They Didn’t Reply

 

I was driving down Cross Street, the main street of Magdalene, that next day on an errand of going nowhere and doing nothing, just getting the lay of the land of my new home.

I’d been born in California, and although Conrad had moved to a practice in Boston and we’d lived there for two years (and then to Lexington, Kentucky for two more), I’d never been to Maine.

From what I could see, I liked it. It was pretty. Quiet. Sparsely populated. Restful.

There was a chill in the air even though it was early June, which I wasn’t used to, and I worried that the bloom would go off the rose of not having everything you could possibly want in the form of shopping, restaurants and movies within easy driving distance. But I liked the change.

And the fact there was practically no traffic was a major plus.

For a woman who needed to reinvent herself, a relatively sleepy coastal Maine town seemed the perfect place to focus inwards without any distractions.

These were my thoughts when my phone in my purse rang.

My children had not phoned me of their own volition in over a year.

I still held hope. I was there. Close. Not in California when they were in Maine like it had been for the last ten months.

Maybe they felt badly about ignoring me all weekend.

Maybe they liked the new house (because who wouldn’t? it was fabulous) and wanted to ask if they could show their friends around.

And maybe I was insane to hope.

But the idea of losing hope terrified me to extremes.

So I hoped.

I saw a road with a sign that said Haver Way, turned off and turned right into a parking lot. I pulled into a space, put my car in park and grabbed my purse.

I yanked out my phone and stared at it.

It was unsurprisingly not my children.

It was my mother.

Since I’d left California, this wasn’t the first time she’d called. She’d called once a day starting the day I got in my car with my suitcases to drive across the country.

And this was only once per day, regardless if I didn’t return her calls. She would not be so ill-bred as to phone more than once, even if her only daughter, who had been ravaged by divorce then took that out on her family, was driving across a continent for the first time in her life to launch an all-out effort to save her family…and herself.

Even if only once a day, I had not taken a single call.

This, I knew, was not going over well. I also knew she’d call the next day. And perhaps the next. She would not get angry at me. Her voicemails would not become heated.

No.

The day after that, my father would call.

He would bring the heat but he’d do it using a chill.

I wondered if I’d have the courage not to take his call.

The truth was I was surprised I hadn’t caved and taken one of my mother’s.

But I hadn’t and I hadn’t because, during my long drive across country, I’d figured out at least one thing about me: she was a trigger. So was my father. They were triggers that sent me down a path of feeling entitled at the same time feeling small. A path where, for some reason, I had no control of my actions. I did what was ingrained in me. I did what was expected of me. They flipped the switch and anything that could have been me disappeared and all that was bred in me turned on and took over.

Because of this, for the past three years I’d done all I could to be certain that any person involved in putting a blight on the Hathaway name paid, to extremes.

Divorce was a blight. My brother had been living with the coldest bitch the west coast had ever seen for the last twenty years. In that time, she’d drained every ounce of joy out of my once fun-loving, teasing, sweet older brother, leaving him a zombie without the decaying flesh but with a working-way-too-much habit. All this, and he would no sooner leave her than cut off his own arm.

Divorce for a Hathaway wasn’t done.

Ever.

Mom and Dad didn’t blame me for Conrad leaving me. They blamed him. No one would leave a Hathaway.

And thus, they backed every selfish, thoughtless, insane move I’d made to make his and Martine’s lives a misery.

On this thought, the phone stopped ringing.

I dropped my hand to my lap and looked up. It was only then I saw that I’d parked in front of what looked like a store, but on the window, in gold with black on the edges, it said “Truck’s Gym.”

I looked beyond the sign and inside I saw it wasn’t any old gym. It was a boxing gym.

This intrigued me, but what caught my attention was a large placard leaning against the inside of the window beside the door that proudly declared, “Home of the Magdalene Junior Boxing League.”

My son, Auden wrestled.

The instant he started doing that, my parents had lost their minds (quietly), horrified that he didn’t turn his attention to something like polo, archery or sailing.

