Czytaj książkę: «Window Dressing»
“Don’t tell me you’re so afraid of the empty nest that you’re going to try to win your ex back,” my mother exclaimed.
“Get serious, Mother.”
“Never mind. I don’t want to know.” Bernice stood. “Take a look at what’s in the shopping bag. And don’t be stubborn about it.” She kissed my forehead, then clicked her way to the foyer. “Good luck with…whatever,” she yelled before the door slammed.
I kept glancing over my shoulder at the bag. Curiosity finally won out and I went to investigate.
Another little black dress. I drew it out and held it in front of me. Not bad. Maybe I’d wear it tonight. If it fit. I looked at the tag and was surprised to see that it was actually my size. Maybe Bernice had finally gotten it into her head that I was never going to be a size eight. I grinned. If that was the case, was anything possible?
Nikki Rivers
Nikki Rivers knew she wanted to be a writer when she was twelve years old. Unfortunately, due to many forks in the road of life, she didn’t start writing seriously until several decades later. She considers herself an observer in life and often warns family and friends that anything they say or do could end up on the pages of a novel. She lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with her husband and best friend, Ron, and her feisty cairn terrier, Sir Hairy Scruffles. Her daughter, Jennifer, friend, critic, shopping accomplice and constant source of grist for the mill, lives just down the street.
Nikki loves to hear from her readers. E-mail her at nikkiriverswrites@yahoo.com.
Window Dressing
Nikki Rivers
From the Author
Dear Reader,
Don’t you just love a road trip? Music blasting, wind in your hair, brand-new pair of sunglasses perched on your nose? I’ve been taking road trips with my best girlfriend, Deb Kratz, ever since we’ve been old enough to drive. The destinations have changed over the years—and so have we. But we always have a blast.
Window Dressing starts with just such a road trip between Lauren Campbell and her best buddy, Moira Rice. Lauren, divorced for ten years, thinks she knows exactly where she’s going—taking her son, Gordy, to start his freshman year, after which she will do all the things she’d always planned. But, as we all know, the roads we take in life don’t always get us to the destinations we’ve planned on. Too often there are detours.
In some ways, I’m like Lauren. I had my trip planned, too, but found myself on a different highway in midlife. As Lauren does, I discovered that an alternative route can turn out to have an even better view. It’s not easy leaving some of that window dressing behind. After all, it’s not nice to litter on the highway of life—but everyone does. And along the way, we also pick up things—other ideas, other people, other careers. Other ways of living.
Window Dressing celebrates the choices we make in our lives—and the friendships and loves we find along the way.
I hope you will always stay open to the journey.
Nikki Rivers
P.S. I would just like to add that neither Deb nor I ever flashed any truckers on those road trips. Really.
This book is dedicated to friends and road trips and the millions of chips and snack cakes eaten along the way.
I’d also like to thank my editor, Kathryn Lye, for her continued support and encouragement over many years and many journeys. Special thanks to Ron, my husband extraordinaire, who leaves me little treats to find among the manuscript pages on my desk and keeps me fed when I’m on deadline and my daughter, Jennifer, who helps me keep my sanity in this insane process we call writing. Both of them, by the way, are excellent road trip companions.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 1
“Welcome to weirdness,” Moira Rice said as she rode shotgun in my aging Chevy.
“Put on your glasses, Moira. That sign said Welcome To Indiana.”
Moira shrugged her shoulders. She was the only woman I knew who could make a shrug look sexy. It didn’t hurt that she was wearing a turquoise off-the-shoulder sweater and that her long, wavy chestnut hair was pinned loosely on the top of her head.
“Same thing,” she said. “I mean, Lauren, just look—” she jutted her chin toward a steak and waffle house we were passing, “—they don’t even have normal fast food down here. And every other car on the road is a pickup truck. And, have you noticed, they all have gun racks? And every driver is wearing a cap extolling the virtues of farm equipment or beer. Even the women. Like I said, welcome to weirdness.”
I craned my neck so that I could see the backseat in the rear view mirror. “I’m sure Indiana has no more weirdness than any other state and I’d prefer you didn’t make comments like that in front of Gordy,” I said primly.
Moira arched her brow and gave me a sideways look. “Gordy isn’t hearing anything but whatever passes for music these days via that wire attached to his ear.”
