Authors: Marie Bostwick

Threading the Needle (20 page)

Madelyn

W
ith an expression that was almost a wince, Chico handed me a folded piece of pink paper, his bill.

I opened it and gasped. “Chico! This is almost twice the original estimate!”

“I know, Miss B. But when I bid the job we didn't know that the shower pan was cracked and that the subfloor was rotted
or
that the pipes were corroded.”

I sighed, looked at the figure again, sighed again.

Chico twisted his lips into an apologetic expression. “I sold you the pipe at cost and I didn't charge for ripping up the subflooring.”

Nodding, my eyes still on the pink paper, I said, “And this includes all the work for the sprinkler system?”

“Yeah, and all the other changes the inspector wanted.”

“Okay. I guess I'd better get my checkbook.”

After walking Chico to the door and thanking him, I poured myself a second cup of coffee and sat down to balance the checkbook and look over the bills. It wasn't pretty.

The biggest single item had been the exterior painting. If I could have done it myself I would have, but it was too big a job for me, and even if I'd had the skills to do it, I didn't have the time. I had to get it done before the snow. Otherwise, especially if we had a rainy spring, it could have delayed my opening. Luckily, we'd had a week-long stretch of unseasonably warm weather. It gave us time enough, but only just, to get the painting done. Good thing Mr. Jorgensen had a big crew. And the end product really was beautiful.

The bright yellow siding looked a little flashy sitting among its more sedate neighbors, clad in the standard New England white clapboard with black shutters, but the brighter paint palette is historically fitting for the Victorian period and very pretty. It looks like the perfect spot for a romantic weekend in the country. Mr. Jorgensen did a good job, but the bill . . . ouch! It just about wiped me out.

Fortunately, the consignment shop had sold three more of my designer bags and two of my Chanel suits. If not for that, I wouldn't have been able to pay Chico and the others.

The carpenter would want to be paid after he finished installing the two new cabinets in the bathroom; then Chico would be back to connect the water and drains to the sinks. Hopefully, we wouldn't run into any more surprises.

Thankfully, the cabinets had cost me almost nothing. I'd salvaged two antique dressers from the attic and had the carpenter cut holes in the tops and install two ceramic sinks I'd bought for ten dollars at a barn sale. They looked good, too, very much in keeping with the age and style of the house. And the claw-foot tub we'd brought down from the attic was free. Once the new tile was inâa discontinued style I'd bought for fifty percent off at the tile shop; “discontinued” was becoming one of my favorite wordsâthe bathrooms would look great. I hoped.

I'd checked a DVD out from the library,
Tile Installation for the Do-It-Yourselfer.
The video made it look easy; hopefully the video was right.

Jake had volunteered to install the tile for me, but I'd already let him do too much. He was certainly a handy man to have around. And surprisingly easy to talk to.

Another thing about Jake? He hasn't made the slightest move on me. He hasn't tried to fondle me, or kiss me, or even flirt with me. A few years ago, that would have bothered me, but now it's a relief. I can be myself with Jake. And, as I said, he is a handy man to have around. If I so much as hinted that I wanted help tiling this floor, he'd be on my doorstep with a trowel and a bucket of grout before I could hang up the phone.

But I don't want his help. I want to do it myself. There's something nice about collapsing into bed at the end of the day, exhausted, knowing you've accomplished something. If not for all the bills (and my ever-shrinking bank balance) I might have said I was enjoying it.

If not for that.

Sighing, I flipped through my check register and looked at all the entries: checks written to the plumber, the electrician, the carpenter, the heating and air-conditioning company, the various supply companiesânearly all of them for more than I'd budgeted when I sat down to work out my original business plan.

Chico found me a deal on faucets and showerheadsâfixtures his other customers had ordered before getting laid off and having to cancel their remodeling plans. That helped make up some of the cost of the shower pan, but there was still so much to be done. But my biggest worry was the roof.

Dwight Sparks, a white-haired man with a Santa Claus beard and smile to match, the owner of A-1 Affordable Roofing, had come to inspect the roof and give me an estimate the week before. The verdict? The whole thing needed to be replaced. It was going to cost thirty-three thousand dollars.

“Thirty-three thousand! Are you sure? Couldn't we just patch the bad spots? Replace some of the shingles?”

His smile faded and he shook his head sorrowfully. “I know, Madelyn. It's a lot of money, but that roof is shot. I'm gonna have my boys come over tomorrow and tack on some big blue tarps, real heavy-duty ones, that should keep the wet out of your attic for now, but come spring, you've
got
to replace that roof. One big storm and the whole darned thing could blow off. But you seem like a nice lady. I'll tell you what; I'm going to give you a ten percent discount. I'll do it for twenty-nine thousand seven hundred. That's just the best I can do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sparks. I appreciate it. I'll call you as soon as I get the money together.”

Twenty-nine thousand seven hundred dollars. Where was I going to get that kind of money? How was I going to pull this off?

I penciled a reminder to myself to check out the cost difference between twenty-year and thirty-year shingles, then paused and scribbled one wordâ“Gene?”

