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Authors: Lorrie Thomson
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young mother from the den stood in the entryway, baby on her shoulder, toddler at her feet, Abbyâs Ring for service bell in her hand. The woman flashed Abby a smile. âGreat timing! I was wondering whetherââ
âExcuse me,â Celeste whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Abbyâs hand on Celesteâs arm, a last attempt to get her to stay. Celeste slipped from Abby, skirted past the mom and kids to the front door. One last backward glance at Abbyâs face, torn between Celeste and the rest of the world. Celeste gave Abby a nod and a smile. Then she was gone.
Â
Celeste wasnât a gypsy. Yet, two months ago, sheâd given up her apartment in Phippsburg, sold most of her possessions, driven to New York, and acted the part. She didnât recognize her own life, so in an inside-out, backward, this sucks big-time way, renting a furnished apartment in Hidden Harbor made perfect sense.
A black pleather couch and chair flanked a table made of metal and glass, all the better to peer through the center and view the tribal rugâs black-and-burgundy geometric patterns that reminded her of her dentistâs office. The side table held a cordless phone, one of those jobbies that never worked properly, with a humongous answering machine. And in the bedroom there was a black captainâs bed, too short for her average frame, as though whoever had furnished the apartment couldnât decide whether the rental demographic was men defending their masculinity or Munchkins.
The prints covering the walls were all metal-framed, modern, and abstract. Not a seaside watercolor in the mix, as though she werenât in Hidden Harbor, as though she werenât anywhere specific at all.
The worst part? Sheâd signed a one-year rental agreement.
She wanted to go home. But that place didnât even exist anymore.
She unpacked her groceries in the tiny kitchen, her hands weak from exhaustion. Lined the crisper with McIntosh apples and clementines, stocked the top shelf with nonfat Yoplait yogurts, a head of romaine lettuce, and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. Before hitting the grocery aisles, sheâd driven through the McDonaldâs drive-through, parked Old Yeller, downed a plain burger, and called it dinner. All she could manage today. Tomorrow, sheâd head back to Shawâs for a full order, stick-to-your-ribs sauces, pastas, and meats. Maybe even a pint of Ben & Jerryâs for a housewarming. Then sheâd sit on the couch, eat the entire pint herself, and watch cellulite ripple her thighs.
Sheâd skip the Ben & Jerryâs.
Yogurt was almost as good, right?
Celeste took a strawberry yogurt to the couch, licked the lid, and dialed her parentsâ Florida phone number, her parentsâ home phone.
Sheâd never get used to thinking of her second-generation, too young to retire, Hidden Harbor townie parents living on the ninth hole of a Boca Raton golf course. When she was growing up, her parents hadnât even played golf, unless you counted Bernieâs Miniature Golf, the seaside attraction with the odd combination of a prehistoric green dinosaur rearing up on its hind legs, a Dutch windmill, and the ubiquitous water traps. But the week after Celesteâthe last bird in the nestâgraduated from high school, her parents had made their big announcement. They were selling the house and flying south to the old folksâ state, supposedly past their usefulness once Celeste had managed to keep her chin up and her weight on.
Now her childhood home was as good as a junkyard, a neighborhood eyesore no amount of signatures on petitions or town meetings had succeeded in eradicating. Cars, rusted and rotting, lined the driveway where she and Abby had chalked the blacktop for hopscotch, jumped double Dutch with the neighborhood kids, and traded misinformation about boys.
Growing up in a house full of brothers had taught Celeste that boys were immature, silly,
âExcuse me,â Celeste whispered, her voice a thread of sound. Abbyâs hand on Celesteâs arm, a last attempt to get her to stay. Celeste slipped from Abby, skirted past the mom and kids to the front door. One last backward glance at Abbyâs face, torn between Celeste and the rest of the world. Celeste gave Abby a nod and a smile. Then she was gone.
Â
Celeste wasnât a gypsy. Yet, two months ago, sheâd given up her apartment in Phippsburg, sold most of her possessions, driven to New York, and acted the part. She didnât recognize her own life, so in an inside-out, backward, this sucks big-time way, renting a furnished apartment in Hidden Harbor made perfect sense.
A black pleather couch and chair flanked a table made of metal and glass, all the better to peer through the center and view the tribal rugâs black-and-burgundy geometric patterns that reminded her of her dentistâs office. The side table held a cordless phone, one of those jobbies that never worked properly, with a humongous answering machine. And in the bedroom there was a black captainâs bed, too short for her average frame, as though whoever had furnished the apartment couldnât decide whether the rental demographic was men defending their masculinity or Munchkins.
The prints covering the walls were all metal-framed, modern, and abstract. Not a seaside watercolor in the mix, as though she werenât in Hidden Harbor, as though she werenât anywhere specific at all.
The worst part? Sheâd signed a one-year rental agreement.
She wanted to go home. But that place didnât even exist anymore.
She unpacked her groceries in the tiny kitchen, her hands weak from exhaustion. Lined the crisper with McIntosh apples and clementines, stocked the top shelf with nonfat Yoplait yogurts, a head of romaine lettuce, and a bottle of balsamic vinegar. Before hitting the grocery aisles, sheâd driven through the McDonaldâs drive-through, parked Old Yeller, downed a plain burger, and called it dinner. All she could manage today. Tomorrow, sheâd head back to Shawâs for a full order, stick-to-your-ribs sauces, pastas, and meats. Maybe even a pint of Ben & Jerryâs for a housewarming. Then sheâd sit on the couch, eat the entire pint herself, and watch cellulite ripple her thighs.
Sheâd skip the Ben & Jerryâs.
Yogurt was almost as good, right?
Celeste took a strawberry yogurt to the couch, licked the lid, and dialed her parentsâ Florida phone number, her parentsâ home phone.
Sheâd never get used to thinking of her second-generation, too young to retire, Hidden Harbor townie parents living on the ninth hole of a Boca Raton golf course. When she was growing up, her parents hadnât even played golf, unless you counted Bernieâs Miniature Golf, the seaside attraction with the odd combination of a prehistoric green dinosaur rearing up on its hind legs, a Dutch windmill, and the ubiquitous water traps. But the week after Celesteâthe last bird in the nestâgraduated from high school, her parents had made their big announcement. They were selling the house and flying south to the old folksâ state, supposedly past their usefulness once Celeste had managed to keep her chin up and her weight on.
Now her childhood home was as good as a junkyard, a neighborhood eyesore no amount of signatures on petitions or town meetings had succeeded in eradicating. Cars, rusted and rotting, lined the driveway where she and Abby had chalked the blacktop for hopscotch, jumped double Dutch with the neighborhood kids, and traded misinformation about boys.
Growing up in a house full of brothers had taught Celeste that boys were immature, silly,
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