It was true. My eighteen-year-old son, Gordy, his head leaning back on the headrest, his eyes peacefully closed, had been hooked up to his iPod since we’d taken I-94 out of Milwaukee just after dawn. He’d only unplugged long enough to order when we’d pulled into a drive-through south of Chicago.
“I just want him to be happy with his choices, that’s all,” I said defensively.
Gordy was going to be living in Bloomington, Indiana, for the next four years while he majored in finance at Indiana University. Like the slightly obsessive mother I am, I wanted him to be enraptured with his surroundings. As much as I was going to miss him, I wanted him to be happy enough to justify my agreeing to let him go away to school.
Moira checked out the backseat. “Looks happy enough to me,” she said. “You know,” she added with a frown, “the kid is starting to look like the shirt more and more every day.”
Moira had been calling my ex-husband, Roger Campbell, the shirt ever since she’d discovered that he had his business shirts custom made. I glanced in the rearview mirror again. Gordy did look like his father—which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Like his father, my son was a brown-eyed blonde—handsome with an athletic body. But I knew that he also got some of his beauty, style and grace from his grandmother. My mother. Who I am nothing like.
“How can he not be nervous?” was my question. The fact was, Gordy seemed as cool as the Abercrombie and Fitch clothes and the hundred and fifty dollar sunglasses he was wearing—all gifts from the shirt.
“Honey, how can you not be relieved?” was Moira’s comeback.
Moira was that rare thing in Whitefish Cove—the suburb of Milwaukee where we were neighbors—a mother who’d managed to completely let go of her children. Kenny and Gina had gone east to school and stayed to work on Wall Street and the Garment District, respectively. They made one trip home every year and Moira and her husband Stan made one trip to NYC every year and everyone seemed satisfied. But here I was having heart palpitations at the thought that I wouldn’t see my son until he came home for Thanksgiving break. I was already planning the first meal in my head.
His favorite meat loaf. Garlic mashed potatoes. Glazed…
The blare of a semi’s horn and the hoots of its driver snatched me from my recipe revelry.
“Nice rack!” the trucker yelled before blasting on his horn again.
“Are you crazy?” I demanded.
“Just trying to liven this funeral procession up a little,” Moira said as she stuffed her sizable boobs back into her sweater.
I frantically checked to see if Gordy had witnessed Moira’s flashing but his mouth was hanging slightly open as he softly snored, oblivious to the recent show. Of course, chances are, he’d already seen something of what Moira had to offer. She was fond of sunbathing topless in the back yard and exercising semi-nude in the living room with the drapes open. Whitefish Cove’s Junior Leaguers didn’t quite know what to make of her. But I liked her. I thought she was funny and audacious—different from anyone I’d ever known. My ex had never shared my appreciation of Moira’s quirkiness so I didn’t start to really get to know her until after my divorce. Now, after a few years of dancing around each other, we were starting to become best girlfriends and I was loving it.
I did, however, expect her to stay completely clothed on interstate highways.
“It’s a wonder you don’t get kicked out of Whitefish Cove,” I snapped as I stepped off the gas and pulled in behind the semi, hoping the driver would see the maneuver as a sign that the show was over.
“That’s the beauty of being married to a brilliant CPA, girlfriend. Half the men in Whitefish Cove have Stan on retainer. Several, who shall remain nameless, of course—”
“Of course,” I hastened to agree.
“—would be peeling potatoes in some country club prison if it weren’t for Stan.”
Although I didn’t know any details, nor did I want to, I knew she wasn’t kidding. Stan might have been the neighborhood savior as far as the men were concerned, but to the women, Moira was the neighborhood thorn. She loved to shock the uptight wives and flirt with the bewildered husbands. More confident in her sexuality than any woman I’d ever met, she made no apology for carrying around twenty extra pounds while I seemed to be constantly apologizing for my extra fifteen. Although on Moira the pounds were mostly in the right place while I tended to be somewhat lacking in the rack area. Under similar circumstances, I was pretty sure that truckers would not be honking in my honor.
“Are we there, yet?” Gordy moaned sleepily from the backseat.
“Such enthusiasm for higher education,” Moira drawled.
“Nah,” my son, the college-bound, said, “I just gotta take a whiz.”
