, of course. I didn’t even have pets for company.
The cost of living in Boston was crazy — that was a definite disadvantage. If I was being honest, it was probably the killer blow. I couldn’t imagine landing the sort of job I’d need to pay for even this tiny apartment. Thanks to my parents, I had no student debt, but even so, money was a big factor in my decision. Then there were the other biggies: no job, no prospects, and no real network to help me out.
Also, no Ryan.
I missed him, no two ways about it. I missed his sense of humor and his hugs and his solid presence beside me when we went for walks in the woods or snuggled on the couch. I missed his kisses. It was time to admit, if only to myself, that I liked him. A lot. And he liked me. I could tell. And we could get together and do a whole lot of mutual liking if we were in the same place at the same time. The tip of my pencil hovered over the line between the pros and cons columns, unsure where to catalog this point. Part of me thought that a relationship with Ryan, a real relationship, might be wonderful, that with him, the juice might just be worth the squeeze. But another part of me — a raw, vulnerable, weak part — lived in fear of loving and losing again. I didn’t trust life not to betray any faith I placed in it.
I finished my coffee, black and bitter, the way I’d preferred it ever since my near-death experience back in December, the way Colby had always taken it. I’d spent ten years mourning the loss of him, but in the last few months, I’d grown up a little and healed a lot. I’d emerged from my cocoon of numbness, and I felt like I might just be ready to move on from the past, possibly even from Colby. I had a feeling I’d need to if I wanted to deepen my relationship with Ryan because juggling two boyfriends — one in this world and one in the spiritual plane — was bound to get all kinds of crazy.
I tallied up the pros and cons of my balance sheet. There were equal numbers on both sides, and only one that really tugged at me emotionally. Awesome. I was absolutely no closer to making a decision.
I flung myself onto the sofa and stared at the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Two of its three bulbs were dead, and I couldn’t figure out whether the black mark on the ceiling beside it was a stain or a roach. I narrowed my eyes, squinting for better focus. Had it just moved? If so, it was bolder than me, stuck and stagnating here, pinned in place by the fear of failing or getting hurt again. The daily horoscopes printed beside the crossword puzzle in the newspaper caught my eye. Feeling like I was becoming more like my woo-woo mother by the day, I checked mine on the off chance that the stars would have some guidance for me.
You can’t swim to your future paradise if you’re still clinging to the shipwreck of your past.
Irritated, I flung the paper up at the ceiling, hoping to hit the black spot and answer at least one question of the many that were bugging me. Instead, the newspaper made it a scant two feet into the air then rained loose sheets down on top of me. I unearthed myself from my paper-and-ink shroud and checked the ceiling. The black spot was now on the other side of the light. I mentally added roach infestation to the right-hand column of my list.
There were now officially more cons to staying, but if I went back home with my tail between my legs, what on earth would I do with myself there? With a sudden burst of clarity, I realized that my problem wasn’t about having to choose between Pitchford and Boston; my real crisis lay in figuring out how to move forward with my life. I was almost twenty-nine years old and had nothing to show for it. No career, no savings, no home of my own, and no husband or kids, which according to my mother, were shortcomings indeed. I felt like such a failure. Worse, I felt like a cliché. I might as well be lurking in the basement of my parents’ house, playing Fortnite and hanging out on Reddit because I was little more than an overgrown teenager whining about my life while having no idea how to kick it into gear.
My phone rang. Startled, perhaps from the loud sound intruding on my morose meanderings or perhaps from seeing who was calling, I tapped the answer button.
“What’s up?” the upbeat voice on the other end said, and without waiting for an answer, continued. “Good news! I’ve found you a job.”
– 9 –
Saturday, April 7
Pitchford, Vermont
The woman who opened the door of the large brick house wore a hopeful expression. In her late thirties with neatly braided blond hair and wearing skinny jeans and a white linen shirt, she managed to look casually elegant in a way I could never pull off.
“You must be Garnet McGee,” she said.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Gwyneth Fletcher, Henry’s daughter.” She stepped out of the house, closing the front door behind her. “Come on. I’ll take you straight to him. He’s in his playroom with all his babies.”
His babies? I’d been told that Henry Mason, attorney-at-law, was in his seventies.
As we walked around the house to the back of the property, I snuck a look at my phone. That morning, I’d texted Agent Singh, once again offering to help with his inquiries, telling him I was even willing to drive down to Rutland and meet him at the FBI office there or at a coffee shop if he didn’t want to be seen with me at his workplace. Seeing no reply message, I shoved my phone back into my bag.
At the back of the Mason property, cedars, ash, and alders reached the bare bones of their branches up to the sky, but the maples sported a rash of red buds, the only spot of color against the dull grays and browns of the early spring day. Located in the center of the backyard, surrounded by the stumps of trees — felled to give it more sun, presumably — was a large greenhouse about twenty feet long by fourteen feet wide, with sides and a roof of opaque glass.