“Terrible. Even worse than here. A million dollars buys nothing on the peninsula. We’re already house hunting, and we’re definitely going to end up with half the house we have here.”
“But you’ll have the sun.”
“That’s right. I tell myself we’re paying for the great weather.”
She falls silent, and we drive without speaking for a minute. “Taylor, I do feel terrible that I’m leaving you solely responsible for the auction, and if you weren’t you, I’d worry about the auction, but you are you and you’ll do an incredible job as chair. Let’s face it, you don’t really need me there.”
“But I do.” I’m sad, really sad. I don’t want to do the auction without Patti. I would never have agreed to chair it if I thought I’d have to chair it alone. “I do need you.”
Patti pulls into her driveway. Looks like we’re not even doing coffee. My spirits sink about as low as they can go.
“You know you can run things by me anytime,” she adds. “I’ll just be a phone call away.”
Nathan gone, and now Patti. I swallow hard. “I’m going to miss you. A lot.”
Car in park, she reaches over to give me a swift hug. “You have so many friends, Taylor. You won’t even know that I’m gone.”
At home, after tucking the girls into bed and comforting Tori, who starts crying for Daddy, I sit at my computer and type a quick e-mail.
Nathan, just found out Patti and Don are moving. They leave before December. I can’t stand it. And I can’t bear to think about chairing the auction on my own. Help! What do I do?
I’m about to push send when I read it again and think about our financial crisis and the bills that just keep coming in.
PS. More and more collection agencies are coming at us now. I know what’s in our checking account. There’s no way to pay next month’s bills. We need to talk.
Once again I reread the e-mail, and as I read my eyes start to burn. I don’t want to e-mail Nathan. I want to talk to him. I need to see him. I need our lives normal again.
PPS. The girls miss you. It’s not the same without you.
I push send.
Chapter Eleven
It’s Saturday, and I’ve woken early again. There’s no reason to get up before six on a weekend, but I didn’t sleep well last night, and starting around four I’d wake up every half hour, look at the clock, and then force myself to go back to sleep. Finally at five-forty I got up and came downstairs to make coffee and have a look at the Saturday job ads. Only the morning paper isn’t here yet, and it’s wet out.
Please God don’t let it be another long, wet winter. I can handle the Pacific Northwest as long as we avoid record-breaking rainfall.
At seven-thirty I dart outside to check for the paper. The rain has let up slightly, and I find the paper wrapped in bright blue plastic in the middle of a puddle on the driveway. I shake the plastic and, once inside, carefully peel the wet plastic from the paper.
After reading the headlines and the front section, I glance briefly through “Arts & Entertainment” before going to the classifieds, looking for anything related to PR, communications, and event planning. I see two possibilities and circle those. Just to be thorough, I go through all the sales positions as well, but nothing jumps at me. I’m still poring over the ads when the kitchen phone rings. It’s Nathan. He must have gotten the e-mail I sent last night.
“Hi. Good morning,” I say, picking up the phone and sitting on one of the wrought-iron bar stools. There are three stools, but we rarely use them. They looked pretty in the catalog, cost a fortune, and are ridiculously uncomfortable. “You got my e-mail?”
“Don and Patti are really moving?”
I get an immediate lump in my throat. “Yes. I guess Don starts work the first of November, then Patti and the kids move around Thanksgiving.”
“Wow.”
We’re both low and blue, I can feel it. “So how did that appointment go on Thursday?”
“Fine.”
But it doesn’t sound fine. He doesn’t sound fine. “You like the job, though?”
“It’s good to be working again.”
His cryptic answers do little to ease my sense of alienation. “When do you think you’ll be able to come home?”
“I don’t know. I’m working the entire weekend. It’s a new industry for me, and I’m playing a lot of catch-up. Plus the company has some internal issues, and until those get resolved it’s going to be hard to move forward.” He pauses. “Can I talk to the girls?”
“They’re still sleeping.”
“They have games today?”
“Jemma at nine, Brooke at eleven. I don’t know if you saw the e-mail I forwarded to you, the one from Brooke’s coach. He says she’s a natural. He loves her aggressiveness close to the goal.”
“She’s always been feisty.”
“You can say that again.”
“What about Jemma?”
“She’s doing okay.”
“Just okay?”
This is the longest conversation we’ve had in weeks. It’s weird to think we don’t talk anymore. “Mrs. Osborne is in weekly communication with me regarding her attitude.”
“Is she being rude?”
“No.” I slide off the stool and, with the phone tucked between shoulder and chin, warm up my coffee. “Her teacher would just like to see her make a bigger effort. Apparently she’s underachieving.”
Nathan sighs. “This isn’t the first time we’ve heard this from a teacher.”
“No.”
He’s silent and I hold my cup in my hands, aware of all the things not being said, aware of the distance between us.
“Nathan, we got some nasty notes in the mail this week. Collection agencies are now coming after us.”
“Just put them in the mail to me,” he says wearily.
“I’ve cut Annika back from thirty hours a week to seventeen. Imelda will only clean for us twice a month, and the gardeners are down to once a month.” I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.
“I’m looking for a job,” I add.
“Getting a job isn’t going to change anything. You won’t make enough money to help with the debt, and you’ll just end up hiring more help so you can cope with the job demands.”
“That’s not true. I’ll work in the morning after Tori’s been dropped off and stop when it’s time to pick her up.”
“You’ll work from nine forty-five till two.”
“Yes.”
He makes a rough sound. I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a groan. “And who will hire you to work just four hours a day? McDonald’s?”
“Nathan.”
“Seriously, Taylor, what company will hire you to work a four-hour day?”
I scramble, try to think of a good answer, but nothing comes to me. “Fine, I’ll work more hours. Annika can pick the kids up from school. I’ll work ten till five. That’s seven hours. I can do a lot in seven hours.”
His voice drops. “What about your auction?”
“I’ll do it in the evening.”
“What about the girls?”
I nearly scream. “I’ll find a way. I’ll make it work. They’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then he takes a breath, a deep, slow breath. “Taylor, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, I’m really not, but I don’t think you realize that we pay Annika more an hour than you would earn an hour.”
“That’s not true—”
“When you worked in PR, you were making what? Forty-four thousand? Forty-eight?”
“About that,” I agree stiffly. “But that was ten years ago. Surely with inflation I’d be making more.”
“Not for part-time work, and once you’re hit by taxes, there won’t be a lot left to bring home.”
“So what are you saying? For me to do nothing?”
“Maybe we need to sell the house.”
My heart falls, a sickening plummet down. I lean heavily on the counter. “Sel
l the house?”
“We’d use the equity that’s left to pay off the bills. We probably wouldn’t be able to buy another house right away, but in a year or two, we could find something comfortable.”
He’s talking, but I’m not listening. Every bone in my body, every fiber of my being, is protesting. I can’t sell the house. I love this house. I love living here. “There has to be another way.”
“Taylor—”
“I’m going to get a job. I will. This week. And it’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”