I flicked on the van’s blinker and took the next exit.
A huge bag of potato chips and three diet sodas later, we were there.
Indiana University looked like it had stepped out of central casting. It was that perfect. Big, ancient limestone buildings, gorgeous landscaping and students who didn’t know the meaning of the word acne.
“Stepford U,” muttered Moira.
“Behave yourself,” I hissed as I pulled the van onto the U-shaped drive in front of the residence hall Gordy had been assigned to and claimed a parking space just vacated by a Mercedes. A few dozen kids were lugging trunks and duffels and what looked like several thousand dollars worth of electronics out of upscale SUVs. Gordy spotted his roommate—a boy named Dooley from Michigan that he’d been getting to know via email for the past month—and was out of the car and shaking hands before I even had a chance to turn off the engine.
“Isn’t that cute,” Moira said. “Acting like little men.”
I gave Moira a stern look. “Am I going to have to make you sit in the car?”
“You and what fraternity?” she asked over her shoulder as she got out.
I opened my door and stepped into cloying humidity. “Holy hell,” I gasped.
“You’ve got that right. What floor did you say Gordy is on?” Moira asked as she fanned herself with the empty potato chip bag. “Maybe I’d rather wait in the car, after all.”
I slammed my door. “Nothing doing. You’re hauling. In this heat it’ll be no time at all before you’ll be too dehydrated to open your mouth.”
Close to the truth. Several trips to the second floor later, we were gasping for breath and begging for bottled water from some kids who’d had the foresight to bring a cooler full of drinks.
Moira and I sat under a tree to catch our breath while we re-hydrated and watched Gordy mingling and laughing and acting like this was a homecoming instead of a goodbye.
“I don’t think I was ever that confident,” I said.
“You did a good job, girlfriend,” Moira stated.
“Can it be as easy as it looks for him?” I wondered.
Moira sighed. “In my experience, hon, it’s never, ever as easy as it looks.”
By the time we’d finished unloading, Gordy had gone full sail into his brave new world.
“Call if you need anything,” I said for the hundredth time as I lingered outside the car trying to hold back my tears.
Gordy rolled his eyes. “Mom, if you cry, I swear I’ll—”
Moira, waiting in the car, started to honk the horn.
“I’m just a little misty,” I promised. Moira honked again and I said, “Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“Deal,” he said, then added, “You, too,” and looked at me long enough for me to know he meant it. Finally, he grinned. “See ya, Ma,” he said, then turned and ran from me without a backward glance.
Which was a good thing.
So how come it made me so sad?
I sniffed back tears and went around to the driver’s side of the car.
“Well, that was subtle,” I said when I got in.
“Someone had to save the kid from humiliation.”
I sniffed again, turned the radio to a classical station, which I knew Moira would hate, and started the long drive home.
But I can never stay mad at Moira for long and by the time we pulled off the interstate north of Indianapolis in search of more road snacks, I’d changed the station to oldies rock.
The convenience store/gas station that beckoned us from the night had seen better days. The florescent lighting inside was so cheap it hummed like a tree full of cicadas and I could feel my shoes stick ever so slightly to the badly mopped floor. Apparently, a sweet tooth’s needs override fear of germs because the smeared and cracked self-service bakery case drew us like a couple of flies.
“Are you sure you don’t mind driving right through?” I asked Moira as we peered at a couple of questionable looking donuts hiding behind the fingerprints.
“’Course not,” Moira said. “It’ll be an adventure—speeding across state lines in the middle of the night. Besides, we’re both kid-free now. We can sleep as late as we want to tomorrow.”
I had no intention of speeding and I wasn’t at all cheerful about my new freedom to sleep late. I decided to change the subject. “Is it the bad lighting in here or do those donuts look a little green to you?”
“I consider myself somewhat adventurous,” Moira said, “but in this case I think we should stick to packaged snacks with readable expiration dates on them.”
I agreed and we went in search of the junk-food aisle.
“Cupcake?” Moira asked, once we’d buckled in again.
I grabbed the chocolate cupcake with the white squiggle of frosting bisecting the top and ate it the way I’d been eating them since I was ten—by tearing off the frosting with my teeth. It easily came off in one piece.
