They seemed oblivious to the fact that I got as far away from them as I could go and not end up in California (nothing against California, I just hated traffic, was an introvert so not big on being around huge populations of people, and it was damned expensive to live there, regardless of the fact I was a millionaire trust-fund baby—I had money, but I didn’t want to spend it on a house I wouldn’t be in very much).
Now, it was the weekend.
Now, it was time to decide whether to throw my tent in my Subaru and head out somewhere or spend time at home, maybe switching out the annual flowers in the pots scattered all over my deck (autumn was coming, it was time) and take a few day trips hiking or paddleboarding.
I was dumping my bag on the kitchen counter, contemplating this, as well as dinner, when my phone rang.
I dug it out of my hobo, looked at it, and even though the number was local, I didn’t know it.
So I ignored it, tossed my phone on my bag, and went to my fridge to open it, stare in it and decide if I wanted beer, cider, or wine (along with deciding what I might cook to go with one of those, or if I wanted to drive back down the mountain to grab something at Wildflower).
I moved from fridge to cupboard and inspiration struck.
Spaghetti with turkey-meat red sauce.
Fast, yummy, and a good evening carbo load for the long hike I’d just decided to take the next morning.
I had a glass of red wine in hand, was letting the red sauce simmer (nothing to get excited about, it was a jar of Ragu, but I always spiced it up with Italian seasoning, minced garlic and red pepper flakes, and in order not to waste anything, rinsing the jar out with a big chug of water that had to cook down), when I turned and gave myself a moment to take in my space.
The shack was two floors, staggered since it was built into the mountain. It had five “rooms,” even if two of those weren’t strictly rooms.
Kitchen and living room were one long space on the bottom floor. There was a small powder room in the front corner tucked under the stairs, and in the back one, a small space for some storage that I’d converted into a pantry (because I wasn’t home often, but when I was, I liked to cook). The upper floor was open to all of this. It was a loft bedroom with a gnarly pine paneled, slant ceiling. It was narrow but also long so it included a reading area off to the side. At the end of this was a small walk-in closet and the “master bath” (of a sort). The bathroom was tiny. It didn’t even have a tub.
Big windows everywhere (including three sunlights) and two sliding glass doors to the deck that ran the whole front of the house, one set off the kitchen, one off the living room area.
Everything in the place, except sturdy pieces that would need to last a while, like couch and mattresses, was vintage or repurposed or antique, even the vases, lamps, kitchen stuff and knickknacks. It was hodgepodge, mismatched, but there was color and vibrancy that looked good, but also looked lived in and loved, so it managed to be calming.
Underneath all of this was one of the five reasons I bought the place.
FYI:
Reason one, those windows.
Reason two, that long deck.
Reason three, it was small so it didn’t take long to clean.
Reason four, it sat on four and a half acres that were all mine.
Reason five, the entire bottom of the structure was all unfinished storage.
Perfect to house snowshoes and poles, skis, camping gear, my kayak, my two bikes (one road, one trail), and the humongous Christmas tree and all the trimmings I put up for that holiday (because…Christmas but then there was Christmas in the mountains which was, like, a trillion times better than regular Christmas anywhere else).
So, yeah.
In about a thousand square feet of living space, I had it all.
All I needed.
Really, whenever I took a second to see what I’d created with this place, I wondered why I didn’t spend more time there.
I was about to go out on the deck, kick back, and allow the sauce to simmer while I chilled with my wine when my phone rang again.
I walked to it, and saw it was the same number as had called before.
Really, it should be illegal, like it was in England, for marketing people to call, unless expressly given that permission. All the bogus calls that interrupt your day and useless voicemails you had to delete?
Maddening.
As I was annoying myself thinking on something I couldn’t control, rather than simply ignoring it, something I attempted to do (obviously, I failed that attempt on a regular basis), my phone rang while it was still signaling the other call.
The new call was my sister.
I needed to take it. She’d only keep calling as well as activating the family to get her fix of belittling me at the same time pretending she was the “good sister” because she was the one who put effort in keeping in touch.
I’d learned it was best to get it over with.
Anyway, I had wine.
I was thousands of miles away from her in her (actually, in Mum’s) upper west side apartment in New York City.
I’d survive.
I took the call. “Hey, Blake.”
“Finally,” she snapped.
Totally deck time.
I moved to the stove, put the lid on the Ragu and turned it way down, doing all this asking, “What’s up?”
“I’m getting married,” she announced.
I just stopped myself from moaning, Oh, please no.
The reasons were twofold why I had this reaction.
One, my sister wasn’t going to be bridezilla.
She was going to be Queen Bride-idorah, Godzilla’s most formidable foe, King Ghidorah’s far more ruthless mate.
Two, she was marrying a man named Chad, who was so very A Chad, it was almost impossible not to be physically ill the minute you entered his sphere.
This was not like me. I saw the good in everybody (except, lately, Rix, for obvious reasons). My experience was, people were generally good, and everyone had flaws, including ourselves. It wasn’t kind to expect other people to adjust or accept your flaws, and not accept or adjust to theirs. Further, it took very little effort to find the good in people, and see that, for the most part (except with Rix recently), the good outweighed the bad.
But Chad…
Well, Chad was a different story.
I was not close to my sister, but family was family, and I spent quite a bit of energy attempting to live and let live, not only with her, but with everyone.
However, Chad was just that much of a clueless, blank-eyed, forever-frat-boy pill, I couldn’t quite stop myself from detesting him.
“To Chad?” I asked tentatively, sliding open the door in the kitchen space.
“Of course to Chad. Who else would I be marrying?” she snapped. “We’ve been together for three years.”
“Right,” I muttered, lowering myself onto the cushions of one of the woven rocker chairs on my deck at the same time sucking back a hearty sip of wine.
“Anyway, the wedding is happening in October.”
I blinked at the plethora of pine trees in front of me.
“Sorry? October? Like, October next year? Or October, next month?”
“Next month,” she sniffed. “Late in October.”
My sister spoke a certain language to me, one in which I was fluent.
The translation of all of this was that she’d been engaged for a while, but she was only just now telling me.
That was okay by me, it meant I could avoid all the kowtowing involved when Bride-idorah was in wedding planning mode.