I'd paid the lawyer untold thousands for the privilege of giving my wife the house and a couple thousand a month in support. He billed me fifty bucks for some leftover clerical work. I sent him back a letter thanking him for letting her lawyer hand him his ass. I still owe him the fifty.
Meanwhile, the group that had bought out my employer decided that my services came at too high a price. The new group comprised mostly accountants -- British accountants, the very worst kind. They put me off payroll and promised me about half-salary in consulting work. Between that and a couple of their high-profile clients, who went with me, I was able to keep up my living standard.
All that done, I decided that summer to take a couple months off, to get out of the city, clear my head, and decide what I wanted to do with the next 40 years. I liked the idea of living near the bay, away from the tourist stops, maybe a shack on an inlet where i could toss out crab pots in the morning and have a meal by evening.
I called an old friend, Frank, whom I'd known off and on since high school. Frank had some bayside properties, and I figured he could get me started in finding something, somewhere -- anywhere. . .
A few days later, Frank called back.
"Joey," he said.
"Yeah Frank. What did you find me?"
"About as far from anything as you can get." He gave me the location. "Sort of a village, sort of a glorified fish camp. Not too far from the ferry."
"How much?"
"Too good to be true, Joe, if you're up to some work. The owner has been there for forty years, but he's getting old and doesn't want to keep the place up anymore. He'll let you have it for the summer in exchange for some, uh, home improvements. Otherwise, absolutely free."
My god, I thought. "What kind of work?"
"Some plumbing, wiring. Needs new windows, new roof. Nothing you can't do."
Frank was right. This sounded too good to be true, and it was. The place had two bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room and laundry. The roof leaked, the kitchen fixtures were rusty, everything in the bathroom dripped (plus some rot in the floor). The plus? It was a hundred yards from the water and had a nice, covered front porch.
Yes, it needed a lot of work, but it could be made liveable pretty quickly.
I sat down with the owner, a long-retired gentleman who wore a plaid jacket and a summer straw hat. He told me he'd built it in the 1960s as a vacation getaway, and he'd spent summers there every year since. He told me what things he'd like to see done first, and I ran a mental budget to see what I thought I could do.
Mr. Cabell's intent, he said, was to have the cottage fixed up so he could rent it. Without much further discussion, we worked out and signed a two-party lease, and I had a home for the summer.
Mr. Cabell, the owner, had left some older furniture in the house. I brought a few business items, some comfort pieces, a bed, and what clothes I thought I'd need for a summer at the shore. Oh, and tools -- a table saw, vise, clamps, a bunch of 18V utility hand tools, and the usual box of hammers, wrenches, bits, and so on.
In a week, I had the walls painted and the leaky faucets in the kitchen and bathroom repaired. I decided to start on the roof, which was not large and needed only shingles to be made tight. Within a week, the place had begun to appear comfortable.
Meanwhile, I began to make acquaintance with some of the neighbors. Most were older people, folks like Mr. Cabell, who had been coming here for years. Some had moved on, leaving the properties to their children -- people closer to my age. There weren't many of those.
I assumed the woman and girl whom I saw out walking occasionally were of this next generation. A county road led into the village, then dwindled to a lane that dead-ended at the water's edge. The bayfront had sort of a small beach, and I'd see one or the other or both of them, sometimes in company with others from the community, walking to the beach.
I couldn't do much for introduction, as I spent a couple of hot days on the roof, popping the new shingles over the old, flaky ones. The woman and the girl stood out because both were blonde. I guessed the woman was, say, 40 or so, and the girl about 20, perhaps. From similarities in coloring, build and carriage, I guessed also that they were mother and daughter.
It came as a nice surprise when "mother and daughter" walked up the sidewalk toward my cottage late one afternoon. I had changed out of my work clothes and sat in a chair on the porch wearing only swim shorts. I said hello, smiled, and told them I'd be back. I went in the house, found a shirt and pulled it on, then went back to the porch.
The older woman smiled, perhaps at my modesty. The girl also smiled.
"I guess we're the welcome committee," the woman said. "My name's Michelle -- Chelle is what I go by. This is my daughter Ishtar. We call her Star. I still don't know what got into me to name her that."
Star looked askance at her mother, as if performing a fragment of an old comedy bit. "The Evening Star, mother," the girl said.
I put out my hand and shook first Chelle's hand, then Star's. "The star of Babylon?" I said, trying to place the name in some mythology. "Something like that," Chelle said with a little chuckle.
"Jack," I said. I'm not sure why, but I frequently protect my identity by giving false names to momentary acquaintances. "Jack" seemed to work this time.
I seemed to recognize something in Chelle -- her voice, her face, even the feel of her hand. The sense was faint, and I let it pass. "I'd offer you something to drink. All I have is iced tea. Come and sit down and I'll get you some.
Chelle and Star came up the creaky porch stairs and sat each in one of the chairs set out the open deck. I went to the kitchen, filled two glasses with ice and tea, and brought them to the girls. "You look like the sun got you," I said. Both were tanned dark, their blonde hair lightened by the sun. Chelle wore white shorts, a light-blue t-shirt, and flat sandals. Star had on a cotton robe over her swim suit, with flip-flops on her feet.
"It IS hot today," Chelle said. "Summer's finally here. About time I guess, seeing it's the end of June. We've been down on the reef for a couple of hours, thinking it might be cooler late in the day. We usually go down there a couple hours a day."
"No such luck," Star said. "Mother, do you have any aspirin? I have such a headache from the heat." Chelle dug in the small beach bag she carried and handed her daughter a bottle of drug-store brand pain reliever.
We began to talk. They lived in a cottage similar to mine a little way back up the county road, a hundred yards or so. Their house was well-maintained and had been redone in the past two years. Chelle taught school in Maryland, somewhere in southern Maryland, and was here for the summer break. She also received a supplement, alimony from her ex-husband. They had been divorced for a year.
Star had a bit of an independent nature, just short of rebellious, and she and her mother seemed more like close friends than like mother and daughter. Star had been born when Chelle was 22, and he'd married Jimmy three years later. He was a good man, Chelle said, and he had taken in Star as his own. She didn't seem to want to say much more -- and I really didn't care to go into detail over my grim divorce. "We just grew apart," Chelle said.
"Why don't you two come inside," I suggested. "It's a little cooler in there." They looked quickly at each other, then gratefully accepted. I had two big box fans in the living room I set one up in front of a wicker chair, and the other I set toward my desk and work gear. Star quick got into the wicker chair. She leaned back and closed her eyes, her arms hanging over the arms of the chair. Her robe fell open and her knees parted, letting the air from the fan cool her.