“Now that’s talent,” Moira said before downing half a bottle of soda in one chug. Her burp could have rivaled anything Gordy ever emitted.
“That was truly disgusting,” I said as I pulled out of the gas station and into local traffic.
She burped again. “Don’t tell me you’re not acquainted with the car rule.”
I glanced at her then back at the road. “The car rule?”
“Yeah, if it happens in a car, it doesn’t count.”
I hooted. “I bet some guy told you that back in 1978.”
Moira stuck her nose up in the air. “That may well be, but even so it is one of the few known laws of the universe,” she insisted. “Why do you think so many people pick their noses at stoplights?”
I pulled up to a stop light and we both looked to the right then started screaming with laughter. A guy with long greasy hair in the pickup next to us actually did have one of his digits shoved halfway up his bulbous nose.
“Seriously, Mo,” I said after the light had changed and we’d pulled away from digit man and turned onto the ramp that would take us back to the interstate, “what if Gordy isn’t as cool as he pretends to be about going to school? What if he’s really been acting as phony as that knock-off Fendi on the floor at your feet?”
Moira gasped and grabbed her purse. “How did you know?” she demanded as she scrutinized it. “Is it that obvious?” she implored, the threat of handbag humiliation burning in her eyes.
I sighed impatiently. One of the many things Moira and I don’t share is a love of all things fashion. “No, it’s not that obvious. You told me it was a fake—that you’d bought it when you and Stan went to Mexico last spring.”
Moira frowned. “Oh, right,” she said.
“Forget your damn purse, will you? We were talking about Gordy, remember?” I asked her testily, certain that the happiness of my son was more important than whether women more in the know than I would spy that Moira’s bag was a fake.
“Hey,” Moira said, obviously satisfied that the bag would pass inspection as she tucked it back down by her feet, “you’re not allowed to get serious on a road trip. Plenty of time for that once we’re back on Seagull Lane. Here,” she said as she tossed a cellophane bag at me, “have some pork rinds and listen to me sing backup to this song. You’ll swear it’s Cher.”
As long as it didn’t count, I ripped open the bag of pork rinds with my teeth and dug in. The thing was, Moira really did sound like Cher.
Thousands of calories and several dozen oldies later, I was maneuvering the car through the softly curved streets of a dark and sleeping Whitefish Cove.
As usual, Moira had to comment on the street names. Sea Spray Drive. Fog Horn Road. And her all time favorite Perch Place.
“Absurd,” Moira pronounced, “considering you couldn’t see Lake Michigan if you climbed to the roof of the largest Cape Cod in the Cove with a pair of binoculars.”
“But you can sometimes feel it on your skin or taste it on your tongue,” I said, parroting my usual argument in favor of all things maritime.
“Leave it to you to glamorize humidity and lake-effect snow,” Moira said as she stuffed wrappers and half-eaten junk food into a bag so we could dispose of it discreetly and avoid possible ridicule by late-night joggers or carb counting insomniacs.
The Cove was reportedly first settled by fishermen which made the street names somewhat less absurd. To me, at least. Moira, however, was sure that the khaki wearing denizens liked to think of themselves as New Englanders, which made their collective fantasy of being related to the founding fathers doable.
It was true that the Cove had a lot of white picket and waving flags and many of the houses were more than one hundred years old. Which was why I’d been so thrilled when Roger had announced that we were buying our “starter house” in Whitefish Cove. It had looked so stable. So family oriented. Two things, at twenty-two, that I’d craved more than anything.
I pulled into the meager driveway of my two story wood frame cottage. The original clapboard siding was painted white and the window boxes under the first story windows, bursting with red geraniums, were painted the same blue as the front door. I loved the place now as much as I had when we moved in, but I was in no hurry to go inside now that Gordy wouldn’t be there. When I cut the engine, the last of my energy seemed to go with it. I just sat there, arms clinging to the steering wheel.
“You’re going to have to get out and go inside sometime, honey,” Moira said. “Look at it this way, you’ll never have to wait for the bathroom again.”
