The After House Read online

  Remy enjoyed their company, her father’s gentle humor, and her mother’s insightful wit. She was closer to them than many of her contemporaries were to their parents, and she remembered her dismay when they didn’t appreciate the man she chose to marry. It was nothing they could put their finger on, they told her, just a feeling. “Couldn’t you wait a bit, and get to know him better?” her mother had asked.

  Remy met Scott in Cancun, her last spring break of college, and fell head over heels for his vibrant personality. He was daring and funny, filled with great ideas for an exciting future. Her quiet and retiring nature was opposite to his freewheeling personality. Weekends were filled with parties and road trips—thrilling adventures for a sheltered girl. She was part of a couple, and Remy loved it.

  Fresh out of college, they moved in together, searching for a business they could build from the ground up. Scott hated the idea of traditional jobs. They found an inexpensive food franchise. It was the newest trend—a lunch bistro. It was promoted as a sure thing, and Scott insisted it was perfect for them. It was not your average deli but a gourmet sandwich shop and very French. They studied up on the product and spent a week at the headquarters in South Carolina, learning every aspect of the business. They borrowed from her father, pouring their hearts and souls into the budding business. It was hard work, with long hours, and they made plenty of costly errors. They were smart and learned from those mistakes.

  The shop did moderately well. They had chosen to rent space in a tiny strip mall that catered to an office complex situated behind them. Scott pounded the pavement, dropping off menus, shaking hands, giving out samples that built them a solid foundation of steady customers. Money got easier, but instead of repaying her father, Scott talked him into putting in more money for two additional sandwich shops. He made inquiries into buying an old food truck for a fleet that would bring their brand to all parts of the island. Scott worked all kinds of hours and stayed out for meetings with new investors.It was after they opened the third shop that Remy discovered she was pregnant. Her parents gave them a quiet wedding on the lawn of the house they’d built twenty-five years earlier overlooking the sound in Eastern Long Island. They didn’t like Scott, she knew. They thought she was making a terrible mistake.

  The night before her wedding, her dad spoke to her in her old bedroom. He sat on the bed, his face grim, his hands resting over hers. “It’s only money,” he said. “Remy, if you have the slightest doubt, we can call it off—no problem.”

  Remy shook her head. “He’s fun, Dad. He makes me stretch myself, think outside the box.”

  Her father had an answer for everything. Brian paced the room. “You are so creative, bubbly. Any guy would be lucky to be with you. I can’t put my finger on it, Rem. I just don’t like the guy.” Her father sat beside her, taking her small hands in his own. “Can’t you see what a catch you are? Don’t throw yourself away on someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

  Finally, she whispered, “But I love him. I really do, Daddy.”

  Her father sighed sadly, got up the next morning, put on his best blue suit, and escorted her down the flower-strewn paper aisle on the lawn. Olivia came seven and a half months later, bringing great joy to Remy’s aging parents. She admitted her father had tried with Scott but found him immature, and they had nothing in common. At first, she blamed the generational differences, but time and Scott’s temper proved her parents right.

  Things changed after Olivia’s birth. Scott started staying out later and later for meetings with people that seemed not to yield anything. The food truck idea sizzled out. Scott was inconsolable. He blamed Remy for slowing down, not taking on enough responsibility in the restaurants, not working to her full capacity. She tried, but between the baby, her housework, and running from shop to shop, she was exhausted. It was hard. She forgot to order cold cuts. The house never was clean enough. He wanted her to drop Olivia at child care more often and for longer hours. They disagreed on parenting styles. Their time together became argumentative and filled with friction. Forget about the romantic part; who had time for that? She worked herself sick, getting a stomach flu that nearly killed her. Scott didn’t even come home to help.

