Summer Roommates, page 3
Had she remembered to turn off the light in the bedroom? Amanda checked. Yes, she had. And she had put clean sheets on the bed that morning, too. Not that Liam would notice. As Amanda walked back to the living room she thought about her mother’s reaction to Amanda’s plans for the summer. At first, Mrs. Irving had said nothing. Her silence had annoyed Amanda.
“What?” she had demanded. “What aren’t you saying?”
“Nothing,” her mother had replied calmly. “If it’s what you need to do, then it’s not my place to give an opinion.”
Interestingly, Mrs. Irving’s response to her daughter’s news hadn’t been all that different from Liam’s. Neither had said “I think going away is a good idea.” Nor had they said it was a bad one. Both had, in effect, failed to express anything more than a studied neutrality. “Hey, if it’s what you want to do,” Liam had said, “then you should do it.”
Well, all that mattered was that she, Amanda, had made the decision she considered best for herself. As for the other women who were renting rooms in Sandra Pennington’s house, well, Amanda would never see them after summer had ended, so what they thought or suspected of her motives for being in Yorktide didn’t matter in the least. She owed them nothing, not even the fact that she had left her boyfriend behind.
Amanda gathered her travel bags, took one last glance around the apartment, and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Chapter 5
Sandra had spent the morning moving from room to room, making a last-minute inspection and reinspection of the house. She had been so nervous before meeting her summer roommates for the first time, people she had chosen somewhat blindly to share her home. References and credit checks were all well and good, but they were limited measures of a person’s character and personality. And there was nothing quite like being in the physical presence of a person; it was without a doubt the best way to get to know them.
Then, one by one, her summer roommates had arrived.
Mary Fraser, a New Yorker, had been the first to arrive. She exuded confidence and competency and was dressed smartly in taupe-colored linen pants with a relaxed matching blazer. Around her neck, she wore a stunning gold necklace composed of long, slim links. She had greeted Sandra with a handshake and a smile.
Next had been Amanda Irving. Sandra had been a bit surprised by the woman’s almost military bearing. She held herself so very upright that for a moment Sandra wondered if she were wearing a brace. Amanda had said that she taught school. Sandra wondered if her students were afraid of her.
As for Patty Porter, the last to arrive, well, it had been a long time since Sandra had encountered a woman of Patty’s age—which might be close to seventy—wearing clothes that seemed more suited to a much younger woman. Still, her face was a friendly one, under the heavily applied makeup.
Now the four of them were gathered in the kitchen, drinking lemonade Sandra had prepared and nibbling on shortbread cookies. Sandra thought her summer roommates had seemed comfortable enough as she had gone over the few house rules, all of which had been clearly stated in the contracts they had signed. Rules like: Each woman was responsible for doing her own laundry, including towels and bedding; she could use the machines in the basement or take her laundry to the laundry and dry-cleaning service in town. Each woman was responsible for the upkeep of her room; she was free to use Sandra’s cleaning appliances and supplies. As for the bathrooms, Sandra would handle their maintenance with the proviso that each woman was expected to tidy up after herself on a daily basis.
“About the use of the kitchen,” Sandra went on. “I know I left things vague in your contracts, but that’s because it doesn’t feel right to dictate when a person can make or have a meal, and I trust the four of us to be civil to one another. This is not a prison or a boarding school. We’re here of our own accord, not under duress.”
“I agree,” Amanda said promptly.
Mary nodded. “I think we can rely on common courtesy to see us through. And I assume we’ll each clean up after ourselves.”
Patty nodded.
Sandra realized that she was a bit nervous about how the women would react to the idea she was about to propose. “I was thinking,” she said, “that we might all have one meal a week together, maybe share the cooking and cleanup. Say, Wednesday evenings, but really it could be any day of the week.”
Amanda nodded briskly. “Sure. I’m okay with that.”
Patty nodded and said: “Um, okay. That sounds nice.”
