“Well, are you at least having a good time?” Lynnette takes a long drag. “Seeing the world?”
“The best.”
She exhales a plume of opaque white smoke before stubbing her cigarette against her crystal ashtray. “Then that’s all that matters.”
“Say, what’s the deal with the house?” I scratch my temple. “Drove by earlier, and it looked like someone was living there? Saw lights on inside and someone standing by the window.”
I had to slow down to make sure I wasn’t seeing something.
My guess is it’s a squatter.
Her forehead creases. “Yeah. That’d be Donovan’s . . . fiancée. I guess that’s what you’d call her? She’s not his widow since they weren’t married . . . anyway, I hear she’s finishing the renovation they started.”
I chuff. “She realizes she doesn’t actually own the place, right?”
“Honestly, I’ve never talked to the girl. And actually, I didn’t even know Donovan was engaged until after he died and someone at the coffee shop was talking about his fiancée. I was going to introduce myself and offer my condolences to her at the funeral, but the poor thing was inconsolable. Since then, I’ve only ever seen her around town in passing. She mostly keeps to herself. Just works on that house day and night. It’s sad, really.”
The sad part is that anyone would be that heartbroken over losing Donovan.
“So wait. Why is she pouring money into that dump?” I’m still confused. The thing leans to the left and needs a new roof, a full electrical rework to bring it to code, and a complete gut job inside. You look up money pit in the dictionary, you’ll see a picture of that shithole. Maybe it was a beacon of beauty in its first life, when some local 1900s doctor built it for his growing family, but once my mother passed and my father was left to care for it, it took a one-way trip downhill.
“You’ll have to go straight to the source on that one,” she says. “Like I said, I’ve never talked to her. I think her name is Annie? Annielynn? Something like that.”
“Hate to break it to Annielynn, but I’m about to raze the damn thing. Hope she hasn’t put too much time and money into it . . .”
Lynnette cocks her head. “You can’t do that, can you?”
“My father left Donovan the house after he died,” I say. “Donovan died childless and unmarried and, as far as I know, without a will. As his closest living relative, that makes anything and everything he owned legally mine. Once I get the paperwork in order, I’m donating it to the fire department, watching them burn it to the ground; then I’m out of here.”
“Oh, come on, kid. You really want to cause all that trouble over a house that isn’t worth anything anyway?”
“It has nothing to do with what it’s worth,” I say.
“Oh, honey. I know you want to burn your past to the ground and you think it’ll make you feel better, but it doesn’t work that way. In the end, there might be a pile of ash where that house once sat, but you’ll still feel the way you feel right now.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“That poor girl is so heartbroken.” Lynnette splays a bone-thin hand over her heart. “I wish you could’ve seen her at the service. The way she cried, you’d have thought they’d been together a lifetime.”
“Obviously she didn’t know him very well.”
“Still.” Lynnette doesn’t disagree. “Just because your last name is Byrne doesn’t mean your life needs to be all fire and brimstone all the time.”
“Is there any other way?” I give her a wink, keeping a straight face.
“You need a place to stay while you’re here?” She changes the subject. “I can make up the pullout couch in the basement. My sister’s coming later this week, but it’s yours for the next couple of nights if you want it.”
“I got a room at the Pine Grove Motel.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, hell no.”
“What?”
“That’s the last place you should be staying. Nothing but hooligans hanging out on that side of town.”
I choke on my laugh. “Hooligans. You’re really showing your age, Lynnette.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Rest assured I can hold my own against hooligans, riffraff, and ruffians,” I say.
“I’m not worried about that.” Her eyes scan me from head to toe, and she stifles a chuckle. She always used to say I was built like a brick shithouse—in fact, she’s the entire reason I went out for football in high school. “It’s an inconvenience thing. If you want your catalytic converter stolen or your room broken into, then by all means, stay there.”
A Monte Carlo with a busted muffler and a neon pizza sign on the roof pulls into the driveway.
“That’s dinner,” Lynnette says. “You’re staying, yeah?”
“Who eats at four o’clock?” I tease.
“Oops, am I showing my age again?” She swats at me from across the room before getting up to meet the delivery guy. “Set the table, smart-ass. We’ve still got more catching up to do.”
THREE
ANNELIESE
lagom (n.) not too much, not too little, just right
“Good morning! Hello, hello.” I plaster a smile on my face Sunday morning and wave to the couple on my computer screen. Several weeks ago, they hired me to come up with three name options for their baby girl, who’s due any day now. “Are we ready for the big reveal?”
These moments are just as nerve racking as they are exciting—for both me and the parents. The vast majority of the time, I’m met with smiles and laughter and clapping and general fanfare. On rare occasions, I miss the mark by a mile. In those cases, the parents are generally stiff lipped and give me a fake smile and a curt thank-you, and I never hear from them again.
I have a good feeling about these two, though.
Jake and Seraphina Dybeck are a picture-perfect, nice-as-pie couple from Montpelier, who describe their perfect baby name as the kind of classic moniker you’d see in a Pottery Barn Kids catalog but with a vintage twist. During our initial consultation, they gave me a list of names they couldn’t or didn’t want to use (ones they loathed, they disliked, or other friends or family had already used), as well as a list of names they liked but didn’t love.
“We’ve been counting down the days,” Jake says, slicking his hands together.
Seraphina grins wide, covering her face in excitement. “I’m so nervous I think I might pee my pants.”
“Ha! Well, we definitely don’t want that, so I won’t keep you waiting any longer,” I say, grabbing my notebook and flipping to their page. “Okay, so the first name I have for you is . . . Adeline Iris Dybeck. Adeline is a fresh take on names like Madeline, Madelyn, or Madeleine. You can pronounce it however you prefer, and you can call her Addie for short if you’re into nicknames, which, Jake, I know you said you wanted something that could be formal and shortened. We also have the mismatched syllables—three in the first, two in the last—as well as the long i sound in all three names.”