  It seemed like Scott never got tired. His energy irritated Remy. He found fault with everything she did, and even minor tasks started becoming an issue. A cold war developed in their home. While Scott was attentive to Olivia, Remy felt ignored, abandoned. Revenue slowed down inexplicably. Scott stopped paying back the loan to her parents, as well as the mortgage on the ranch they had bought with their wedding money. Remy didn’t even know they were in foreclosure until well after she found out Scott had been lying to her about more than their finances. It started with calls, hang-ups, followed by stores calling to confirm purchases she had never made. Mail with another woman’s name on it arrived at her home. Once the lights were turned off, she knew they were sliding into deep trouble.

  Scott refused to admit anything was wrong. He came home long after she went to sleep, leaving so early that she only knew he’d been there by the indent in his pillow. With dawning horror, she sat with the detective her father had hired, looking at pictures of Scott with another woman and a baby boy. There were pictures of them at the bank, the mall, out to eat. It seemed he had plenty of time and patience for the slender blonde he chose to be with. Remy’s face reddened with shame. There were pictures of him at their sandwich shops holding the girl’s hand and carrying his son in an infant seat. Remy lowered her head into her arms, too shocked to cry. In the stores! That meant even the employees who worked for them knew what was going on. She wanted to curl up and die.

  “I debated telling you,” her father told her, his amber eyes sad. Her parents flanked her in her tiny kitchen. The light hurt her eyes. “This is serious.” Brian held her hand after the private investigator left. “He’s going to drain you dry, honey. You have a child, you can’t let him ruin your life.”

  “He just did,” Remy answered tearfully.

  Her mother made tea, the cure-all, and urged her to return home with them. They would help her in any way they could. She needed to regroup, her parents insisted.

  “Do you think I should talk to him?”

  “What?” Brian stood impatiently. “For what? How much are you going to take?”

  “Brian, please,” her mother said. “This is not the time. Remy, is that what you really want to do? Do you think you can salvage your relationship? Do you really want to, honey?” Her mother took her face, holding her cheeks as though she were a precious treasure. “Can you forgive what he’s done?”

  “We have a child,” she said miserably. “He’s not all to blame. I checked out too.”

  “Checked out!” Brian repeated with outrage. “Dogs have puppies too. Anyone can be a father, even an animal.”

  “Dad!” Remy said at the same time her mother called out, “Brian.”

  “He’s a good father,” Remy said.

  “But a bad husband. Look, Remy, ultimately it’s your decision. I. . .I never expected this to happen to you.”

  Remy hung her head.

  “Kiddo, it’s not your fault.” He looked down at her, his face mirroring her anguish.

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Remy, stop doing this to yourself. Think of Olivia.”

  So she did what she thought she should, confronting Scott when he returned later that night. He was tearful, filled with remorse, agreeing to do anything to save their marriage. They went for counseling. After the third session, Scott refused to go anymore.

  His girlfriend and their newborn boy used up whatever funds they had saved from the bank. It finally ended with a bitter fight, Scott backhanding her when she demanded to know why he wouldn’t return to the therapist. She left him that night, wondering how many times a heart could break. She took her daughter with her and moved into a motel for a week. She never told her daughter where her black eye came from, and she refused to allow her parents to discuss Scott in front of the child.
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  Olivia was bereft without Scott. He had the same magical effect on her child as he did on Remy in the beginning. Scott was a charmer and knew exactly how to make Olivia feel he was the victim in their breakup. Remy picked her battles, but she fought fair. She was devastated when the bistros closed within the month but was honest enough to admit that she was happy not to have to deal with Scott in a professional atmosphere.

  Tail between her legs, she ran home to her parents, who facilitated the divorce. Remy found her yoga certification buried in the back of her old closet and took a job at the local gym. She was a good teacher, her style well regarded. Her classes were always filled. She began arranging private classes with many of the clients and supplemented her income. She was in great demand; her gentle instruction yielded results, and soon she was juggling a full schedule. Though her parents welcomed her, let her use their paneled basement for private sessions, she knew it was an imposition. She hated being dependent on them, like a child. She wanted her own place, needed a bit of freedom from their hovering.

