Page 6 of Yes No Maybe

The regular living room light reveals that Rose and Vernon are in their sixties and wearing button-upped pajamas with rain boots. Tom is younger, but his white-gray ponytail suggests not by much. The only thing I discover about Jack is that he’s tall and annoyed. He keeps his hood on and lurks near the front door as if desperate to run out of it.

“Forgive our intrusion, dear.” Rose sits on the fireplace hearth. “But we thought you might be a vandal or using the place as a sex den.”

“Are vandals and sex dens frequent problems in this neighborhood?” I ask, only half-serious.

Rose gasps while Vernon stutters, “What? Oh, goodness. No.”

“Relax, Vern. She’s only kidding,” Tom says.

I stifle a chuckle. “Well, it’s good to know you’re looking out for the place.”

“There’s safety in numbers,” Vernon says. “When Rose saw the lights—”

“I was up late reading.” Her girlish grin makes me wonder what book.

“We called Tom for backup and Jack for muscle,” Vernon explains.

“I’m not the muscle.” Jack’s gruffness sounds less sharp.

“I’m the muscle.” Rose holds up her frying pan.

“Right. Jack’s got the best knees. He’s supposed to run for help,” Vernon says.

“You were saying, love? About teaching?” Rose prompts.

“Oh, high school English at Coastal.”

“That’s Jack’s alma mater.” She bounces, clapping her frying pan. “A proper English teacher. The neighborhood could use one of those.”

“A shrink would be better,” Jack mumbles.

Rose waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t mind him. Writers can be so irritable.”

I’m about to ask him what he writes to forge a connection like I would with a disgruntled student.The only way to break a bad attitude is to get them talking, Grandpa Ro used to say.

But Vernon chimes in with, “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore. Solid.” He pounds his fist on the brick above his wife’s head as if proving his point. “But I suppose you’ll take a sledgehammer to it.”

“Gosh, no. I’d pull up the carpet and paint the walls, but no major renovations. I love the old brick and fifties tiles in the bathrooms. I even love the kitchen—the antique gas stove and small fridge. The little green tiles with pictures of fruit remind me of my grandparents’ house. They had a kitchen banquette, too—that’s where I did my homework when my mom was deployed. It makes the kitchen feel like a retro diner, don’t you think? I’d reupholster the cushions probably. I don’t know what I’d do with the converted garage yet, but I’m okay with not having one. I have so many books. Maybe I’d use it as a study.”

Their mystified stares force my mouth shut. Rose gives Vernon a pleading look before both turn to Jack like they’re seeking his approval. He folds his arms over his chest.

“The previous owners, Margot and Ben, turned it into a music room,” Vernon explains. “She was a piano teacher. Students came and went nearly every day. In the evenings, they’d open the bay door, Ben’d get on his fiddle, and they’d have mini-concerts. We’d come over with our lawn chairs and listen from the driveway. Those were… good times.”

His head droops. I suspect the good times ended not by choice but by a change no one wanted. Grandpa Ro pops to mind, along with a quick montage of friends, neighbors, and houses left behind in moves growing up. “I’m sorry. It must’ve been hard to say goodbye.”

Vernon waves off my sympathies, his gray eyes looking slightly damp. Jack peers out from under his raincoat curtain, letting me see him for the first time. He’s younger than I expect, given his cohorts. Dark hair brushes pinched brown eyes that are more thoughtful than menacing and bookended by fine laugh lines he’ll one day call wrinkles. But not yet, even though his face seems permanently fixed in a scowl. Heathcliff meets Rochester meets Severus Snape. His inexplicable contempt drips off him like the raindrops on his coat.Who wants to live next to that?

“Ben and Margot loved this place,” Rose coos. “Lived here fifty years. Raised Corey here. He—”

“Don’t go there,” Jack warns sternly.

Rose winces and rethinks. “I was going to say that they used to have living room campouts with their grand-babies and read to them until they fell asleep.”

Vernon chuckles. “They called itThe Little House, you know, after that picture book.”

My hand covers my mouth, like surprised women in old books overcome by emotion (and super tight corsets).Gosh, Rowan, what’s next? Will you faint?

“Oh, you know it?” Rose perks up. “That’s an old one.”

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