Daughter of Ashes

THREE

‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.’

St Theresa of Avila, 1515-1582

Alas, because of a curriculum planning meeting Paul had forgotten until a colleague called him with a last-minute question, we had to skip the High Spot café and hustle back to Annapolis. Paul could function for days without food, running on diet cola and fumes, but I was faint with hunger, so he took pity, stopping at a Subway just north of Pocomoke City. I dashed in for a spicy Italian foot-long sandwich – half with jalapeños and half without – which we shared as we drove, staving off starvation.

We stopped for gas on the outskirts of Easton and switched drivers. With his hands free, Paul made arrangements with Caitlyn for a quick house inspection, and after the appraiser’s report came in later that evening, Paul studied it, did the math and made an offer.

Two days later, we were back on the Eastern Shore. Caitlyn had telephoned that our offer for Legal Ease had been accepted, so we agreed to meet her at the High Spot in Elizabethtown to talk specifics and, hopefully, sign the agreement papers.

Losing my dream home because of Kendall Barfield’s unethical shenanigans still stung, so I tried to clamp a lid on my excitement by tabling any redecorating plans, at least until the ink on the contract for Legal Ease had dried. Yet not even the weather that day – a cool, misty rain – could dampen my spirits.

Parking was plentiful on such a gray morning, so we pulled into a spot on Elizabethtown’s leafy town square, scrabbled in the pouches behind our seats for umbrellas and climbed out onto the puddled sidewalk that surrounded the square.

Elizabethtown’s town square was dominated by a war memorial, a gray-stone obelisk rising like a miniature Washington Monument from the center of a three-layered concrete wedding cake. But the nearby bandstand, decorated in vibrant colors like a circus carousel, easily stole the show, adding a whimsical high Victorian touch to what was otherwise a rather staid little Georgian town.

We hustled along High Street, past the hotel that used to be a bank and now – according to a sign in the window – served afternoon tea on chintz tablecloths from three to five o’clock in the vault. The office of Barfield and Williams came next, their windows plastered with listings of area homes for sale, including, inexplicably, the one we had so recently ‘lost.’ I made a rude noise and hurried on. An attorney at law, an antiques store that specialized in restoration hardware – I made a mental note – and… I grabbed Paul’s arm. We were standing in front of a store called Passionknit. ‘Check out the yarn,’ I breathed.

Paul frowned. ‘Do I have to?’

‘No, but I think that bright red merino and silk blend they have heaped in the window would look great on you.’

‘Matches my eyes?’

‘Hah!’ I said.

‘I don’t need any more sweaters, Hannah. And you have more yarn in the guest room closet than you could knit up in two lifetimes.’

I felt my face flush. Paul was right. I couldn’t knit it all up in three lifetimes, but whenever one of the mail-order companies I did business with had a bag sale… well, just hang a sign around my neck that read Sucker!

‘Maybe they carry patterns,’ I suggested. ‘For the yarn I already have. And buttons.’

Paul tugged me away from the window. ‘I’m sure they do, Hannah, but there’ll be plenty of time to explore that later. Besides, didn’t you tell me you were starving?’

‘A turtleneck maybe? Irish style, with cables?’ When on a mission, I was sometimes hard to turn.

‘Hannah…’

With Paul’s hand firmly grasping my elbow, we moved on.

The High Spot was crowded with men and women dressed in business casual attire – there, I presumed, on a mid-morning coffee break. Wet umbrellas had been tipped into an oversized brass spitoon near the door while raincoats and slickers dripped from hooks along the wall nearby. Several yummy mummies shared an industrial-sized blueberry muffin at a table near the coffee fixings bar, their strollers angled into a corner, the babies they contained blissfully asleep. After depositing our umbrellas in the spittoon, Paul and I dosidoed around two guys wearing red Comcast polo shirts as they hustled out the door, handheld radios crackling, on a mission of mercy for some poor cable television customer or another. We scanned the busy café, looking for Caitlyn.

