I’ve always wanted to own a house. My grandmother owns one. It’s a hundred-year-old farm house, updated just enough for indoor plumbing, which clangs and sputters each time you turn the spigot on or flush the toilet. The floor boards are splintered, the varnish peeled back, but I think if you tried to sand down the floors to refinish them, there wouldn’t be much left of the wood.

It has a hundred-year smell; cooking scents piled one over another, moldy corners, human and animal sweat, continuous living that never noticed the house was settling into old age. I grew up in her house after my dad abandoned me and my mom. I don’t remember a great deal about it except we had lived in a trailer park before and when we moved, the house felt like a huge, wonderful, mysterious castle to a six-year-old girl.

I’ve always wanted a house, but at twenty-nine, it seemed a distant goal. There aren’t a lot of options growing up in rural North Carolina. I had attended the University for a while, earning a culinary arts degree, but truthfully, the greatest demand was for chicken fried steak and when it comes to southern cooking, there’s a whole lot of competition.

My big dream was to live in a big city as a chef at a four-star restaurant, but that didn’t really seem possible either until something very surprising happened. I should say tragic, except I didn’t feel much tragedy, only complete amazement. My father died, leaving me, Jenna, the daughter who he never made contact with, the sole heir of his fortune.

Most of his assets had been liquidated to pay outstanding debts and legal fees, including his bank account and his automobile, but once the executor had even eliminated a small collection of silver and gold coins to even up the balance, there was still the house, with only nineteen months of mortgage payments left.

Mom wanted me to sell. According to the attorney’s calculations, if the house sold within the next six months, I stood to gain seventy thousand dollars. I thought this was somewhat low, but he explained to me it was an older house in one of the older districts of Seattle and needed a lot of renovation to meet with a bank’s lending specifications. Plus the real estate agents would want their cut.

Maybe if I had been twenty-one, I would have considered it, but I was nearly thirty. From blowing it all on a tropical vacation, I had graduated to “how can I make good for the rest of my life?” It was a serious question, and I seriously discussed it with my two best friends, Briana and Linda.

We had been friends since grade school. By high school, we’d earned the nickname, “the bounteous blondes”. That is to say, we’re big-boned girls, but we really know how to rock the night. We do it so well, we’ve never really had time to get married, which is just as well because, as it turned out, we all had our eyes set on the horizon.

When all the particulars of my inheritance had been settled through that blessed invention called teleconference, I called the troops over and offered a proposal. “How would you like to move to Seattle?”

“Are you kidding?” gushed Briana. “I have always, always wanted to be an airline stewardess and Seattle has an international airport. An international one. Can you imagine how many hot guys come through there? I could meet Jason Bourne.”

“Jason Bourne isn’t a real person.”

“Of course not! He always uses a pseudonym. Anyway, don’t spoil my fantasy. How are we going to move to Seattle?”

“By pooling all our resources. I’ve got a house. All we have to do is meet the last mortgage payments.”

“How many are there?” Asked Linda, mixing another Kahlua and coffee before returning to her chair at the kitchen table. She always was the more economically inclined among us.

“Nineteen at thirteen hundred a month.”

“In less than two years it would be yours.”

“In name, but really, it would be ours. We would all share in the blessing. The attorney says it’s large; two stories with four bedrooms and two baths. A big house in Seattle; how cool can it get?”

Linda laced her fingers together. “I think it would be more fun than becoming a beautician in Raleigh.”

I beamed at her. Poor Linda had put herself through beauty college and the only job she could find was at a salon in Sanford, giving conservative haircuts to middle aged women. She felt as restricted in her career’s future as I did.

By unanimous vote, we sold everything we decently could, packed what we couldn’t bear to leave behind in an old travel trailer, and into the back and piled on the top of an old Ford Bronco. We felt like the Beverley Hillbillies, except we weren't rolling in dough and our destination was Washington, not California. We had, however, been notched up a bit on the pyramid from renters to land owners. That’s enough to make anyone feel wealthy.

We had never really been travelers before, but we’d managed to leave some prints in the Carolina landscape. The Interstate was a breeze compared to some of our back roads, and we made pretty swift time, although I think the Bronco would have preferred to eat a little dirt and blunder through potholes. It was happiest when it found some secluded trail to wander into so we could spend the night.

It wasn’t until we hit the first querulous bumps of the Rockies that we realized we were entering a whole different world. Evergreens clustered closer together and grew taller. The Bronco climbed harder than it had ever done, sometimes overwhelmed by the rock faces rolling away from us. Farms were smaller, towns more modern, but also more staggered out.

