From the living room window, fifty-three-year-old Eve Moore watched a moving van stop in front of the vacant house next door. She grabbed the binoculars and removed her glasses, focusing on the Maine license plate as two burly men climbed out of the van. One stood and lit a cigarette while the other unlatched the gate, walked up to the house and unlocked the door. Music blared from the van. They unloaded an eight-foot crate and carried it into the house. After locking the door, they drove away.
An hour later a limousine arrived. Eve grabbed her binoculars again and watched the driver leave in a taxi.
The sun reflected off something on the road where the van had stopped. She marched out, holding her hands on her hips, and picked up a book off the ground, titled: The Bridges of Madison County. She felt the smoothness of the book jacket with a palm while she stood and observed the house.
A rusty iron gate surrounded the long-empty mansion--a grand Victorian in need of repairs; too expensive for most people looking to buy in the area. It had been for sale for years. Eve had heard rumours that the town was contemplating purchasing the property as an historic site.
The house had been built in 1850 by a wealthy shipbuilder from Halifax, Nova Scotia. It had been used by his two sons while attending school in Windsor, run by a full staff of household servants. The father remained in Halifax with his wife and five daughters to run his business. After the sons had graduated, the house was sold. Except for a short stint as a boarding house in 1902, the place had been a summer home for several different owners.
She flicked her hair and walked back to her house. She'd read the book and then give it to her niece when she visited later in the summer. Wilson was her only sibling, a brilliant physician, who had moved his family to Toronto after university.
There was an excitement in the air she hadn't felt since Harry proposed when she was twenty-nine. He was an accountant who wore Clark Kent's glasses, and smoked thin cigars. After two years of marriage, Harry got contact lenses, quit smoking, and started pumping iron. The new Superman slept with his secretary; Eve sent him packing.
She enjoyed living in Windsor in the small, two-story home she'd lived in with her parents until they passed away. Handy with a paint brush and good at wallpapering, Eve would sometimes wander around the house, while goodies baked, sipping tea, thinking what she'd do next. To relax from her mundane duties at the library and to collect her thoughts, a few hours of crocheting or knitting always did the trick. The couch and chair were covered with multicolored knitted afghans.
Eve lived within walking distance of everything, and was close enough to the water to hear the seagulls. Working in the library suited her quiet lifestyle, but someone moving in next door was terribly exciting. Eve considered herself half reclusive and half sociable.
Later that night after a supper of clam chowder and some of her fresh-baked rolls, Eve sat on her front porch reading a paperback by Taylor Caldwell, who had been her mother's favourite writer. Small sounds stirred in the mature spruce trees across the street; birds among the branches fluttered and chirped. She stopped reading and her eyes were at half-mast but a flicker from a window next door caught her eye. It must have been her imagination, for the windows were dark.
She was about to step inside when the white limousine drove out of the garage next door. Fog was moving in off the Avon River, which was normal for any part of the Bay of Fundy. But the evening sky suddenly turning black wasn't normal. Then came a shower of hailstones the size of marbles. Hugging herself against the sudden cold, she darted inside.
Once a week, Eve got down the photo albums from the closet. It wasn't that the photographs of her dead parents, or of her brother and her when they were tots made her happy. In fact the opposite was true; they had a melancholy effect upon her. Sometimes she'd begin to weep and she'd dab at her eyes with a Kleenex as she turned the pages.
The pictures brought back memories of her youth, of picking blueberries, of walking along the dykes, of baloney sandwiches and Koolaid at the beach: a time so near in her mind, but so far away in years. One large picture of her parents, her brother and herself hung in the living room.
She had had a happy childhood. Maybe she missed the unconditional love of her family. She had adored her parents--still missed them endlessly, and thought the world of her brother. She wondered why women wanted love when something always came along to ruin it: jealousy, death, or sickness.
Two evenings a week Eve volunteered at the library. On Saturday evenings she went to play bingo at the church. A few men there had asked her out, but she always declined. She felt caged -- trapped in the past, struggling with the present.
After putting the albums away, Eve went to bed. She couldn't sleep so she turned on the light and read some of the book she had found next door until the bugs hitting the window screen annoyed her too much to continue. She considered taking a sleeping pill, but changed her mind when she realized how soon morning would come. She thought about her new neighbour and about the workload at the library. So much to do, she thought. She wanted to be clear-headed.
In the morning after two slices of toast with jam, and a cup of black tea, she left for work. A crow sat on the roof of the house next door. The sky was reflected in the windows. She stopped, and looked at the place for a moment or two, then continued on her way.
That night she found a note on her doorstep written in fine, red ink: "I noticed you walking by this morning. I have just moved in. Will you come for a glass of wine tonight around seven-thirty?"
The paper felt thick, expensive. She put the note to her face and smelled it, closing her eyes. There was a distinct masculine scent. Standing on the doorstep, she glanced over at the house.
This person couldn't expect a lady just to walk over and knock at a stranger's door, she thought. She scribbled on the reverse side: "Sorry, I'm busy tonight," and taped it to the mailbox at the foot of his driveway.