Conrad, an athlete his whole life, had been beside himself with happiness.

As for me, I didn’t like watching other boys trying to pin my son to a mat. I found it distressing. And unfortunately, I was not good at hiding that.

In the end, Auden got very good. He also got to the point he didn’t like me at his matches, and not just because I usually took that opportunity to confront Conrad and/or Martine, but because I tried to be supportive. However, since I really wished he’d chosen baseball, I’d failed in demonstrating that support.

But staring at that placard, I knew that youth athletics programs were always needing money, doing fundraising drives, selling candy bars or moms setting up bake sales.

And I intended to have a massive house sale. Sell all the old in order to bring in the new. And since both sets of my grandparents, and my parents, had all given me substantial trust funds on which I could live more than comfortably, I didn’t need money.

I’d intended to give the house sale proceeds to charity.

Looking at that sign, I tightened my hold on my phone, grabbed my purse and threw open the door to my car. I got out, walked to the door of the gym, and before my courage could fail me, I pushed through.

I barely got in when I heard, “Nice ride.”

I looked to my left to see a man in track pants and a loose fitting tank top that had openings that hung low down his sides almost to his waist, this exposing the muscled ridges of his ribs. He was staring out the window toward my car.

I had a black Mercedes SLK 350. A beautiful car. A car I loved. A car that was ridiculous for a mother of two and in a few months might be ridiculous for a winter in Maine.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Need help?”

This came from another direction and I turned my head again to see a man approaching me.

He was tall, taller than Conrad, taller than Mickey (who was also taller than Conrad). He was built. He was rough.

And he was gorgeous.

Men from Maine.

Who knew?

“Hello,” I replied as he kept coming my way. “I’m looking for someone who knows something about the boxing league.”

“Which one?” he asked.

In this sleepy town, there was more than one?

“The junior one,” I answered.

He stopped several feet in front of me and crossed his arms on his chest. “That’d be me.”

“Oh, excellent,” I mumbled, staring at him, thinking he was almost as handsome as Mickey (but not quite), which was a feat.

“You got a kid you wanna enroll?” he queried.

“No, my son wrestles,” I told him, straightening my shoulders proudly. A mom’s reflex action, the kind any mom should have (in my opinion), even if she wasn’t all that thrilled with his chosen endeavor.

He grinned. It, as well, was almost as devastating as Mickey’s. But not quite.

“Wrestling works,” he muttered.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Anyway, I was just wondering if the junior boxing league takes donations?”

“If you mean money, then fuck yeah,” he said, surprisingly coarsely. “If you mean equipment, and it’s new, then another yeah. But if you mean equipment that’s used, I’d have to take a look. Kids need good shit. Don’t like them sparrin’ in somethin’ that’s supposed to protect ’em but could end up hurtin’ ’em.”

I thought this was a good policy, but he obviously already knew that so I didn’t share my thoughts.

I said, “I mean money. In a way. Or not in a way, as it would definitely be money. What I mean is…in the future. You see, I just moved to Magdalene and I’m having a house sale. I thought, perhaps, the league could use the proceeds.”

At that, he smiled, which was also attractive, and he did this as he uncrossed his arms from his wide chest, planted his hands on his hips and decreed, “Great idea.” He then turned, started walking away from me and kept talking, “Come to the office. I’ll get you Josie’s number. Bet most the moms have shit they’d sell off. You get with Josie, you can make it a thing.”

“Josie?” I asked, deciding it best to follow him, something I did, the heels of the flats I wore that I was pretty sure my mother also had (in every color) making muted sounds against the wood floors.

“My wife,” he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder at me. “She’s taken charge of fundraising.”

Taken charge?

That gave the impression she didn’t get involved before, and I thought that was strange.

I thought this because no matter what Conrad was involved in, what he needed, I did it. For instance, me to give a fabulous dinner party, or show at a business dinner in an appropriate dress and be charming, or become involved on the board of a charitable organization.