Not very comforting, but true. My house was probably the only one left in the Cove with only one bathroom. It was one of the reasons Roger had wanted to dump it. Right around the same time he’d decided to dump me. In the years we’d lived there, I had bonded with the house like it was an old friend. I knew every creak. Every draft. But to Roger, the house had been nothing but an investment and, as with me, the time eventually came to trade it in on something that had a higher market value. He’d traded the house for a high-rise condo overlooking Lake Michigan. He’d traded me for a twenty-one-year old flight attendant named Suzie with a z.
Finally, Moira got out of the car and came around to the driver’s side and opened my door. To save her the trouble, I dragged myself out.
“Geeze, girlfriend, you really are in bad shape.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “Come on over and I’ll scramble us some eggs and shake us up some martinis. A couple of those and you’ll forget you have a kid.”
“Tempting, but I think I’ll just go inside and wallow a little.” I didn’t want to forget. At that moment, with the summer coming to an end and my nest newly empty, everything just seemed too precious. What I really wanted to do was put on my oldest, softest pair of cotton pajamas and climb into bed with a couple of photo albums. I truly did intend to wallow.
By late September, with the leaves starting to turn on the maple tree outside my living room window, I began to think there had to be a limit to how much a woman should be allowed to wallow. Not that I hadn’t been out of the house since Gordy had deserted it. And I’m not just talking about the twice-weekly trips to the post office to send fresh baked cookies and care packages to Bloomington.
Whitefish Cove wasn’t exactly a bedroom community, miles from real civilization where the cul-de-sac ruled and there wasn’t a decent restaurant you didn’t have to wrestle traffic on the freeway to get to. We were really a village that was only fifteen miles from the trendy east side of Milwaukee and just a few miles more to downtown. But I’d done the “meeting old girlfriends for lunch” thing to death. Moira, who’d recently started to collect art, had dragged me to every new gallery show in town. I’d gone to enough regional theater performances to fill the bottom of my purse with programs and parking stubs. I hadn’t turned down one single invitation since I’d left Gordy in Bloomington. I’d even issued a few, determined not to become a forty-one year old recluse. But I was quickly becoming sick of hearing about how lucky I was to be divorced with my only child two states away.
“Why, you can do just about anything you want to do,” a friend from my college days exclaimed over her basil, tomato and fresh mozzarella salad. I’d taken the initiative of inviting her and a former roommate to lunch at the latest trendy sensation—an overpriced café in a building that had once been a garage for city buses. The huge door at the front was left open at the owner’s discretion, which was one of the big draws. The excitement! The suspense! It was rumored that he’d opened it during a March snowstorm last year and there was a big buzz going on about whether he’d leave it open for the first snowstorm this year. Personally, I couldn’t get past the fact that I was eating a fourteen-dollar sandwich in a place where someone once drained motor oil from a city bus.
“Like what?” I asked after I’d swallowed a bite of my baby spinach and radish sprouts on asiago foccacia.
“Well—anything. You’re footloose and fancy free,” pointed out the former roommate who was trying to overcome bulimia, so she was eating nothing at all.
“Well, I have been considering finding a new kind of volunteer work—”
My former roommate laughed. “That’s Lauren. Always the good girl.”
These kinds of conversations did not make me feel better about my situation. Neither did spending the money on overpriced sandwiches since Gordy’s support had started going into a trust on the day he started college and the maintenance Roger had to pay me was in nineteen-ninety-six dollars. So I went back to wallowing and baking until Gordy called one afternoon. I was absurdly pleased to hear his voice when I picked up the phone.
“Ma,” he said before I could tell him how happy I was that he called, “you gotta stop sending all the cookies. One of my roommates saw a roach last night.”
“You’re not eating my cookies?” I asked with a modicum of mommy devastation.
“Ma—come on. Who could keep up? We get a package like every three days.”
Perhaps I’d gone a little overboard, I thought as I eyed the two batches of oatmeal cookies cooling on the kitchen counter. “Okay,” I vowed, “no more cookies. So, how are things going?”
“Things are cool, Ma. Gotta go, though. Class. See ya.”
“But—”
But he was gone.
I packed the cookies up and took them next door to Moira’s.
“Listen, hon, I know you’ve got time on your hands,” she said as she chewed on her fifth cookie, “but you can’t bring stuff like this over here. I have to be able to get into my new red dress for that cocktail party next month. CPAs and their wives. Big Yawn. I plan on being the most exciting aspect of the event and these cookies aren’t helping.”
