Page 20 of Dirty Little Midlife Drama

The woman glances up, her face splitting into a smile. “Oh, you aregorgeous,” she exclaims. “Isn’t she gorgeous, Arthur?”

“Huh?” the old man says, his coffee cup trembling as he squints at me.

Mrs. Thomas nods in agreement, satisfied with his non-answer, and gestures to a chair. “Sit, sit,” she says, still speaking very loudly. “And call me Maude. We have the paperwork here for you. My grandson is arriving today, and he’ll be able to send you over an electronic copy on the computer,” she explains. “He’s very smart.” Her gaze lands on the pale band of skin where my wedding band used to be. “And single.”

I fold my hands over each other, cursing my daily SPF habit. The tan line from my wedding band is still faintly visible, despite the length of time since I removed it.

“Des is arriving soon,” Arthur shouts at me. “Our grandson. Very smart. Very handsome. You’ll like him.” He turns to his wife. “She’ll like him, won’t she Maude?”

Maude gives him another sharp nod, as if my future relationship with her grandson is already settled.

Laughing, I meet the new girl’s eyes—Alicia—as she comes to the table to drop a latte off for me in a paper takeaway cup. “On the house,” she says, nodding toward Fiona behind the register.

I nod in thanks and turn back to the old couple. “May I?” I point to the folder between us.

“It’s all here,” Maude yells. “Des insisted on that amount for the rent.” She points to the line that shows a fair monthly rent for the current dilapidated state of the space. “I wanted to keep it the same as what Heart’s Cove Antiques was paying, but he insisted on raising it. You can negotiate with him when he gets here. He loves a woman who stands her ground.” She winks.

I fight a smile and read over the documents. The lease is for a five-year term, and it gives me total control over renovations and design. I’ll have to fund the renos, of course, but with the relatively low monthly rent and my large nest egg, I can already tell that I’ll be able to make the finances work.

Then, when I’m about to pick up a pen and sign, the sound of a loud whack makes me jump.

“Well, look who it is,” a woman says behind me, voice like acid.

I turn to see a tiny, fierce elderly lady with short, curly hair. She’s built like a very small linebacker, all solid and scary. I’ve seen her at the bookstore, although I mostly stay out of her way. I think she’s Rudy’s grandmother. He was my first friend in town and the man who sold me my house.

Maude sits up straighter and nods, her voice chilling. “Agnes.”

“Your husband is looking older than ever,” Agnes tells Maude.

“Huh?” Arthur shouts, leaning toward his wife.

“She said your watch is gleaming golder than ever!”

Arthur glances down at his wrist, then at Agnes. “I just got it cleaned.”

“Clean your ears,” Agnes sneers. “That’ll be more useful, you old bag.”

Maude cuts in, pointing at Agnes’s own wrist. “For Agnes’s watch, it’s beenyears! Cleaning it made her gag.”

Arthur leans back, bushy gray eyebrows jumping. “Oh, dear,” he shouts, then looks at the woman glowering beside me. “You should clean it more often, then.”

No one seems to care that Agnes isn’t actually wearing a watch.

I roll my lips inward to stop from bursting out laughing. Agnes makes a frustrated noise and hobbles toward the counter to place her order, not sparing us another glance.

Maude watches her leave, then leans toward me as if to whisper. Unfortunately, her voice comes out extremely loud, and I’m certain everyone in the café can hear when she says, “Agnes was in love with Arthur when we were young. But I got him in the end. Didn’t I, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t love him, you turnip,” Agnes spits from across the room. “He insulted my Cheswick when you renovated your dumpy old house. All that beautiful woodwork he put his heart and soul into, and you just went and replaced it with tacky paint and carpet.”

“We paid Cheswick everything we owed him, fair and square, Agnes, and you know it. Plus, we renovated twenty darn years after Cheswick first did the project for us. It had nothing to do with his woodworking skills.” Maude’s body is like a coiled spring, ready to launch herself at Agnes.

I shift in my seat, wondering if I should interrupt. This has the feel of an argument that’s been had many, many times in the past, the rhythm of it worn down to something familiar.

Arthur, in the process of sipping his coffee, leans toward his wife and narrowly avoids sloshing hot liquid over the both of them. “Huh? What’s that?”

His wife smiles and pats his thigh, like that’s the end of that conversation. She jerks her chin toward the paperwork. “Any questions?”

“Don’t do it,” Agnes says, holding a little brown bag with a pastry in it. She points at the papers in front of me. “They’ll just rip out all your hard work and paint over it with boring old white paint.”

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