I didn’t just do it. I gave it my everything.

“Oh, right,” I said to the man’s back.

We entered a tidy office and I did it surprised boxers could be tidy. Then I forced myself to stop being surprised because I didn’t know any boxers and that was judgmental, a reaction my parents would have. And I forced myself to stop thinking about it at all when I halted as he continued walking to the desk.

He bent at the waist (a trim waist, I could see that through his well-fitting t-shirt), scribbled on a piece of paper, turned and came to me.

He held out the paper. “Josie’s number,” he declared. “I’ll give her the heads up you’re callin’. You wanna leave yours, I’ll give her your number too.” He grinned again and said, “And by the way, I’m Jake Spear. Owner of Truck’s Gym and the man behind Magdalene’s junior boxing league.”

I took the paper, shoved it into my purse with my phone and held out my hand, “Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Amelia Hathaway.”

He took my hand, and much like when Mickey did it (with obvious differences, seeing as he wasn’t quite as attractive, not to mention the significant fact he was married), the strength and warmth of his fingers around mine communicated something I liked.

Deeply.

“Good to meet you, Amelia,” he replied, squeezing my fingers lightly and briefly before letting me go. “Real good to meet you, you raise some cake for my kids.”

I had a feeling, considering my plan, how much stuff I was selling and how nice it was, I’d definitely raise some cake for his kids.

I smiled at him then looked to his desk before moving my gaze back to him. “Shall I write down my number for your wife so we can introduce ourselves and make plans?”

“Absolutely,” he said while walking back to the desk.

I followed and did what he did, bending and writing my name and number on a sheet of paper.

I straightened and looked up to him. “I’ll give her a call today or tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“You don’t, she’ll call you,” he told me. “A lot of the equipment is shot and enrollment is up. We need cash to cover the expansion. The last gig she did she wasn’t pleased with the results. Put her all into it and we made dick. She’s a dog with a bone now. So you might get a call before you even have time to drive home.”

I wouldn’t mind that. I hadn’t been there a week but I needed to settle in. Get the lay of the land. Sort out my home. Win back my family.

But I also needed to start a life.

That was what I’d failed to do when Conrad left. My life had been him. I should have licked my wounds, found a way to let them heal and moved on.

I didn’t do that.

Now, I had to do that. My thought: a healthy mom means a healthy home, which ends in a healthy relationship with my children.

My goal. What I was living for.

And although this Jake Spear didn’t hesitate to curse in front of a stranger who was also a female (my mother and father would lose their minds at that, genteelly, of course), he ran a junior boxing league. At least that said good things about him and a good man (sometimes) meant a good woman as his wife.

I needed to know good people.

And I needed friends.

This Josie might not be one but at least she was someone calling me that was not thousands of miles away and better, not my mother.

“Babe.”

At the word, a trill raced down my spine, exploding along my lower back and cascading over my bottom. I experienced this swift, surprising and alarmingly pleasant sensation and slowly turned to the door.

One syllable. He’d said one syllable and I’d met him once and I knew who would be there. I knew who made me feel that feeling.

I was right.

In the office doorway stood Mickey Donovan in loose fitting, navy track pants and a short-sleeved, skintight white workout shirt.

And he was smiling, doing it warmly, looking pleasantly startled (likely at my being in a boxing gym) and very welcoming.

I was startled he was there at that precise moment, but I wasn’t surprised he was at a boxing gym.

“Not where I expected to run into you,” Mickey remarked.

“Well…no,” I replied. “How are you, Mickey?”

“Doin’ good,” he told me, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, a casual stance I found oddly devastating to my peace of mind. “You?”

“Just fine,” I lied.

“You know Amelia?” Jake asked and Mickey’s eyes went to him.

“She’s my new neighbor,” Mickey shared then added, “The Cameron place.”

I felt Jake’s gaze and tore mine off Mickey to look up at him.