There were also more campgrounds and a lot of outdoorsy good- looking men. We became distracted a few times before the strong call of the Northwest carried us onward.

There isn’t any true flat land in the northwest, but it didn’t take us long to get used to zipping up and down hills, around dangerous curves riding alongside every inch of the way, a wall of stone-cut mountains.

Seattle has an answer for its curvy roads. They swing wide, circle around each other in that terrifying maneuver known as a round-about, and overlap in arches that allow you a momentary unrestricted view of the city. The outskirts of Seattle contain the residential districts, cut neatly into the hills and tumbling over the top of each other. The roads flow gently around stone walls and picket fences.

Our poor old Bronco was going through culture shock by the time we had finished the last leg of our journey. I’m sure it was absolutely amazed it had found no valleys or plains to coast through, no dirt to rub into its axel grease, no straight-away for the last several hundred miles. It huffed and puffed like an eighty-year-old running a marathon race. As we pulled into the drive of our new home, it sighed, letting off a cloud of steam.

We jumped out of the car whooping and jiggling our breasts at each other as we slapped hands. The house wasn’t big by southern farmhouse standards but ample enough for the three of us. What was wonderful was that it had a sloping yard with several uncared for rose bushes, a front porch, and a garage. Our poor Bronco would receive some tender loving care as soon as we found a neighborhood mechanic. It was also a great place to store junk, which we were all in the habit of accumulating. Our “can’t bear to leave it” list had nearly included the kitchen sink.

Singing and dancing to “Fat Bottomed Girls” on the music player, we bounced up the steps to our new home and opened the door. The living room and kitchen were both very large and occupied most of the first floor. The only other partitions were a bathroom, a laundry room, and a den. The four bedrooms were upstairs, along with the extra bathroom. Other than the fixtures, the built- in cabinets, closet, and bar, plus a stove and refrigerator, the house was completely empty of furniture or appliances.

This was fine with us. We had our own preferences in décor and it was doubtful my father’s tastes would have served us well. After unloading the Bronco, we stood out on the porch, taking in our surroundings. Since the neighbors lived in layers up the hillside, there was plenty to see, but the most attractive sight was right next door.

Briana said it first. “I’ve just died and gone to heaven. We’ve got a fox just turning to silver out in the field.”

“What makes you think he’s single?” Asked Linda.

“Look at the curtains in the window. They’re all man curtains, dark and straight. And seriously, girls, if someone owned that hunk of man, wouldn’t she be at least watching over her booty? He’s half-naked, pushing a lawn mower. Ladies, I do declare this is unclaimed territory and it’s our bound duty to claim it.”

We called out to him and waved. He looked up a minute, scowled, then continued to mow. We called out again, gesturing, and finally, he shut down his machine and walked around the fence. “I’m going to tell you straight up I don’t have time for a lot of foolishness and I don’t like loud rock music. So, whatever your game is, ladies, I’m not a part of it.”

“Don’t be cranky,” said Briana. “We just wanted to say hello.”

“Hello,” he said, starting to leave.

“We have a problem,” I called after him, somewhat surprised at my boldness. “Our Bronco died just as we pulled into the driveway and we need to push it into the garage.”

Linda started to protest and I nudged her. “Oh yes,” she agreed. “The Bronco is quite dead. I don’t know what we will do without a little help.”

He made a sour face, but at last, he came around to our side of the fence. “Put it in neutral,” he grumbled at Linda, who had already jumped into the driver’s seat. She did as she was told as though the proper gear would have been a complete mystery to her without instructions. Bianca and I flanked our neighbor on both sides to push from in back. The sweat popped out on his face quite a bit more than would usually be accompanied in a Bronco pushing effort, as two pairs of generous bosoms barely clad by their low-cut blouses, squeezed up against his shoulders. He squirmed a bit and we squeezed closer still.

Briana and I are both strong women. If the Bronco had been truly broken, which it wasn’t, we would have been able to bump it into the garage in half the time we took with our neighbor, but we dallied. We pretended to slip and stumble, routinely requiring the neighbor’s assistance. We cheated. We didn’t really push that hard, leaving the neighbor to do most of the work.

When it was parked, our new neighbor looked a little worse for the wear. “Thank ye,” I told him in my best Southern drawl. “I really don’t know what we would have done without you. We would have had to pay someone and goodness knows we’ve spent nearly our last penny getting here. Our kitchen isn’t set up yet, but we can at least offer you a beer.” He was too tired to resist.