  She took on odd jobs, saving every penny she could. After having her own household, it was hard to move back in with fire folks. She knew too, even though they never complained, that it wasn’t fair to them either. She waitressed at night while she built up the small private yoga business, selling everything she had from her life with Scott on eBay. She rented space for a studio on Main Street. It was a large room in the lower level of a faded pastel building, nestled right in the center of Cold Spring Harbor. A hairdresser had the upstairs rental. Remy’s space had a bathroom, complete with a changing area, and she was able to book teacher trainings that plumped up her bank account. Three local schools asked her to instruct the gym teachers. This led to business with more and more schools. Her dad hung up blinds, and her mom helped her paint fire room a pale green. It wasn’t long before she had put together funds to rent a three-hundred-year-old house in the small town, just blocks away from the studio. Olivia could walk to school. It was perfect.

  Twelve Fourteen Spring Street was a tiny, white cottage with a handful of cozy rooms. The low, smoky ceiling gave her a feeling of security. Her dad told her she was three ways a fool for renting such an old place, but he did admit it was solid as the bedrock it was built on. Perched on a small hill behind Main Street, the house looked out over Eagle’s Bay. A ribbon of a road separated the lawn from the calm water, and an ancient rose garden in the rear had been laid out the same way for three centuries. Remy knew it was filled with sixteen types of roses and couldn’t wait to see them bloom.

  She had a small kitchen with a giant fireplace on one wall and a huge Kasten, an original faded blue wooden Dutch cupboard, built into a spot against the wall. Her breakfast table was a refurbished antique door, the base a late-nineteenth-century sewing machine. Olivia always stretched her short feet to pump the pedal. Remy matched it with modern chairs, giving the room an eclectic look. She had collected copper pots at various yard sales, hanging them around the surround of the fireplace. The landlord, the nephew of the original owner, had replaced the appliances, and the room sported new stainless steel, which sparkled between the smoldering dark colors.

  The last occupant had added a laundry room. He was a pretty famous artist who had lived in the house for over five decades. When senility set in, the nephew put him in assisted living and rented the cottage to her. She had painted and done some updating, but she was still waiting for an alarm system, phone, and cable to be put it. The old artist never even had a television set. The last two weeks had been challenging, with spotty cell phone service and no Internet.

  She loved the small parlor, with its wide, planked floors and permanent smell of woodsmoke. An interesting mural covered an entire wall—a seascape with a whaler who was known to have shipped out of the local harbor. Not exactly her taste, but it was a condition of her rental that she not remove it. She wouldn’t dream of it, especially because of Olivia’s fascination with the bearded sea captain bleakly watching his ragtag crew manning a whaleboat.

  Captain Eli, as he was called, stood on the top deck as sailors chased a great sperm whale, their longboat being pulled through the foamy waves. He gazed intently, his face giving the impression of unhappiness, while the crew seemed oblivious to it all. It did take some getting used to, but it was a piece of Americana, and Remy respected that. They also had a tiny study where they hung a television in anticipation of the cable service being activated.

  The study was attached to a formal dining room she used for practicing yoga. Upstairs were two bedrooms— one for her and one for Olivia—and a black-and-white bathroom that begged for a renovation. Once the studio paid a profit, that would be her first project. Well, after she purchased it. She was determined to save up enough for a down payment. The home had been built in the early 1700s in the whaling town of Cold Spring Harbor. She knew that fact from the plaque nailed next to the front door under the address. Oddly enough, the house originally belonged to a whaling captain and his family Perhaps the artist did his mural as an homage to them. However, now the snug place was hers and Olivia’s, and nobody was going to tell her what to do anymore. Not ever.

  The icy bay was quiet, but she could see the white-tipped waves curl against the rocky beach. Cupping her hands around her warm mug, she wandered out of the kitchen to sit in one of the winged chairs she kept before the fireplace in the small parlor. She felt her feet glide over the cool polished wood and then find relief as they warmed on the area rug that filled the center of the room. It was a Chinese rug she had appropriated from her parents’ house. A bright emerald green, its border were filled with cream and light rose flowers. It had been rolled up in the attic, a leftover from Aunt Ruth’s house, and was out of style. “But beggars can’t be choosers,” she thought with a sniff.