“The Cameron place?” he asked when he got my gaze, then noted, “That’s a fuckuva score.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, even though I wasn’t entirely certain how he meant that. I took a guess and remarked, “It’s an amazing property.”

He nodded. “It is. No way me, Josie and the kids’d ever leave Lavender House, but the realtor had an open house for Cliff Blue so we went and we all loved it. The place is phenomenal.”

I liked that he agreed with me but I was confused.

“Cliff Blue?” I asked.

“Your house, darlin’,” Mickey stated, and I had to control a jump since his voice was a lot closer than before.

I managed that and looked up at him to see he was close. Not as close as I would have liked but could never have, but a lot closer than before.

“My house?” I asked.

“Cameron called it Cliff Blue. It stuck. And it works,” he explained. “Folks who had the lot before had an old house on it. Two generations of women who liked the feel of their hands in the dirt tended that property for nearly seventy years. Place was covered in bluebells. Planted some, they took off, went everywhere. Even jumped the street and now they’re all over my lot, and that’s not a complaint. Cameron liked ’em too, used them in the design, the color, the stained glass, the walk, and was careful not to disturb them if he didn’t have to. Went so far as to plant a bunch more to replace any they killed during construction. ’Cause of that, March and April, your house looks like it’s floating by a cliff on a cloud of blue.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered, his words filling my head with a wondrous image, making me wish for another reason that I’d been able to move in several months earlier. “The realtor should have put a picture of that on the Internet. If I saw it, I would have probably paid full price.”

I couldn’t contain my jump when Mickey’s laughter filled the room, not only because it was an exceedingly handsome sound, but because it came as a surprise.

Before I could ask what was funny, he told me.

“Glad you didn’t, babe. The couple who built that place were pieces of work. She was a raging bitch and that was only capped by how huge of a dick he was. Place was on the market forever because neither would agree on an offer and actually got into it with the buyers so bad they’d pull out. They kept screwing around, the price on your place dropped three times, which is a shame ’cause that house is that house. Not a shame ’cause those two assholes got screwed in the end. But it’s a pain in the ass because that house is in my neighborhood and that kinda shit affects the values of all the properties around it. Figure the only way they could sell was to someone like you who the realtor could keep those two piranhas away from.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” I noted and the residual grin from his laughter turned into a smile.

“Suffice it to say, I don’t know you too well and I like you a whole lot more than I liked them,” he replied.

And one could say I liked that.

But I shouldn’t like that. I shouldn’t anything that.

Even so, I needed to make a response so I did it mumbling, “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Bad neighbors suck.”

Considering our first meeting he had to rescue me from my infuriated, foul-mouthed ex-husband, I decided not to respond to that.

Mickey didn’t stick with that subject either.

Instead, he prompted, “Still got no idea why you’re here, Amelia.” His blue eyes twinkled and my stomach fluttered. “But if you’re a female fighter, that’d shock the shit out of me.”

“Oh, right,” I mumbled then cleared my throat and carried on, “I’m selling a few things and thought I’d donate the proceeds to the junior boxing league.”

Another smile from Mickey. “Fantastic.”

“House sale. Josie’s gonna help,” Jake put in and Mickey looked to him then to me.

“Got some shit I could put in. Tell me when you’re havin’ it. I’ll lug it over.”

This was not conducive to me steering clear of Mickey Donovan, but if the young boxers needed decent equipment, the more was definitely the merrier. So at least for that, I’d have to suck it up.

“Of course. I’ll make sure you know,” I replied.

“And you need help, I’m across the way,” he offered.

That wasn’t going to happen.

“Thanks,” I said, swiftly looked to Jake, stuck out my hand and continued, “It was nice meeting you. I’ll call your wife soon.”

He took my hand, squeezed it and returned, “Same meetin’ you. Sure I’ll see you again soon.”

“Yes.” I nodded and forced my attention back to Mickey. “Good to see you again, Mickey.”

Another grin. “You too, babe.”

