leather-bound copy of Rebecca that had belonged to Ted’s grandmother in the spare bedroom and curled up on the other end of the couch to read in peace. Ted put the football game on in the living room. Only Ashton was still standing, puttering around his kitchen and refusing any help cleaning up. It was a comfortable, relaxing ending to a nerve-racking meal.
It wasn’t so nice for John and Beverly, though. When they got to their car, they found the rear passenger-side window of John’s Mercedes-Benz smashed and the radio and GPS gone.
“In broad daylight?” John asked, looking around. “What kind of brazen jackass breaks into a car in this neighborhood? It’s no better than Jersey City here.”
“Are you going to call the police?” Beverly asked.
“Why? What will they do about it? God damn it!” he yelled. “Don’t stand there gawking. Help me clean up this glass in front of the tires so we don’t get a flat,” he demanded. They spent the next five minutes trying to avoid getting cut while they swept the glass up with pieces of cardboard John got out of the trunk while passers-by looked on with apathy. “This is why we don’t live in the fucking city,” John said.
Beverly thought the reason was because he worked in Princeton, but she kept her mouth shut. When they created a path for the tires to drive through, they left for home. It was hot out, so the wind from the absent back window felt good. Beverly imagined that if she were alone, she’d stop somewhere to shop or go to a museum—anywhere but home. Or she’d get on Route 9 once they were back in New Jersey and head to the shore. Her sister had a great little beach house on the bayside in Ocean City. Beverly loved going there. When the kids were small, she went every weekend and when invited, stayed the night. John hated the Jersey shore, preferring to drive five hours south to Bethany Beach in Delaware. But Beverly didn’t like going there because it meant the protracted car ride with her husband, who acted like he hated her and days in a small condo facing other condos with no chance to lounge on the beach alone. Now that the kids were gone, she knew she had to do something . She couldn’t stay with John and feel like crap about herself.
She’d had an idea the year before, the year Greg started high school. He didn’t need her as much as before. The private high school he went to was practically in their backyard, so he didn’t even need her to drive him in the snowiest weather. Her mother left her a little cash, not a fortune, but enough to help out with college tuition for the children with something left over. She knew John expected her to fork all of it over to him to manage, but she was standing strong that it would not happen. It was money her mother had invested for Beverly instead of spending it on herself. Thinking about it made Beverly cry; her mother had been generous to a fault with her daughters, buying them gifts and helping them have a better, easier life then she did. No, John was not touching the money. Beverly wanted to start a business. She wasn’t sure yet what it would be. She thought of the things she loved and wondered how she might turn them into a profit making business. Beverly loved to bake and imagined a little bakery like the old-time bakeries that used to line the street in the Chambersburg neighborhood she grew up in near Trenton. She and her father would walk to their favorite place every summer morning and buy pastries and bread for the day. Her mother would scold them for the sweet stuff; it wasn’t healthy. But he bought it anyway. Although the rent in Princeton would be too high for her to have a business there, she thought about the old Italian neighborhood from her childhood. You couldn’t pick up a paper without reading how they were up and coming again, the classic old row houses available to young, savvy buyers for a song. She was going to look at the real-estate section of the paper when they got
It wasn’t so nice for John and Beverly, though. When they got to their car, they found the rear passenger-side window of John’s Mercedes-Benz smashed and the radio and GPS gone.
“In broad daylight?” John asked, looking around. “What kind of brazen jackass breaks into a car in this neighborhood? It’s no better than Jersey City here.”
“Are you going to call the police?” Beverly asked.
“Why? What will they do about it? God damn it!” he yelled. “Don’t stand there gawking. Help me clean up this glass in front of the tires so we don’t get a flat,” he demanded. They spent the next five minutes trying to avoid getting cut while they swept the glass up with pieces of cardboard John got out of the trunk while passers-by looked on with apathy. “This is why we don’t live in the fucking city,” John said.
Beverly thought the reason was because he worked in Princeton, but she kept her mouth shut. When they created a path for the tires to drive through, they left for home. It was hot out, so the wind from the absent back window felt good. Beverly imagined that if she were alone, she’d stop somewhere to shop or go to a museum—anywhere but home. Or she’d get on Route 9 once they were back in New Jersey and head to the shore. Her sister had a great little beach house on the bayside in Ocean City. Beverly loved going there. When the kids were small, she went every weekend and when invited, stayed the night. John hated the Jersey shore, preferring to drive five hours south to Bethany Beach in Delaware. But Beverly didn’t like going there because it meant the protracted car ride with her husband, who acted like he hated her and days in a small condo facing other condos with no chance to lounge on the beach alone. Now that the kids were gone, she knew she had to do something . She couldn’t stay with John and feel like crap about herself.
She’d had an idea the year before, the year Greg started high school. He didn’t need her as much as before. The private high school he went to was practically in their backyard, so he didn’t even need her to drive him in the snowiest weather. Her mother left her a little cash, not a fortune, but enough to help out with college tuition for the children with something left over. She knew John expected her to fork all of it over to him to manage, but she was standing strong that it would not happen. It was money her mother had invested for Beverly instead of spending it on herself. Thinking about it made Beverly cry; her mother had been generous to a fault with her daughters, buying them gifts and helping them have a better, easier life then she did. No, John was not touching the money. Beverly wanted to start a business. She wasn’t sure yet what it would be. She thought of the things she loved and wondered how she might turn them into a profit making business. Beverly loved to bake and imagined a little bakery like the old-time bakeries that used to line the street in the Chambersburg neighborhood she grew up in near Trenton. She and her father would walk to their favorite place every summer morning and buy pastries and bread for the day. Her mother would scold them for the sweet stuff; it wasn’t healthy. But he bought it anyway. Although the rent in Princeton would be too high for her to have a business there, she thought about the old Italian neighborhood from her childhood. You couldn’t pick up a paper without reading how they were up and coming again, the classic old row houses available to young, savvy buyers for a song. She was going to look at the real-estate section of the paper when they got
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