  Olivia was not crazy about the house. They made a big deal about giving it a more feminine feel, but her daughter was unconvinced. Remy gave Olivia her first house key, attached to a fuzzy ball of pink fur, so she could get in all by herself. Olivia responded by announcing that she didn’t even want to be in the house, much less have a key. She kept silently poking around the nooks and crannies, her great whiskey-brown eyes wide in her pale face.

  “What are you looking for?” Remy asked her.

  “I don’t know, but when I find it, I’ll tell you,” Olivia said in her serious little voice. “I feel all goose bumpy here.” She rubbed her hands together. “Mommy, do you think someone is watching us?”

  “Don’t be silly, Livie,” Remy said with a chuckle. Still, there were times she felt as though she was not alone in the house. They joked about finding ghosts and ghouls, made a great game of it, but Remy had to admit that all that talk made her slightly uneasy. “Big baby,” she would think when she caught herself entertaining such ideas. They blasted music, and Britney, Christina, Katie, and Lorde filled the old cottage with loud tempos to chase away the sullenness.

  Still, Olivia seemed happy enough this weekend to leave her and spend the night at Scott’s with his bimbo. It smarted, but Remy was determined not to ruin it for her child. No matter how immoral Scott was, Olivia deserved to have a relationship with her dad. A girl needed a father, and while he treated Remy cavalierly, at heart he was a good dad to Olivia. Remy resented his new family, but Olivia seemed OK about it. Her daughter’s acceptance troubled her just a tiny bit, but she didn’t want to rock the girl’s boat any more than she had to. She had to carve out a new life, and she refused to let the bitterness of the divorce color it. Lots of kids lived like this. Scott would drop her off at school tomorrow, and Remy would have her until Wednesday. Though she didn’t like it, it was her new reality.

  She curled up on the saggy seat of the chair, the small fire she built earlier warming her cold cheeks. It crackled and hissed, spitting sparks that unnerved her. She jumped every time the wood popped from the intensity of the flames. Remy reached down to where she’d placed a new bottle of scotch. Holding it up, she gazed at the rich liquid. It was the
same color as both her eyes and Olivia’s. “God, I miss my daughter,” she thought with a heartfelt sigh. The silence screamed at her, and she thought of fifty things to do but somehow couldn’t muster up the energy to start anything. She had boxes to unpack, curtains to hang, drawers to line, but her hands felt heavy, her chest tight with the pain of being alone. Oh, she had her parents, but she was ashamed to admit she missed Scott.

  She couldn’t believe that after all he’d done to her, she could still feel the loss of him, but she did, and it made her angry. He was a shit, a total shit, yet when she thought of him, she had to remind herself of the pain she felt when he deceived her. For God’s sake, he had punched her. Still, she wondered what part of it was her fault. Did some of the responsibility belong to her? What if they didn’t have the money pressures? Maybe she could have worked harder.

  “What if we’d waited to have a child?” she wondered. Olivia was the best thing that ever happened to her. Ever. Period. In the end, her parents were right about Scott. Her innocent and love-struck eyes failed to see the monster she tangled with. She touched the spot on her face where he had bruised her over a year ago. It didn’t hurt anymore, of course. It had healed, as it was supposed to, but her heart never had. Scott was wrong, she reminded herself. She rolled her head against the chair, feeling oppressed. Her face grew hot, her lips quivered, but she fought the tears. This was just the beginning. She had to adjust. The empty future yawned ahead of her, frightening her. She had picked that loser. She missed every sign, was blind to his faults, trusted her schoolgirlish heart to tell her she was in love. Remy shivered, knowing she was afraid to trust her judgment about men anymore. She realized she’d better get used to being alone.