Page 12 of Yes No Maybe

Vernon sits on the hearth and leans inside the opening with a flashlight, as if he always carries one in his pocket. “Yep, you’ve got some unexpected roommates up there. Raccoons probably. Sounds like the mamma’s made a nest on the damper.”

Rose shimmies over, holding out the bottle of wine. “Welcome to the neighborhood, dear.”

“Thanks,” I say unsurely.

With an ashy smudge on his forehead, Vernon pulls out of the fireplace. “Alright, which of you young lads wants to hop on the roof for a look-see?”

“None of them. I can’t let them do that,” I say quickly, imagining broken legs and angry parents.

“I’d do it myself, but my knees won’t let me,” Vernon says.

“Let’s call Jack,” Rose says excitedly.

“No need. I’ll handle it myself.” My words bust out with more confidence than I have, but the last thing I want is to be indebted to the grumpy guy next door.

“Who’s Jack?” Mira cuts in.

“Jack Graham. The author,” Rose coos. “He lives next door.”

“The romance author?” Mira gushes. “Rowan, you didn’t tell me you were moving in next to a celebrity. Jane reads all his books.”

“I don’t.” Still, I know his name. Jack Graham’s edgy romances made front displays ineverybookstore alongside the latest by Stephen King, James Patterson, and Colleen Hoover. He’s not just an author but a bestselling one. It’s a shock that he’d live in this modest neighborhood. “I don’t read romance, classics excluded.”

Rose looks offended, as if I’ve shunned her homeland. “But it… can’t be true.”

“Rowan’s too jaded for romance,” Mira says, “but it’s only because she hasn’t found her soulmate yet.”

I groan. “There’s no point in calling a romance writer to deal with critters in my chimney. I’ll call someone… a professional.”

“Hello?” Tom, the gray ponytail from across the street diagonally, enters from the hall, carrying a mason jar filled with something red and accompanied by a petite, sandy-haired woman ten years younger and a foot shorter than he is. “Oh, there you are, Rowan. Welcome to the little house.”

They shake my hand, and his wife says, “I’m Marcy Goodman. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. Please excuse my mess.” I introduce Mira and my students as they go by.

Tom hands over the mason jar. “It’s homemade BBQ sauce.”

“Thanks. How thoughtful.” I set the wine and sauce on the kitchen table behind us as Tom and Marcy list ways to use it.

“Best on grilled meat, though,” Tom decides, finally.

When scratching and crying interrupt our pleasantries, Vernon points to the fireplace, informing Tom, “Critters.”

“Shall I get on the roof and check it out?” Tom asks.

“No, thanks. I’ll call a professional. I wouldn’t want one of my kind neighbors falling off the roof… not on my first day.”

I laugh, but the rest aren’t amused.

An awkward silence falls over us. I’m a bit befuddled about what to do with them.Offer them something? Make conversation? Put them to work?It feels strange to play hostess on move-in day.

“It has happened once or twice,” Vernon says, breaking the silence.

“What has?” I ask.

“Neighbors falling off roofs,” he says as if it’s obvious.

The chimney noises kick up to a frenzy, spiking my nerves. To have baby creatures die in one’s new fireplace on the first day seems a terrible start to home ownership. I half-wonder if I’ll be cursed thereafter, and a weird story of a vengeful clan of raccoons wreaking havoc on me plays out in a mental movie.

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