I dipped my chin, averted my eyes, murmured, “Good-bye, gentlemen,” and walked to the door.

This got me a, “Later,” from Jake and a, “’Bye, darlin’,” from Mickey.

As I swiftly made my way through the gym, I sent a hesitant smile to the boxer still training, doing this now not punching a bag as he had been when I walked in, but jumping rope.

He smiled back distractedly but I got the impression he did it only because we met eyes.

I kept moving through the gym as his attention drifted away and something about this stung.

He was not unattractive, though he wasn’t gorgeous like Mickey and Jake. I couldn’t fathom his exact age but I guessed both Mickey and Jake were around mine, and although the rope-jumping boxer looked younger, he was nowhere near his twenties so he was not that far off.

What he was was not interested in me.

I was a woman in a boxing gym. I had breasts. I had a booty. I had long hair and it was thick and shiny.

But to him, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties, who, depending on a woman’s preferences, might not turn heads but was not a man you’d dismiss, I was a nonentity.

I’d been married to Conrad for sixteen years. We’d been together for three before that. And the three after, I’d had nothing on my mind but resentment and revenge. I hadn’t thought of a man looking at me because I hadn’t looked at a man.

Then came Maine.

And the day after I arrived…Mickey.

And it hit me then with that boxer paying absolutely no mind to me that I had no idea what a man would think of me. I had no idea if men looked at me.

Until then when I knew they didn’t.

Mickey disturbed me in a pleasant way I couldn’t allow myself to feel and I hoped I hid.

But either he was phenomenally good at hiding it himself or I didn’t disturb him in the slightest.

I figured it was the latter.

Jake was married but he didn’t even look past my eyes to my hair.

And I had good hair.

Further, the rope-jumping boxer barely glanced at me.

My ride, yes.

Me, no.

I got in my car and didn’t waste time pulling out of the spot, getting away from Mickey, burying the sting of these realizations, how deep they bit, how they made me feel—old and past my prime, insignificant, a body passing through a gym who was not female or male or anything.

I drove, resolutely turning my mind to heading home (which, alas, was across the street from Mickey).

And as I drove, I forced myself to think about the fact that I was happy I’d found a local organization that would put the money I made off my old life to good use.

I drove also troubled this involved Mickey.

And when I was getting out of my car in my garage, I was surprised when my phone rang.

The garage door was folding down as I dug my phone out of my purse, doing this with some trepidation.

I, not officially (but unofficially for certain), was severing ties with Robin, my best friend back in La Jolla. This was because she was much like my mother, spurring me on to random acts of bitchery in order to make Conrad’s (but mostly Martine’s) life a misery.

Along with coming to the understanding my mother and father were triggers, on my drive across country I’d also decided Robin was a bad influence.

She had called too and I’d texted her back. I’d email her when I had my computer set up. And according to my plan, if I couldn’t manage to adjust our friendship to something that was far healthier for me, we’d eventually become acquaintances. Something, if she brought it up, I’d blame on the distance.

I did not take this in stride and I didn’t take it lightly. Just the thought of losing Robin hurt and I hated it. Robin and I had been friends for years. We’d met at a party when Conrad had joined her husband’s practice. She was beautiful and funny and she loved my kids like I loved hers. We spent a lot of time together. We shared everything with each other. We trusted each other completely. In forty-seven years, she was the only woman I’d met who’d become the absent sister I’d always needed.

Over the past years, the rest of my friends had shied away as my random acts of bitchery carried on (and on), so Robin was the only one I had left.

But her husband had left her two years before mine did and not for a nurse, for a Pilates instructor. Thus Robin had random acts of bitchery down to an art as she’d been honing her skills way before I entered the game.

She’d been my mentor, a very good one, and we’d carried on with our shenanigans, doing it with a glee that I only very recently realized hid our despair.

She was still there and living her bitterness while spurring mine on, nowhere near coming to a place in her life where she’d reflect on this, move past it and take back her life.