Caitlyn had already snagged a table for four in a quiet corner near the narrow hallway that led, according to a sign, to the ‘Caballeros’ and ‘Señoras,’ although there was nothing remotely Spanish about the High Spot’s décor, unless you counted the cans of Red Bull I saw chilling in the drinks cooler. She waved us over. ‘Coffee?’ she asked before we even had a chance to pull out a chair and sit down.

‘Please,’ I said.

‘If it’s regular,’ she said, pointing to two urns on a table near the back, ‘just help yourself. Double soy skinny latte or something fancy like that, you gotta stand in line.’

‘Regular’s fine with me,’ I said. ‘Why don’t I get it while you and Paul make small talk.’ I aimed myself urn-ward. ‘But don’t say anything important until I get back.’

When I returned, carrying two steaming mugs, with sugar packets and creamer tubs tucked into my pocket, Caitlyn already had papers spread out on the table next to her open laptop. I set Paul’s coffee down carefully between two important-looking piles and took a seat. ‘This is happening so fast,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t there have to be a title search or something?’

Caitlyn beamed. ‘In a small town these things can be expedited. It’s all in knowing who to call.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘I do a favor for someone, they do a favor for me.’

‘So, we’re good to go?’ Paul asked.

‘Yup,’ she said, offering him a pen.

I cradled the mug between my palms, appreciating its warmth, watching while Paul flipped through several pages of the contract. He read, flipped back, read some more, then turned to one of the pages marked with a red plastic tab. He smoothed the document out on the table. ‘Well,’ he said at last, reaching for the pen Caitlyn was holding. He caught my eye and waggled both brows. ‘Looks like everything’s in order here.’

‘We’re really going to do this, aren’t we, Paul?’ I said.

‘We are.’ Paul leaned over the document and signed his name with a flourish, then shoved the papers toward me. ‘Your turn.’

I signed the documents, too, in triplicate, on the blank line under my husband’s expansive scrawl that looked for all the world as if he’d written Pralines. The owner had already signed, I noticed. Her old-fashioned signature would have been perfectly legible even if it hadn’t been typed in capital letters below the blank: Julianna Quinn. A notary seal pressed into the document attested to its authenticity.

‘There!’ I said, pushing the contracts in Caitlyn’s direction. ‘Are we done?’

‘Not quite,’ Paul interjected, reaching for the checkbook he’d tucked into his breast pocket. He’d written the check at home, so all he had to do now was tear it out and… He handed it over to Caitlyn. ‘Now we’re done.’ He reached over, took my hand and held it. ‘Looks like my wife and I have bought a house.’

‘You have,’ Caitlyn said. She handed Paul one of the signed contracts, then tucked our check under the binder clip that held the two remaining copies of our contract for Legal Ease together. She slid the whole packet into the briefcase she had balanced on her knees.

But her hand didn’t emerge from the depths of the briefcase empty. Paul noticed it first and gave me a nudge. I reached out and took a set of keys from Caitlyn’s outstretched fingers. I folded them into my palm, kissed them for good luck and pressed my hand to my heart.

Paul smiled at the melodrama, then turned his attention back to Caitlyn. ‘We’ll need a contractor. Who do you recommend?’

Caitlyn was prepared with another piece of paper, which she handed to my husband. ‘I’ve written down several names but I wouldn’t like to recommend one over another.’ She grinned. ‘It’s a small town. I have to live and work here.’

‘I understand,’ Paul said. ‘But if it were your house, who would you call?’

‘They’re all reliable, Paul, but if you’ll notice, the list isn’t in alphabetical order. I’d start at the top. Just sayin’.’

After Caitlyn had left, I examined the keys – our keys. There were three on a key ring bearing the Barfield and Williams logo, each tagged with a white disk. I fingered them lovingly, like charms on a bracelet. Front door. Garage. And a third surprise addition to the family: Tool shed.

Eventually, Paul and I ordered lunch. As the waitress was clearing away our plates, I considered the key ring nestled safely in the handbag hanging by its strap from the back of my chair. The High Spot specialty I’d enjoyed – a Gabby Crabby sandwich – seemed an anti-climax. But that was no reason not to order dessert. We were celebrating, after all.