“Fine by me,” Mary said with a laugh, “but I’m a lousy cook. I’d be happy to pay for takeout if anyone is interested. Fish and chips. Pizza, Chinese.”
Sandra smiled, relieved that the women were amenable to her idea. She hoped that the weekly communal meal might prove a good time for the women to discuss any “house business” there might be. But she wouldn’t force the conversations or attempt to lead them in a certain direction. And if the gatherings petered out over the course of the summer, well then, so be it.
“If that’s all,” Mary said, “I’m going to finish unpacking. Great lemonade, Sandra. Thanks. Can I help you clear up?”
“No, no, it’s fine. You all go and settle in.”
One by one the women went off to their rooms. Sandra heard them chatting as they climbed the stairs. She busied herself with tidying up, and, as she did, she thought about what a strange experience it had been, reading references, something she had never before done. In effect, she had been acting like a judge, determining the fate—if only for one summer—of a person unknown to her.
Sandra put the leftover lemonade into the fridge. What, she wondered, would people say about her if she were asked to provide a reference? How was she perceived in Yorktide, the town in which she had lived for her entire life? Did some people see her as merely an old woman, beyond the point of having an influence on the town, beyond being of real value?
Did people, Sandra wondered, genuinely like her? She hoped that they did; she was pretty sure she had never made any real enemies in the course of her life. True, she had fallen out with a person here and there, or someone had fallen out with her, but not because of a malicious word or deed. Sometimes things just happened.
And what initial impression had she made on her summer roommates? Sandra almost didn’t want to know.
“Clovis!” she called. A furry lump came trotting to join her, and, together, they went upstairs to Sandra’s room.
Chapter 6
Mary was pleased with her room. It was the largest of the bedrooms after Sandra’s master suite, with windows that faced both the street and the backyard. It had been decorated with an eye to both style and comfort but didn’t have the feel of a curated hotel room. Personal touches betrayed her landlady’s tastes, like the colorful prints of wildflowers in fields. And the vase of fresh flowers was a very welcome and colorful touch.
Mary was determined to enjoy herself this summer, the first summer of the rest of her life, the first summer in too many years with no pressing duties and looming deadlines. She should, she told herself, be luxuriating in a new sense of freedom, though luxuriating might be out of her skill set. It sounded a bit messy, and Mary wasn’t comfortable with mess.
Anyway, freedom wasn’t always what it was cut out to be. As Janis Joplin knew all too well, freedom could mean having nothing left to lose.
As Mary peeled off her clothes and changed into her nightgown, her thoughts turned to her summer roommates. They were quite a motley crew. Patty Porter looked like an old bit character out of central casting, the slightly blowsy unmarried neighbor who was too long in the tooth for the clothing and makeup she wore. Still, she seemed nice enough, if a bit dim. Or maybe she was just shy.
Amanda Irving was a puzzle. Mary had never quite trusted people who presented in so determinedly bland a manner. She thought they were probably hiding something pretty juicy. Well, who wasn’t hiding something about themselves? At least Amanda seemed intelligent and not likely to make waves. That was a good thing.
Now, Sandra Pennington, Mary thought, was a happy surprise. There was a natural elegance about her. She was good-natured and seemed even-tempered. Ha! Sandra would probably turn out to be the seriously crazy one of the bunch! Mary knew that she really shouldn’t make snap judgments. But it was hard not to, and, most often, she was correct in her assessment of people.
Mary slipped beneath the cotton sheet, plumped the pillows behind her back, and picked up from the bedside table the list she had compiled of “things to do” while in southern Maine this summer. Notably, there was no mention of canoe excursions and other dangerous outdoor adventures that enticed so many people on vacation. Long walks and easy hikes, however, had made the list, as had museums—the Portland Museum of Art; the Ogunquit Museum of American Art; maybe even the Farnsworth. Art galleries, too, held an attraction for Mary, as did antique markets where she just might discover an overlooked treasure. “Find good French fries” was also on the list. A woman had her priorities.