We set him up on the steps of the porch with a cold one and crowded in around him. He took several nervous gulps, then sat with the can gripped tightly in his hands. “Look, girls. I can see you are all friendly and very lively young women. But I have a far more serious line of work than any of you can probably imagine. I’m a doctor. My profession requires a lot of strenuous mental activity. I need peace and quiet when I return home. Mowing my lawn relaxes me. Bobbing up and down with three large, blonde women does not. It’s exhausting.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” Said Briana sympathetically. “You’re all wound up.” She leaned down from an upper step, her breasts brushing close to his cheek. “We know just the things that will help you. Some chamomile tea, a head massage...”

“What would help is if you maintain a low volume with your music and try to refrain from so much… exuberance. And I would hope you will keep things more orderly than my last neighbor.”

“You knew Henry Lange?” I asked, without thinking.

“Better than I would have preferred. Why? Did he owe you money, or did he promise you a diamond ring then run off?”

“Neither. I never knew him.”

“Good for you.” He stood and stretched. “Now that we’re clear, I don’t expect any trouble between us.”

“Are we on a first name basis, doctor?” Breathed Briana. She pointed to herself. “Me, Briana. Her, Linda. Other her, Jenna. You?”

“Lee. But I think you should probably call me Dr. Andrews.”

He swung his damp tee shirt over his shoulder and sauntered back into his yard. We giggled among ourselves. It felt like the time we all had the same ninth grade teacher for English Literature. Seamus McCarthy absolutely breathed knock-down, good-looking Irish charm, and here he was, stuck in a classroom with three budding sirens with as much adrenaline as Vikings. Poor Mr. McCarthy must have gripped his rosary every night, praying for fortitude against temptation.

The thing is, when you’re five-foot-nine, blonde as a daisy and haven’t had less than a thirty-eight-inch bust since you were fifteen, you read through men like their testosterone levels were captions. We didn’t learn much in English lit except that James Joyce was one messed up dude, but Mr. McCarthy learned that teaching ninth grade girls was a dangerous occupation.

“He’s playing hard to get,” observed Linda, watching the straight, rigid back disappear through the front door.

Briana grinned wickedly. “I’d say he’s putting out a monumental effort.”

Briana was right about another thing. During the entire time we had been clustered around the doctor, spilling out flesh for his observation, I had not seen one flutter of the curtains, one face peeking through the windows, or one shadow passing by the door. There was absolutely no way an intelligent woman would overlook guarding her assets if she was married to the doctor.

We leaned against the porch railing, taking in our new residency. For as far as we could see, houses burst like popcorn over the hilly landscape. The hazy skyline of Seattle etched in faintly toward the back of the house. “Say,” I said, nudging Briana with one elbow and Linda with the other. “We have company.”

While we had been busy putting the doctor through trials and tribulations that would have worn down a saint, various other neighbors had wandered out to watch the spectacle. There were a few teenagers and some still at home thirty-year-old’s, but most of them were on the far side of middle aged. They wore baggy shorts down to the knees, tee shirts that smoothed over their thickening waistlines, and socks with their sandals. We waved cheerfully to them from the railing, and hesitantly, they waved back.

“Well, y’all,” called Briana. “I’d invite you in for coffee but we haven’t unpacked yet. Still, I’m right happy to see you.”

A bony-kneed woman with long, gray hair detached herself from the crowd and stepped forward. “My name is Melanie Hakes. Let me be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She climbed up the steps and confided, “It’s about time someone twisted Dr. Andrews’ panties. He always acts like he has a broomstick up his butt.”

A small, plump woman with home-colored frizzy hair showing solid white roots followed in close behind her. “Which one of you is Henry Lange’s daughter?”

“I am,” I admitted somewhat regretfully. From what little I’ve gathered, my father did not have the most sterling reputation.

“Oh, then, he really did it. He said he would do it and he did.”

“Don’t be repeating scandals now,” scolded Melanie. “This is neither the time nor the place. What’s done is done and his daughter is not to be blamed for it.”

“Have I blamed anyone? Of course, it’s not her fault! It’s just that nobody really believed he had a daughter when he said he was leaving everything to her.”

“It was their own foolishness! How many times have I said, if you hook up with Henry Lange, it’s going to cost you? How many listened?”