That was the night I started watching the shopping channels on TV. Looking forward to finding out what the deal of the day was at midnight was about all the excitement I was getting. One night I found myself reaching for the phone while the on-air personality rhapsodized about a kitchen tool that would replace just about every other implement in the house—and all for $19.95. I snatched my hand back and vowed right then and there that there were going to be some changes made.
With butterflies in my stomach, the next day I called the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee campus, ordered a catalogue of courses, and made an appointment to speak with a counselor in the department of continuing education.
Two days later, my heart did one of those funny little stalls when I opened the mailbox to find the catalogue had arrived. Oddly, I was not comforted that the postal rules hadn’t changed since I was a twelve. Good things, like free makeup samples, took forever to arrive. Things that you’d just as soon not see, like report cards—and catalogues that were going to force you to start thinking about where your life was going—showed up in no time at all.
I took the catalogue to the breakfast nook, poured myself a cup of coffee, and started to page through it. After a half-hour I was wishing I’d made decaf. I felt lost and nervous as a high school freshman trying to find her locker.
I’d always intended to finish college someday. I’d even taken a college course here and there over the years. I’d sit in lectures thinking about the Halloween costume I could be sewing or the party I could be planning or the soccer game I was missing or the committee I could be chairing. Pretty soon I’d drop out, vowing to go back again when Gordy got older. Well, now Gordy was older and it was going to be different. It had to be. When Gordy graduated from college, maintenance from Roger would stop and I’d have to buy him out of the house if I wanted to stay on Seagull Lane. Which I did. I intended for my grandchildren to someday visit me in my little cottage.
Before I’d dropped out of college to marry Roger, I’d planned to major in elementary education. The prospect of being a teacher no longer interested me, I knew that much. But I had no idea what else I wanted to do.
Hoping to brainstorm, I called Moira but Stan said she’d gone shopping so I switched on the tube, found an old Bette Davis movie and lost myself in how Paul Henreid looked when he held two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and handed one to Bette. It wasn’t a bad way to spend an evening. Afterwards, I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on, horrors of horrors, soft white bread. Since I no longer had to set a good example for my son, cheap white bread had become my new guilty pleasure. I dug in the refrigerator and came out with a can of chocolate syrup. I poured some into a big glass of milk and stirred. Then I tucked the UW catalogue under my arm, picked up the sandwich and milk and took everything up to bed with me. Maybe if I slept with the catalogue under my pillow, I’d dream about what I wanted to be when I grew up.
The phone woke me up the next morning. I sat up and grabbed it on the first ring. The college catalogue, still open in the vicinity of my lap, slid to the floor with a thump.
“Hello?” I croaked as I squinted against the sun filtering through the semisheer curtains in my bedroom window.
“Mrs. Campbell? This is Sondra Hawk from Priority Properties. I’d like to set up an appointment to check out the house. Today if possible. What time would be convenient?”
“Check out the house?” I asked dumbly as I pushed hair out of my face and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Ten a.m. I never slept this late. Ever. I swear. The shame of it made my body go hot all over. I sat up straighter in bed and tried for a more cheerful, wakeful tone. “You want to check out the house?”
“Yes,” Sondra said then gave a little laugh. “You know, get acquainted with its idiosyncrasies.”
“Why would you want to do that?” I asked as I got out of bed. That way if Sondra, whose voice sounded like she was one of those alarmingly well put together women who knew how to accessorize, asked me if I’d still been in bed I could honestly answer no.
But, of course, she didn’t ask.
“We here at Priority Properties,” she explained, “pride ourselves in getting to know a house before we list it. The first step—”
I frowned. “Wait a minute—did you say list?”
“Yes—list.”
“Excuse me, but you seem to be under the false impression that I’m selling my house.”
Sondra didn’t miss a beat. “I have the signed agreement right here in front of me.”
I shook my head. “No—that’s not possible.”
There was a slight pause before she said, “Mrs. Campbell, your husband signed the agreement.”
“Nonsense,” I insisted, knowing this must be a mistake. “I don’t even have a husband. I have an ex-husband,” I conceded. “But he no longer lives here. I live here.”
“But it’s his name on the deed, Mrs. Campbell. It’s his house. And he’s putting it up for sale.”
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