Mary put the list in the drawer of the bedside table, next to a small bottle of white pills. She had always been a good sleeper, but since the lawsuit she had found the act of falling asleep a bit of a chore. Her PCP had given her a prescription for a sleeping pill, but Mary had used it only once, after an uncommonly stressful day. She had, of course, castigated herself for “giving in,” for not toughing out the night awake and miserable. In the morning, however, after a solid eight hours of restorative sleep, she had eased up on herself a bit. Still, she hadn’t taken a pill since.
And something told her she probably wouldn’t need a pill that night, either. She felt bone tired after the long drive and suspected she would be asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.
At least, she hoped that she would.
Chapter 7
Patty hadn’t completely unpacked yet, but there was no rush, was there, and no one to tell her what to do and when and how to do it, not like at her sister’s house. She knew she would have to find a job soon, but for the moment she still felt a bit of the sense of freedom she had felt when she set out that morning on her journey.
Her room at Sandra’s house was the smallest of the bedrooms but still larger than the room back at Bridget’s. The walls were painted a pale yellow that Patty found soothing, and the bedding and curtains were a flowery pattern in shades of yellow, mint green, and peach. It was a very feminine room, Patty thought, and it suited her. She, after all, was a very traditionally feminine person.
The mattress was nice, Patty thought, not too soft, like the old mattress in her room at Bridget’s house. She wondered if she could ask Bridget and Ed for a new mattress. But mattresses were expensive, so probably not.
Patty thought again of how her family had tried to talk her out of going away. Bridget had said: “You’ve got to watch your money very carefully; there’s no room in your budget for big vacations.” Teri had commented that Patty’s insistence on taking a summer vacation demonstrated yet again her childish habit of closing her eyes and hoping that the bad things—in other words, reality—would go away by the time she opened them again.
When Patty’s application had been turned down, her family had rejoiced. Well, maybe they hadn’t rejoiced, but they hadn’t been able to hide their pleasure at the death of their irresponsible sister’s ridiculous plans.
Well, Patty thought, here she was, in a lovely old house in Maine after all, in spite of what her sisters thought of her, and she was determined to enjoy herself. Because if no miracle occurred this summer—and what, Patty wondered, would that look like, other than a man sweeping her off her feet, and that wasn’t going to happen!—she would be forced to move in permanently with Bridget. No one was pleased about the situation, especially not Patty. The idea of being totally dependent on and beholden to her family was mortifying.
Lately, Patty had been thinking a lot about the infamous Uncle Teddy, the black sheep of the family. The story was that he had been a drifter, a gambler, a con man, and a petty thief. Maybe he had been all of those things and maybe he had been none of them. What Patty did know for sure was that Uncle Teddy was notorious for never being able to keep a job for more than a few months and always scrounging off siblings, cousins, and especially his parents. Patty dreaded acquiring a similar reputation. Though she was a good person, she was in need. People who were not in need resented being faced with people who were in need. It rattled their sense of security and challenged their sense of superiority.
Patty went over to the window. It faced the path that led along the side of the house to the backyard. She couldn’t see much. It was dark outside by now, and Sandra’s neighbor to the right had recently turned out the porch light. Patty turned back to her room. She wasn’t particularly happy about the idea of the Wednesday dinners. She had no intention of becoming too friendly with her roommates. But she wasn’t under any legal obligation to attend the dinners. There wasn’t anything in the contract she had signed. At least, she didn’t think that there was. She hadn’t really read the contract word for word.
If it turned out she had to attend the dinners, she supposed she could get by all right. Back in the old days she used to enjoy making dinner for her boyfriends, that is, when they could get away from their wives for a few hours. So many of them had had wives. If her specialties were a bit old-fashioned, they were expertly prepared and no one had complained, especially not about her chocolate triple-layer cake. Patty had always been sure to eat just a small slice of the cake so as not to get too fat. Her mother had told her time and again that important men didn’t like fat women as wives.
