Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [140]
She went to a site that sold heirloom collectibles and bought a hand-carved desk and two newspapers to place on top. She added an antique umbrella stand.
Ann Marie imagined the father in this brick house coming in from a long day of work. Perhaps he was named Reginald, an Englishman. He might have a thin mustache. His wife (Evelyn?) greeted him at the front door each night in a pink gown, her cheeks rosy, her smile a bit mischievous. The children were already bathed and asleep. Dinner was on the table.
She watched the page load for Puck’s Teeny Tinies, where she bought a little tin of coronation biscuits, a glass milk bottle, a dozen eggs the size of baby aspirin, a burlap sack of flour, a basket of ceramic vegetables, and a miniature box of chocolates, the top slid halfway open, a green ribbon cascading downward. Reginald would bring them home to Evelyn for their anniversary.
A thrilling wave washed over Ann Marie as she imagined how beautiful the house would be. It was silly, but she somehow felt more beautiful because of it. She wanted to share this with someone, someone who would understand. She sat back in her chair and got butterflies in her stomach, knowing what she was about to do. She typed in the familiar address for the Weiss, Black, and Abrams website, and as she so often did, she clicked on Steve Brewer’s name. Then she did something she had never done before. She clicked on the E-mail Stephen Brewer link.
A message window popped up, and she wrote:
Hi there! Had to let you know … I think the Life magazine you sent was a good luck charm. I’ve just found out that I won the most important dollhouse competition there is. There are over 5,000 competitors, and I won it! So thanks, old chum. xo
Pat walked in at six thirty. It had been an hour since she had hit SEND and Steve Brewer still hadn’t replied.
Ann Marie was frantic. Had she seemed like a braggart? He could simply be busy. In a meeting, maybe. But why did she have to go and exaggerate like that? And, oh Jesus, that xo? What was she thinking? She blamed the xo on the chardonnay. She blamed the whole thing on the chardonnay.
They drove to dinner and Pat said she wasn’t very talkative, and then he said he had run into Ralph Quinn, the father of one of Fiona’s childhood friends, Melody Quinn, at the post office. Ralph had told Pat that Melody was engaged, and now Pat told Ann Marie as much. Her mood grew even more sour, but she tried to smile and act pleasant throughout the meal. It was sweet of her husband to take her to dinner.
She drank more wine, ordered a steak. While Pat talked about his business, she said a hundred silent Hail Marys, praying that Steve Brewer would have written her back by the time she got home.
He hadn’t.
Ann Marie couldn’t think straight. The wine made her a bit dizzy. She imagined his wife, Linda, reading the e-mail, figuring it all out. Linda might call Pat—or she might act like nothing had happened and then slap Ann Marie silly in front of the entire neighborhood at their next book club meeting. They’d have to move.
She thought of sending another e-mail to explain the first, but what could she say? I was drinking at five o’clock in the afternoon and thought I ought to contact you? Oh yes, that would make her look much better.
What on earth was happening to her lately?
She had trouble sleeping that night. Through the walls, she could make out the sound of Pat snoring down the hall, and she almost wanted to go to him for comfort. Instead, she decided to put her nerves to good use. There was no sense just lying there. She went to her craft room and switched on the light. Quietly, she began to pack what she’d need for Maine, transporting everything out to the trunk of her car: she carried towels and sheets and ribbons and stuffing in two giant beach bags. Silly, considering that she’d need only a tiny piece of each, but better to be safe than sorry.
Next, she brought out a stack of dollhouse magazines for