But to save my family, I had to do just that. And to do that, I had to cut her off (semi) cold turkey.

Which, to start anew, was what I was doing.

So the call could only be from Mom, something that would be out of her usual modus operandi.

Or, if she jumped the gun, it would be from Dad, angry with me that I hadn’t taken Mom’s calls and not only willing but very able to share that with me, cutting me to the bone with his precisely aimed ice daggers, reducing me to nothing.

I didn’t know what to make of the fact that the screen had nothing but a number I didn’t recognize.

Mom would not play games. She wouldn’t get to me through subterfuge. And Dad never phoned me on anything but his cell because that would require the effort of looking up my number, which he would not bother to memorize. He would never make that effort, even to allow himself his relished pastime of laying into me.

Though, it could be Robin. She had a variety of ways of getting to people who didn’t want to hear from her.

Even thinking this, I took the chance of taking the call, putting my phone to my ear and saying a cautious, “Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Amelia?” a woman (not Robin, thankfully) asked.

“Yes,” I answered, pushing through the door from the garage that led into the dining area portion of the landing of the open-space great room.

“This is Josephine Spear,” she announced and I stopped, eyes unfocused on the blue sea beyond my windows, my mind on the fact that Jake hadn’t lied. His wife must be a dog with a bone because, as he predicted, I’d barely made it home before she contacted me. “You met my husband at the gym. Jake Spear?”

“I did, Josephine,” I confirmed. “And I’m pleased you phoned.”

“Head gear is crucial in boxing,” she declared strangely. “We have thirty-seven boys in the league and only gear enough to fit twelve boys appropriately.” Her voice started filling with excitement. “Jake told me what you were wishing to do and a house sale is just the thing! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”

I almost had the opportunity to agree as I heard her pull in a quick breath, but I didn’t get that chance when she went on.

“Now, I don’t want to pressure you but the season will be on us before we know it and our bake sales and magazine subscription efforts are not exactly thriving. But everyone has items in their homes they no longer want that another will want. So, if you’re amenable, I’ll call Alyssa. She’s my friend and a fighter mom. We’ll activate the mom phone tree. We’ll get more items donated and make plans to get the word out, far and wide.”

“That’s wonderful, Josephine, I think the bigger this is the better it can be. But just to warn you, I do have a great deal of stuff I’ll be needing to sell,” I told her. “I’ve also got a plan of designing fliers, putting an ad in the paper, going to local businesses and asking if I can put notices up on public bulletin boards and in staff rooms—”

I wasn’t quite finished when she declared, “Excellent! And I’ll speak with the schools. They email newsletters to parents, even in the summer. They can add that as a news item. We’ll also need volunteers…” She hesitated before she said, “There’s a good deal to go over. Perhaps we should meet. Iron all this out face to face. I’ll ask Alyssa to join us. Do you work? Should this be lunch or dinner or coffee?”

Yes, Jake had not lied. His wife was very keen.

“I…don’t work,” I admitted, feeling another new feeling, that being ashamed of that fact, not to mention the fact that I never had worked. Ever. Not in my life. I pushed past that and finished, “So, I could do anything at your schedule.”

“Fabulous. I’ll speak with Alyssa and phone you back. How does that sound?”

I started moving toward the kitchen to dump my purse on the counter and replied, “Sounds great.”

“Jake says you’re new to Magdalene?” she remarked.

“I’ve been here just under a week,” I shared.

“Well then, welcome to our home that is now your home and I look forward to meeting you.”

“Same, Josephine.”

“Josie,” she said. “Please, call me Josie.”

“All right, Josie.”

“I’ll phone shortly after I speak with Alyssa.”

“Wonderful.”

“Take care, Amelia.”

“You too, Josie.”

She rang off and I dumped my purse and phone on the counter. I went to the fridge, opened it, stared in and, even though I’d skipped breakfast, forgot about lunch and had a fully loaded fridge since the kids had been there that weekend, I couldn’t see anything in it that interested me.