“But my dear, the hooking up really was worth a little insanity.” Liz waved her hand around, then placed it on my arm confidentially. “Don’t listen to the rumors. It’s true he was a lady’s man. He went through two divorces and numerous affairs in that house and never stayed true to anyone. But for most of us, well…”

“Henry Lange was a gigolo,” said Melanie firmly. “Those of us who kept our wits about us knew this.”

“And he was worth the money,” added Liz.

Melanie’s mouth turned down as she glanced sideways at her friend. “The problem began when he was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. His ex-wives and two of his ex-lovers began demanding that he write out a will leaving them the house. He told them none of them was inheriting a goddamned thing. He was leaving it all to his daughter.”

“We didn’t believe there was a daughter,” whispered Liz, giggling. “We were all placing bets on who would get the house.”

“How did he end up on a runaway baggage cart?” I asked, trying to fill in some more details.

Melanie and Liz looked at each other with wide eyes. “Who knows?” Asked Melanie. “Maybe his brain tumor was making him do crazy things.”

An old man leaning on a cane and listening in spoke up. “Maybe it was murder.”

“Oh, Mr. Rosenfield, you really do say such terrible things,” said Liz.

“Well, why not?” He challenged querulously. “He was a con artist and a gambler. He had his share of enemies.”

“Don’t listen to Mr. Rosenfield. There must be some reasonable explanation as to why a baggage cart that Henry was sleeping on rolled into the runway and got clipped by a plane. Some accidents are stranger than fiction.”

“Why would someone murder him if he was already dying?” I asked.

“There,” said Liz with satisfaction. “Very good question. You see, Mr. Rosenfield. There’s no motive.”

“Bah,” he said, scowling, then brightened up. “At least he did one good thing.” He winked at all of us broadly. The dirty old man, but he was kind of cute, wobbly legs and all.

The show over, the neighbors wandered back to their homes, although a couple of the teenaged boys did stick around to help unload the trailer. They were also cute; gawky in that “video games are my whole life” kind of way, trying very hard to adjust from animated figures to real-life big, golden mamas.

Individually, we were each examples of the classic blonde big girl. At nearly five-foot-eleven, Linda was the tallest and most impressive. Her magnificent bust line was a triumph in mass overcoming the effects of gravity, and her hips would seem minimal in comparison if not for a flourishing behind. She had the ginger gene, leaning toward strawberry blonde. As a hairdresser, she knew exactly what to do with her dazzling locks.

At five-foot-six, Briana was the shortest, but in my opinion, also the cutest. She had a face like a pixie, with wide, far set eyes and blonde, curly hair that cascaded half way down her back. She had a figure like the goddess of fertility, with round, firm breasts and very wide hips and thighs.

As for me, they didn’t call me “Soft Cushions” for nothing. My mother, who was a bit doughty herself, had never called me fat. She said I had big bones, and when I grew older, observed I was well-endowed. Even the clothing stores are polite in the labels, calling my measurements a “full figure”.

I had a full figure, alright. It filled into everything I wore and was usually a little overflowing. It didn’t matter, though, as one of the bounteous blondes. Individually, we each had our insecurities, but as a set, we were formidable. The teenaged boys were tongue-tied and ready to invade Ft. Knox for us by the time they had finished helping us unload. “Now, you just come on by in the morning,” I told them, handing them each a ten-dollar bill for their services. “And we’ll have some coffee waiting for you.”

They stared frankly at the cleavage under the peasant top without making a move to take the money. “Not a problem,” mumbled one. “Anything you need, a helping hand, a ride to the city, just give us a call. We don’t want your money, Miss… Lange. “

“Such gentlemen,” said Linda, smooching them each on the cheek. “I would invite you to a beer but I think there are laws against it.”

“Yes, ma’am, you are right. We better go ma’am. You have unpacking to do.”

The utilities had been turned on by request three days before arriving, which meant our refrigerator and stove were operational, as well as the hot water for a long shower. We unpacked our dishes first, and filled the refrigerator with the groceries we had picked up before arriving. Along with a case of beer and two pounds of coffee, we had milk, sugar, butter, eggs, bread, hamburger meat, bacon and several large bags of chips, but we were too tired to cook anything.

We gathered all the blankets and pillows we could find and arranged them in the middle of the living room floor. While the other girls showered, I called for an extra-large pizza with three toppings. By the time it arrived, we had all refreshed ourselves and were in our nighties, ready to settle down for the evening. The pizza delivery boy was almost as overwhelmed as the teenagers had been and had to be reminded to take his money three times.