The House On Sugar Plum Lane. Judy Duarte
As they returned downstairs, Ron paused at the bottom landing and placed his hand on the banister. “The owner’s grandson was going to fix up the place and pack up his grandma’s belongings, but he had a heart attack a week or so ago. I told the family that I’d line up the workers for them, but like I said, I’ve been playing catch-up ever since the baby was born. But I’ll try to make some calls as soon as I get back to the office. Just try to imagine the place after we power wash the outside, mow the lawn, and trim the shrubs.”
Ron was being incredibly optimistic. It was going to take more than a couple of days to get this house and yard whipped into shape.
They walked outside, and she waited as he secured the lock. Again, she glanced at the weathered structure, its shutters closed tight, its story silenced.
“What happened to the lady who used to live here?” Amy asked, hoping for a few more details and an adult version of the story.
“From what I understand, she’s living in long-term care.”
Amy paused a beat, struggling with an idea that was brewing, a wild thought, actually, yet one that suddenly held a lot of merit. She had an opportunity to spend some time in this house, if she acted quickly. But it would cost both time and money.
Somehow, that didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d like to sign a lease,” she said. “And it would be great if I could have the house furnished. So you can leave it as it is.”
“I’ll talk to Mrs. Davila about that. She’s the owner’s daughter. It was her son who had the heart attack, and so she’ll be making the decisions now.”
Would Mrs. Davila be Barbara Rucker, the woman who’d given up Amy’s mother for adoption? Or was she a sister or another relative?
“You know,” Ron added, cocking his head to one side. “The more I think about it, the more I like your offer. It’s possible that Mrs. Davila will go for it, too. Otherwise, she’d have to conduct an estate sale or put everything in storage. And from what I understand, she’s pretty worried about her son’s medical condition, so this house is the least of her problems.”
Amy tried to conjure some sympathy for the Ruckers and the Davilas, but she couldn’t quite pull it off. She might have biological ties to the people who’d once lived in this house, but unlike her mother, she’d been able to completely embrace the Rossi family as her own.
“When would you want to move in?” Ron asked.
“As soon as possible. In fact, I’d be willing to carefully box up any of Mrs. Rucker’s personal belongings so Mrs. Davila won’t have to bother with it.”
Ron stroked his chin, the wheels clearly turning. “You know, under the circumstances, she might really appreciate that. It’s possible that she’d even be willing to give you a discount on the rent. Let me call her and get back to you.”
“That’s fine.” Amy gave the man her telephone number. She probably ought to mention something about having a child and a small, well-behaved cocker mix that was housebroken, but she wasn’t really going to move in.
As Amy and the agent returned to their respective vehicles, she paused beside the driver’s door of the Honda Civic and took one last look at the tired old house.
If only the walls could talk, people often said.
Maybe, in this case, they would.
The call came in later that evening, while Amy and Callie were having dinner in the kitchen.
Amy blotted her lips with her napkin. “Keep eating, honey. I’ll tell them we’ll have to talk later.” Then she headed for the portable phone that rested on the counter.
When she answered, Ron Paige introduced himself and went on to say, “I have good news, Amy. Mrs. Davila is willing to lease you the house furnished. And she’ll either hire someone to come in and box her mother’s personal items, or you can do it for a discount on the rent.”
After Amy’s mom had died, one of the hardest things she’d had to do was to help her dad go through her mother’s closet, her drawers, her desk at work. But there was no way she would have hired a stranger to handle a heartrending task like that. And the fact that Mrs. Davila had readily agreed to Amy’s offer surprised her.
“So,” the agent continued, “if you’d like to come by my office tomorrow morning, we’ll run a credit check, which is just a formality. And then I’ll make a quick call to your current landlord.”
Amy didn’t have a landlord. In fact, she and Brandon owned both houses they’d lived in, but she’d deal with any explanations and the resulting questions later. Instead, she agreed to meet Ron at the real estate office at ten.
After dinner, she’d give Stephanie Goldstein a call. Stephanie’s husband, Jake, worked in the same law firm as Brandon, which had been reason enough to avoid the woman these days. But Amy and Steph had belonged to the same playgroup since their children were babies, and their daughters got along great. They’d also become friends in spite of their husbands’ connection. In fact, Callie had stayed with Stephanie today while Amy had driven to Fairbrook to check out the address she’d had for Barbara Rucker.
She wondered if Steph would mind picking up Callie at preschool tomorrow and watching her in the afternoon. Probably not. But what would she think about what Amy planned to do? It was hard to say.
Should she even tell her?
Snooping in the old Victorian on Sugar Plum Lane had to be one of the wildest things Amy had ever done. Of course, she’d always led a quiet and predictable life. That is, until she’d told Brandon she was moving back into the small townhome that had become a rental after his promotion to partner and their subsequent purchase of the sprawling house in Mar Vista Estates.
Their marital separation had been a first for the Rossi family and something that no one but Amy had fully understood.
“But he’s a good provider,” Grandma Rossi had said. “And you can be a stay-at-home mom, which is more important than ever these days.”
Back in the 1950s, when a man’s home was his castle and his wife’s job was to make life easier on him, being a good provider had probably been essential. But there was more to life than money and possessions. So when Brandon had repeatedly put his job and his career ahead of his family, Amy had told him she didn’t want to be married anymore.
Now she found herself living alone, but at least she didn’t have to wonder what time Brandon would be coming home or what mood he’d be in when he arrived.
Nor did she have to worry about whether he was having an affair with one of several young women with whom he’d worked late on cases, a worry that had haunted her on many lonely nights.
He’d always claimed to love her and their daughter, but Amy had gotten tired of trying to convince Callie that her daddy truly felt bad about all the special events he’d been too busy to attend, like the Father’s Day picnic at the preschool, not to mention the everyday things he’d missed, like dinner, story time, and tucking Callie into bed on most nights.
Amy had tried to blame it on the law firm, but Jake Goldstein had no trouble leaving the office at the end of the workday or spending weekends at home. So it had seemed only natural to assume another woman might be involved.
Brandon had sworn up and down that he’d never cheat, but in the end, Amy hadn’t completely believed him.
“Will that work for you?” Ron asked, drawing her back to the telephone conversation.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll see you at my office tomorrow at ten.”
After ending the call, Amy returned to the table, where Callie munched on the grilled chicken breast and pasta they were having for dinner. Cookie, the black-and-white cocker mix, sat on the floor next to the child’s chair, wagging its tail and licking its