Well, she had watched her figure and look where it had gotten her. Nowhere.
Suddenly, Patty realized that the sense of happiness she had felt driving away from Bridget’s house that morning was gone. In its place squatted a sense of unease and anxiety. She crawled into the bed and took a long look at the bouquet of fresh flowers on top of the dresser. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had bought her a bouquet of flowers. Probably it had been a man, apologizing for some transgression. She turned off the light and scooted into a comfortable position.
It was all her parents had wanted for her, to secure a husband, and she had failed. But maybe that wasn’t entirely her fault. Why hadn’t her parents been able to believe that she might be happy on her own, or married to a simple, decent man, one unspectacular on the outside but sound on the inside?
In some ways, Patty didn’t know at all who she was anymore, who she had ever been. The only thing she did know for sure was that she had been acting a part for most of her life. She had smiled brightly when she felt like crying, gazed adoringly when she wanted to scream in anger, pretended to ignorance when her gut instinct knew just what was going on. The acting had become the reality, burying the increasingly tiny bits of the real Patty that remained. If any bits did remain.
Patty Porter willed herself not to cry. If she cried now, her face would be ugly and puffy the next morning. And she always tried to show the world her best face.
Chapter 8
Amanda put her hands on her hips and observed the room she had rented for the summer. It was a nice enough room, smaller than the one Mary Fraser was inhabiting, larger than Patty Porter’s room. (Earlier, Sandra had led them on a tour of the house.) The mattress was pretty good, almost as firm as the mattress Amanda slept on at home. And the room was spotless, which was super important. There were just enough hangers for her clothes, and the drawers of the tall dresser were lined with fresh paper. A few prints and one watercolor painting hung on the walls, but Amanda didn’t pay them much attention. In general, the visual arts left her cold. Except for blockbuster movies. And, of course, filmed versions of the novels by her favorite mystery writers. She had seen every Agatha Christie movie ever made so far and had watched every episode of the Sherlock Holmes television show starring Jeremy Brett at least six or seven times.
Amanda fetched her pajamas from the drawer in which she had stowed them earlier, and shed her travel clothes. She was pleased there was a washing machine and a dryer on the premises. In fact, Sandra’s house had every convenience Amanda could hope for. So far, so good. And the idea of a shared weekly meal with her summer roommates didn’t bother her. She had to eat dinner, she enjoyed cooking, and how bad could it be to spend half an hour or so with the other women once a week? Well, Sandra and Mary seemed intelligent enough, though Patty Porter might prove a bit of a challenge. She had a sort of out-of-date floozy air, which of course didn’t necessarily mean that she was stupid, but . . .
Amanda felt relatively sure that this arrangement, here at Sandra Pennington’s, would make no real demands on her. That was important because Amanda was in Maine with a purpose: to think about her relationship with Liam, and, in a larger sense, about her life. This summer was to be sort of a sabbatical, a retreat without the God part. Amanda had never been very good with the God part of things.
But she didn’t need the God part of things. She never had. She was a highly capable person; she believed in her strength. In fact, on the journey north to Maine, in her Toyota Camry, Amanda had felt proud of herself for having escaped something or someone that would have kept her a prisoner if she hadn’t been so strong and so clever. The moment she had shut her apartment door behind her, she had already achieved a sort of freedom.
A prisoner?
Maybe that was going too far.
Freedom from whom or from what?
Amanda felt herself frowning. Maybe she was being silly for doubting her relationship with Liam at this late date. Maybe it was ridiculous to consider throwing away a steady thing for . . . for what?
No, Amanda was not a shallow or a frivolous person in the least, just . . . just genuinely unhappy with her life. Just genuinely confused. She knew that she had acted in a cowardly manner by running off to Maine to ponder a situation that might have been addressed more honestly had she stayed home with Liam. But she hadn’t wanted a confrontation. She hated confrontations. She was a master of avoidance. She knew that.
