Page 19 of Stacked
She wasn’t wrong about that. I cared about her, but I wasn’t her relative. I had no say in the matter.
That didn’t stop me from feeling a pang of sadness whenever I stopped by her house. That morning was especially tough—the grass on Gwen’s front lawn had gone from bad to worse in just a few days, with crabgrass taking over wherever real grass struggled to grow. Some areas were so high it sprouted seeds, the long stalks twisting in the breeze and making the home look shabbier. I parked the car in the driveway and made my way up the crumbling sidewalk to the porch steps covered in peeling paint. With each step, I calculated the cost of repairing the Victorian house that had once served as the home of a New Burlington founding family. Fixing it up would probably cost one hundred thousand dollars or more, and that didn’t include hidden problems I was sure would pop up once someone exposed a wall or took a closer look at the plumbing. These kinds of homes were always money pits.
And deeply unsafe for sickly women in their eighties.
Pushing that thought aside, I rang the doorbell on the side of the front door trimmed in leaded glass. When nobody answered it, I pushed the handle set and the door swung open. My breath caught in my throat.This isn’t a good sign.
“Anybody home?” I called as I stepped across the threshold. “Gwen, are you there?”
“Is that you, Anya?” Gwen’s voice was faint and coming from the back of the house.
“Sure is.”
I pushed the door shut and rushed through the foyer, then the short hallway. I was headed to the kitchen at the back of the property. At least Gwen had listened to me six months earlier when I pleaded with her over the holidays to move most of her life downstairs. The large house had one bedroom on the first floor, and even though she didn’t consider it the main bedroom, she agreed with me when I told her she didn’t need to be going up and down the winding staircase anymore.
Now, I found her sprawled on the kitchen linoleum, just out of reach of her cane, a chair, the small table, and the cabinets.
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed as soon as she came into view. I rushed to her side. “How long have you been down here?”
“Not too long.” She grasped my hand and winced as she tried to push her body off the floor with the other. “I tripped on the kitchen mat while I was making coffee.”
“Are you hurt?” I asked as I pulled her to her feet, my eyes making a visual assessment of her condition.No obvious cuts, good, no bleeding, good...
“I’m okay. Just can’t move the way I used to.”
“Let me get you something to drink,” I said as I led her to the nearby Formica table and matching chairs. Once she was settled, I crossed to the sink and took a glass from the overhead cabinet. I filled it with water and took it back to her. “Are you sure you’re not in pain?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” She motioned to the seat across from her at the table. “Sit down.”
I obliged, even though I was still on edge. Gwen was a widow. Her daughter lived in St. Louis, and her son ran an investment firm in Columbus. She didn’t see them often, despite her son’s urging that she move in with him a few years ago. The fact was, if something happened to her, it was going to fall on me to deal with it. I was the only person who checked on her regularly.Maybe weekly visits aren’t enough. Should I come more often?
“I don’t need more help,” she said as if reading my thoughts. She flashed me a smile—thin lips and craggy teeth but more than one hint of the woman she used to be. I’d seen a few old pictures in the living room, portraits from college, and a few with her husband. Gwen had been beautiful when she was younger and in a lot of ways she still was.
“I know better than to try convincing you,” I admitted.
She laughed. “That’s why I hired you, Anya. You’re smart.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I’m just... I know when to pick my battles and this isn’t one. You made that clear during Christmas.”
She nodded, and I knew she got the reference. But instead of bringing up one of the biggest arguments we’d ever had, she sifted through the magazines and mail in a haphazard stack on the table. She slid a glossy out of the pile. “Were you going to tell me?”
“About what?”
“This.”
She flipped the periodical, so I’d see it was the latest edition ofNew Burlington Living.This free monthly magazine relied on expensive advertising from local businesses and came in my mailbox whether I wanted it or not. When I first took over managing The Green Frog, I considered taking out some ads, but the prices were far too high for my taste. Since then, whenever it showed up, I threw it out without reading it.
Which was clearly a mistake.
“A new bookstore,” Gwen said as I took in the sight of Robert Kilgore gracing the front cover of that month’s edition. He stood in front of his business, in the middle of construction, wearing a pair of paint-stained overalls, holding a paintbrush in one hand, bracing against the window with the other. “Downtown Gets a New Read” splashed the headline in large yellow block letters. The smirk on Robert’s face topped it all off. “Looks like a lot happening in town these days.”
“Yes,” I replied around the lump in my throat.
She placed the magazine on the table between us. “Sounds like he has a lot of plans and a huge vision.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Have you met him?”