His message was still on my voice mail. I'd first listened to it two days before, while deleting all but one of the several messages left by Sterling, some cajoling, some pleading, mostly angry, and always with the same aimâto get me to testify at his sentencing, now just days away.

Gene's voice was a smooth contrast to Sterling's desperate tone, but his request was the same, though he'd added a wrinkle that got my attention.

“I understand why you don't want to do it, Madelyn. You're safely out of the spotlight now and I'm sure you want to stay that way, but it's just one day. Sterling tells me that you're remodeling your grandmother's house into an inn. That must be an expensive venture. The firm is prepared to help with anyâwell, shall we say expensesâwithin reason, of course, that might be required in association with your court appearance on Sterling's behalf. If you'd like to discuss that further, please give me a call at the office. I'll talk to you later, Madelyn.”

I saved the message and, in the last two days, had played it at least five times.

Why was Gene so interested in having me testify for Sterling anyway? Maybe it was some sort of desperate PR move on the law firm's behalf, a last-ditch attempt to make it look like the people they represented weren't complete crooks. Or maybe Gene hoped that I'd be a good diversion for the press, that a picture of me arriving at the courthouse to “stand by my man” would prove more interesting to the media than pictures of him taking the same route. Maybe that. Maybe Gene thought that keeping the name of Blackman, Janders, and Whipple out of any news reports about the notorious Sterling Baron was worth a grand, or five, or ten. I wouldn't put it past him.

Ten thousand dollars. That would make a big dent in my roofing bill. Would that qualify as “expenses within reason”?

I hated Gene, hated the cool assurance in his voice, the certainty that I would return his call, as if he'd somehow managed to sneak a peak at my bank balance and knew how desperate I was.

Did
Gene know how badly I needed more money? Or did he just assume that everyone needed more money? In Gene's world, Sterling's worldâthe world that had been my worldâthere was no such thing as enough, only more. More than enough.

I remember a cocktail party we threw years before, Sterling standing in a corner with a martini glass in his hand, surrounded by sycophants, including Gene, telling the story of the reporter who had asked John D. Rockefeller, the wealthy industrialist, how much money would be enough. Squinting and pinching the thumb and forefinger of his drink-free hand together until they were nearly touching, Sterling leaned toward his listeners and delivered the famous mogul's response.

“Just a
little
bit more.”

The audience howled, partly because of the mischievous look on Sterling's face and partly because they understood exactly what the old tycoon had been talking about.

That was what they wanted, wasn't it? What Sterling wanted? What I'd wanted? A little bit more. Just a little bit more.

Look what it had gotten us.

I sat there, staring at the paper, and then crossed out Gene's name.

I rinsed my coffee cup and left it to dry on the counter, put on my jacket, then walked back to the table to collect the outgoing mail. At the bottom of the pile lay a large manila envelope containing the forms required for my do-it-yourself divorce. They were all filled out and ready to go. All I had to do was get them into Sterling's hands to begin the proceedings. Easy. Since all of our assets were gone and we had no property or children or pets to fight over, divorcing Sterling required little more effort than filing these forms, paying some fees, and signing some papers.

There was one more message on my voice mail, from Sterling, the last of the dozens he'd left, and the only one I had saved.

“Madelyn, it's me. I know you're not coming to the hearing. It's okay. I get it. Wouldn't have helped anyway. I was kidding myself.” He expelled a single, sharp laugh. “I'm never going to see the outside of a prison again, I know that. But it would have been nice to see you again. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not trying to lay a guilt trip on you. I'm not. I've put you through enough already and . . . well, I just wanted you to . . .” His voice cracked, like he was trying to keep from crying. In all our years together, I had never seen Sterling cry, not once.

“I'm sorry, Madelyn. I know you won't believe me, but I am. I wish I'd done things differently, but even if I had another chance, I don't think I'd have known how. I'm not a good man. I never was. I know I used you, Madelyn. We used each other, didn't we? But I didn't want it to be like that. Everything that was supposed to make me happy never didâexcept you, for a while. In my entire life, you were the only thing that brought me any happiness, the only person I ever came close to loving.”

For a moment the line was quiet except for the sound of his breathing.

“Anyway,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that, while I still had theâ”

That was the end of the message. An electronic beep cut him off, signaling his time was up. I don't know why I saved it. I guess I felt sorry for him, for us. Guilty.

I hadn't stolen anything from anybody and I hadn't known that's what Sterling was doing, but that didn't make me innocent. Sterling was right, we had used each other.

We were not good people. I am not a good person.

I picked up the mail and my grocery list, stuffed them into my coat pocket, and went out to run my errands. I left the manila envelope on the table.

I'd heard that a mattress factory in Norwalk was going out of business and having a big liquidation sale, so, after finishing my errands in New Bern, I drove down. It was worth the drive.

I bought five brand-new mattresses for seven hundred and fifty dollars, delivery included. The truck will bring them tomorrow afternoon. I also bought a dozen excellent-quality pillows for seven dollars each. It was a really good dealâtoo good.

By this time next week, everyone at the factory will be out of a job. Will they be able to find another? That factory would close whether I bought mattresses or not, but I felt guilty, benefiting from the misfortune of others.

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