So I closed the door to the fridge and jumped when my phone rang.

I grabbed it from the counter, saw the same number on the screen and took the call.

“Josie?” I asked as greeting.

“Is Wednesday at lunchtime good for you?” she asked back.

I stared at the counter thinking she wasn’t keen, she was raring.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.

“Excellent. Noon. Weatherby’s Diner. We’ll be the two blondes in a window booth.”

“Well, if there are two other blondes, so you know me, I’ll be the short, middle-aged brunette,” I informed her.

“Petite,” she stated as reply.

“I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Women are not short. They’re petite. They also are never middle-aged. They’re mature.”

I didn’t know how to reply to that true but firmly declared statement except to say, “Oh. Right.”

She sounded vaguely flustered when she backtracked, “You can, of course, refer to yourself however you wish.”

I felt the need to smooth her fluster and did this saying, “Petite is a nicer word. So is mature.”

“They are, indeed,” she agreed. “Though I also am not overly fond of mature. Why a woman needs to qualify that, I cannot fathom.”

I couldn’t help but agree.

“So I’ll be the petite, mature brunette,” I told her, trying to make a joke. “However, the mature part is just for you and me.”

“And Alyssa and I will be the not-petite, mature blondes,” she returned, and thankfully I could hear the smile in her voice. “Further, you should be aware that as it’s summer, I may have my son, Ethan, with me. And as Alyssa and her husband, Junior, are kind, good-hearted people, they’ve wisely made the decision to copiously populate Magdalene with their offspring. Therefore, she could have a bevy of children with her. They’ll be the ones causing mayhem. I’ll do my best to be certain Ethan doesn’t join in, but he has a mind of his own and his father and I like to encourage exactly that.”

I grinned at the counter. “That’ll be good then as you all will be hard to miss.”

“Indeed,” she again agreed. “Now, do we have a plan?”

“Yes, Josie, we have a plan. I’ll see you and Alyssa Wednesday at this Weatherby’s place.”

“You can’t miss it,” she told me. “It’s in town and town’s not that big. It’s right on Cross Street. But if you have troubles, simply call me.”

She seemed oddly formal, which was quite a contradiction to her cursing, but friendly and totally informal husband.

“I’ll find it,” I assured her.

“Good. We’ll see you then, Amelia.”

“Yes, Josie. See you Wednesday.”

She rang off and I put the phone to the counter.

Lifting my head, I looked at a beautiful space that didn’t look that fabulous with boxes stacked against the walls.

However, apparently, if Josie Spear had anything to do with it, this house sale would happen quickly and I could get started on creating a home I loved that my children were comfortable in.

Until I had that clean palette, though, I wasn’t going to start that project.

Which meant, home from my meanderings to nowhere doing nothing that actually bore fruit as I’d met some people and had plans for lunch on Wednesday, at that exact time, I had nothing to do.

Nothing.

No friends.

No housework.

No job to get to.

No children coming home imminently.

The cable and Internet were scheduled to be installed the next day so I didn’t even have that.

All of sudden, I had the strange feeling of being crushed.

Crushed by the weight of all that was new that was around me.

Crushed by the weight of all that I had to do to make my house a home.

Crushed by the weight of all my mistakes and the effort I knew it would take to remedy them.

Crushed by loneliness. Loneliness that in all my years of being alone I hadn’t even begun the work to make the change from feeling that to feeling aloneness and being comfortable with it.

Crushed by the fear of the specter of my parents who were remaining aloof, but they’d tire of that and then they’d invade in insidious ways that could obliterate the fragile embryo of what I was trying to create.

It took effort. It took time. I stood in my beautiful open plan kitchen with its views of blue sea as I expended that effort and took that time.

Then I made a plan.

I grabbed my phone, pulled up the app that found places that you needed that were close, hit the map to let the GPS guide my way and I went back out to my car.

