I'd paid the lawyer untold thousands for the privilege of giving my wife the house and a couple thousand a month in support. He billed me fifty bucks for some leftover clerical work. I sent him back a letter thanking him for letting her lawyer hand him his ass. I still owe him the fifty.
Meanwhile, the group that had bought out my employer decided that my services came at too high a price. The new group comprised mostly accountants -- British accountants, the very worst kind. They put me off payroll and promised me about half-salary in consulting work. Between that and a couple of their high-profile clients, who went with me, I was able to keep up my living standard.
All that done, I decided that summer to take a couple months off, to get out of the city, clear my head, and decide what I wanted to do with the next 40 years. I liked the idea of living near the bay, away from the tourist stops, maybe a shack on an inlet where i could toss out crab pots in the morning and have a meal by evening.
I called an old friend, Frank, whom I'd known off and on since high school. Frank had some bayside properties, and I figured he could get me started in finding something, somewhere -- anywhere. . .
A few days later, Frank called back.
"Joey," he said.
"Yeah Frank. What did you find me?"
"About as far from anything as you can get." He gave me the location. "Sort of a village, sort of a glorified fish camp. Not too far from the ferry."
"How much?"
"Too good to be true, Joe, if you're up to some work. The owner has been there for forty years, but he's getting old and doesn't want to keep the place up anymore. He'll let you have it for the summer in exchange for some, uh, home improvements. Otherwise, absolutely free."
My god, I thought. "What kind of work?"
"Some plumbing, wiring. Needs new windows, new roof. Nothing you can't do."
Frank was right. This sounded too good to be true, and it was. The place had two bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room and laundry. The roof leaked, the kitchen fixtures were rusty, everything in the bathroom dripped (plus some rot in the floor). The plus? It was a hundred yards from the water and had a nice, covered front porch.
Yes, it needed a lot of work, but it could be made liveable pretty quickly.
I sat down with the owner, a long-retired gentleman who wore a plaid jacket and a summer straw hat. He told me he'd built it in the 1960s as a vacation getaway, and he'd spent summers there every year since. He told me what things he'd like to see done first, and I ran a mental budget to see what I thought I could do.
Mr. Cabell's intent, he said, was to have the cottage fixed up so he could rent it. Without much further discussion, we worked out and signed a two-party lease, and I had a home for the summer.
Mr. Cabell, the owner, had left some older furniture in the house. I brought a few business items, some comfort pieces, a bed, and what clothes I thought I'd need for a summer at the shore. Oh, and tools -- a table saw, vise, clamps, a bunch of 18V utility hand tools, and the usual box of hammers, wrenches, bits, and so on.
In a week, I had the walls painted and the leaky faucets in the kitchen and bathroom repaired. I decided to start on the roof, which was not large and needed only shingles to be made tight. Within a week, the place had begun to appear comfortable.
Meanwhile, I began to make acquaintance with some of the neighbors. Most were older people, folks like Mr. Cabell, who had been coming here for years. Some had moved on, leaving the properties to their children -- people closer to my age. There weren't many of those.
I assumed the woman and girl whom I saw out walking occasionally were of this next generation. A county road led into the village, then dwindled to a lane that dead-ended at the water's edge. The bayfront had sort of a small beach, and I'd see one or the other or both of them, sometimes in company with others from the community, walking to the beach.
I couldn't do much for introduction, as I spent a couple of hot days on the roof, popping the new shingles over the old, flaky ones. The woman and the girl stood out because both were blonde. I guessed the woman was, say, 40 or so, and the girl about 20, perhaps. From similarities in coloring, build and carriage, I guessed also that they were mother and daughter.
It came as a nice surprise when "mother and daughter" walked up the sidewalk toward my cottage late one afternoon. I had changed out of my work clothes and sat in a chair on the porch wearing only swim shorts. I said hello, smiled, and told them I'd be back. I went in the house, found a shirt and pulled it on, then went back to the porch.
