I walk over in my bare feet, following her to the front window, and spot Bill, the mailman, making a trip out here just for me. It’s New Year’s Day, which means the post office is closed. And it’s snowing another layer on top of what we had. I appreciate him coming out here today. Snowball barks urgently—someone has crossed the perimeter of our domain.
“Stand down, Snowball.”
Bill’s tamales were a major selling point for me when Harper first told me about this quirky lakeside community. A mailman who delivers tamales along with the mail. Does it get any better than that? Imagine my disappointment when we first met a month ago and he told me the tamales were only a spring and fall happening. Winter made the tamales cold on arrival, and summer heat destroyed them. We worked out a monthly deal for the off-season. He’s fantastic at what he does. I keep telling him he should open a food truck by the lake.
Snowball quiets, her white eyebrows lifting over big dark eyes as she gives me her desperate for food look. Or it could be extreme concern that I told her to stand down when there’s clearly someone on the property. I don’t know. I don’t speak shih tzu. I go with the most important point.
“No, you can’t have any. Tamales are not dog food.”
I head over to the front door, and she trots by my side. My mouth is already watering. This is my second delivery of tamales, and I’ve been thinking about eating them for lunch ever since I woke up.
I scoop Snowball under one arm just before I open the door in advance of Bill’s knock. She’s not used to all the open space here after our Manhattan apartment, and I don’t want her to get lost out there in the snow. I smile at my tamale-delivering pal. “There’s the man of the hour.”
Bill’s cheeks are ruddy from the cold. He’s a middle-aged white guy wearing a gray cap with earflaps and a navy wool coat. When I first heard about the tamales, I’d hoped for a Mexican community here. I love Mexican food, the spicier the better. Nope. Just Bill here cooking up tamales. I’ll be eating these all week and happy to do so.
“Happy New Year, Wyatt. Hello, Snowball.” He hands me a foil-wrapped package of twenty tamales. “Still warm, I hope.”
“Thanks. Feels like it.” Snowball’s nose works double time as she leans toward the package to sniff.
Bill gives her a scratch behind the ears. “Aren’t you a pretty girl?”
Snowball leans into his touch, which speaks volumes. She doesn’t like just anyone, and she’ll growl to let them know where they stand in her opinion. She’s a good people barometer.
I hold up the tamales. “I’ve been looking forward to these all day. You want to join me for lunch?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “My wife’s got an early New Year’s Day dinner planned. She won’t be happy if I fill up on tamales. I’d better go. Enjoy.”
“I’m telling you, Bill, a food truck down by the lake, featuring these tamales, would kill it. People would drive from miles around to get these.”
He waves that away. “I know you would. See you.”
“One day, I’m telling you.”
He leaves, whistling a happy tune.
I shut the door, set Snowball down, and head to my newly remodeled kitchen. White cabinets with simple silver bar pulls, light gray granite countertops, and a center island, also topped with light gray granite, with cabinet space underneath. The heated floor is large white and gray square tiles. First thing I did when I bought the place was have it cleaned top to bottom, pulled out old carpet, and replaced all the wallpaper with a neutral cream paint. Then I moved in while the contractors renovated the kitchen and bathroom. Now my 1920s house reminds me of a cozy bed-and-breakfast. I have plans for a library, a larger living room, and a master bedroom suite. Once the permits come through, I’m also adding two more bathrooms.
This place used to be a farm. The property has acres of woodland, rolling grassy hills, a large chunk of flat land, and a pond. It hasn’t been farmed in a long time. I’m having a blast with it. It’s the first time I’ve owned a fixer-upper, and I get to dig into historic architecture to do it. The best part is the landlocked lighthouse on the property. You can see it from all over town since I’m at the top of a hill. I’m not even close to Lake Summerdale, which is only big enough for canoes and rowboats anyway. No big ships approaching. Ha-ha. I appreciated the irony of a lighthouse on dry land, so I bought the house.
A few minutes later, I set a plate of three tamales down at my rectangular wood kitchen table, with a glass of milk, napkin, fork, and knife. Snowball settles next to my chair to watch, lying down, as she knows is polite. I never feed her at the table, but she’s always hopeful I might accidentally drop some food. I carefully peel back the corn husk surrounding the tamale and slice off a piece. I pop it into my mouth, closing my eyes and groaning over how good it is. The sauce bursts with spicy heat combined with melted cheese, shredded pork, and a delicious corn masa. Perfection.
I moved to Summerdale on Harper’s recommendation, who grew up here. She described it as a dinky town no one’s ever heard of. Sounded like a great place to lie low and chill. I wanted that because I’m tired of fake friends with their hand out and the constant fundraiser circuits. I contribute behind the scenes now, mostly anonymously in the form of donations, but I’ve also helped turn around some failing businesses. Only if I’m comfortable with my business partner. They can’t be a money-grubber who’s going to spend it on themselves and let the business go down the drain. That’s why I insist on some control. I’m one of those people who can see the forest for the trees instantly. And I get the job done.
Besides the occasional business project and playing renovation supervisor here, I’m officially retired after several lucrative tech startups. Most recently I sold my virtual reality system to a certain social media company who was willing to pay handsomely for it. And I created and sold a few other tech companies before that.
I take a drink of milk and meet Snowball’s soulful eyes. She worships me. “Good girl,” I murmur before taking another bite of tamale.
I lived in California for a while, hanging with the other Silicon Valley whiz kids, got invited to fancy parties, including a few in Hollywood. Briefly dated an actress—nightmare. The woman would barely eat and was all drama all the time. Eventually, I moved to Manhattan to be closer to family. I’m the man of the family ever since my dad died when I was thirteen. My three younger sisters are in their twenties now, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need me. Two of them live in New Jersey, where we grew up, and one in Manhattan.
Snowball races out of the room, barking. Strange. I don’t know many people in town yet, and she’s not a big barker. Maybe Bill came back for something. I stand, taking one last longing look at my lunch before leaving it. No one else knows about my hidden lair out here in the suburbs of New York except my family. Crap. An in-person visit with no notice means one of my sisters was too upset to do anything but act on instinct. They know I’ll take care of whatever it is. It’s not a problem with our mom, or I would’ve gotten multiple texts and phone calls from all three sisters. Besides, Mom’s in her prime, climbing mountains and hiking in her fifties.
I reach the front window, order Snowball to stand down, and watch as my youngest sister’s red Jeep comes to a halt behind my silver BMW SUV. Kayla sits there, inspecting herself in the rearview mirror and then applying makeup under her eyes.