I pulled out of my garage and headed to the home improvement store. There, I gathered so many paint chips I could set up a display in my house.

I then drove to the closest mall, not only so I would know where it was, but so I could buy a few books.

Only then did I go home.

I put the paint chips in a kitchen drawer. I’d go through them after the house sale and when I’d lived at Cliff Blue awhile so I knew what the walls needed (and incidentally, I loved that name and determined to refer to my house by its name even on the address labels I would order when I had the Internet).

Instead, I did something I’d never done in my life (though part of it I couldn’t do as in La Jolla I had a house on a golf course, not by a beach). Something I’d never even considered doing.

I spent time with me.

I did this lying on my couch with a glass of wine. I sometimes read. I sometimes stared at the sea.

I then had another glass of wine.

And then another.

As I did it, I realized I liked doing it, reading, sipping, staring at the sea. So much so, I didn’t think to have dinner.

And finally, I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up there hours later, I didn’t do what I would have done simply because my mother would decree it wasn’t appropriate to sleep in your clothes on your couch.

I didn’t drag myself to bed.

Instead, I closed my eyes and went back to sleep in my clothes on my couch.

I didn’t sleep great and woke up with a pain in my shoulder.

Regardless, for some reason, I woke up feeling satisfied.

* * * * *

I waited until Tuesday afternoon to text the kids and let them know I was doing a house sale to get rid of some of the old in order to start anew. I invited them to come over and go through their things should they wish to get rid of anything. And I shared the proceeds would go to the local junior boxing league.

I didn’t want to text them the day before, the Monday after they left, because I didn’t want them to get the feeling with me again being in the same town, I’d suffocate them with pathological communication. Nor that I’d pester them with good intentions.

I just wanted to seem normal.

And I hoped that was normal.

* * * * *

It might have been normal, it might not.

I didn’t know.

Neither of them replied.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, I had lunch and made grand schemes for a blowout house sale to benefit the Magdalene junior boxing league with the yin and yang of breathtakingly beautiful blondes.

First, there was the classy, sophisticated Josie, who scarily reminded me of my parents at first. Then I saw her interact with the dazzling but brash, take-me-as-I-come-or-kiss-off Alyssa, who my parents would detest.

After watching that, even if Josie still seemed somewhat formal, it clearly was only part of a complicated personality and the rest was all good.

They’d come without children, which was a little disappointing. They’d also told me there was no way we’d get through this without roping in all the children (apparently, all the junior boxing moms had tons of stuff they wanted to unload and most of them were willing to help).

So blowout house sale it would be.

And two possible friends I would have.

That was good.

* * * * *

It was bad that I waited until Sunday to text my own children again to remind them I was having a house sale, it would be that next Saturday, and they had the opportunity to unload old stuff and jump on new. I shared that it’d make me happy if they replied sooner rather than later as plans were in full swing (and they were, both Josie and Alyssa had jobs, but they also both had more energy than I felt was natural, coupled with a driving desire to make huge amounts of money).

I also invited Auden and Pippa to come to the house sale if they felt like it.

I did this, but again, neither of them replied.

* * * * *

The next week and a half I designed, had printed, put up and gave out fliers, put ads in various papers, opened my door and accepted a multitude of drop offs from a variety of moms of budding boxers. I even talked the local radio station into sharing the event and made plans to offer refreshments (for sale, of course) in order to make this house sale all it could be.

When Alyssa came by to drop off her items and she caught sight of some of the things I was letting go, I also sent Alyssa home with two boxes of free stuff she had to have. We had a good-natured fight over the fact I wouldn’t let her pay for any of it but she only gave in because she left three filled boxes that she intended to pick up on the big day and pay for, which she’d marked on the sides with a Sharpie, “Alyssa’s, touch and you’ll be hunted! Dig me?”

During this time, I let my children be.

* * * * *

Two days before the house sale, I texted the kids to remind them it was happening and again to invite them to come if they wanted.

* * * * *

They didn’t reply.