door wider to let him in.
“Incredibly tall,” he added as he noted the heels that put them eye to eye.
Was that a compliment? Mariah took it as one. “Thank you,” she said, leading the way into the kitchen.“I’m ready to go, but I wanted to show you something first.”
He was dressed a whole lot more casually than she, in a faded pair of jeans, time-softened leather boat shoes and a sport jacket over a plain T-shirt.
“I think I might be underdressed,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. Knowing Serena’s friends, there’ll be an equal mix of sequined gowns and tank tops over swimsuits.” Mariah opened the door to the basement.
“Serena?” he asked.
“Westford,” she told him, turning on the switch that lit the stairs going down. “She lives a little more than three miles north, just up the road.”
“Is she one of the Boston Westfords? Funny, maybe I know one of her brothers.”
Mariah shook her head, poised at the top of the stairs. “She hasn’t talked about Boston. Or any brothers. When we met, she
did
give me a business card with a Hartford hotel, but I think that was only a temporary address. I think she lived in Paris for a few years.” She started down, careful of the rough wooden steps in her heels. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Into the basement? Is your darkroom down there?”
“My darkroom’s down here,” Mariah told him, “but that’s not what I want to show you.”
She turned on another light.
The ceiling was low, and both she and John had to duck to avoid pipes and beams. But it was a nice basement, as far as basements went. The concrete floor had been painted a light shade of gray and it had been carefully swept. Boxes were neatly stacked on utility shelves that lined most of the walls.
A washer and dryer stood in one corner, along with a table for folding laundry. Another corner had been walled off to make the darkroom.
But she led him to the open area of the basement, where an entire concrete-block wall and the floor beneath it had been cleared. Only one box sat nearby, in the middle of the room on top of a broken chair.
Mariah reached inside and pulled out one of the plates she’d bought dirt cheap at a tag sale that afternoon, when she’d borrowed Serena’s car. It was undeniably one of the ugliest china patterns she’d ever seen in her life. She handed it to John.
He stared at it, perplexed.
“It occurred to me this morning that you probably never give yourself the opportunity to really vent,” she explained.
“Vent.”
“Yes.” She took another plate from the box. “Like this.” As hard as she could, she hurled the china plate against the wall. It smashed into a thousand pieces with a resounding and quite satisfying crash.
John laughed, but then stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” She gestured to the plate in his hands. “Try it.”
He hesitated. “Don’t these belong to someone?”
“No. Look at it, John. Have you ever eaten off something that unappetizing? It’s begging for you to break it and put it out of its misery.”
He hefted it in his hand.
“Just do it. It feels… liberating.” Mariah took another plate from the box and sent it smashing into the wall. “Oh,
yeah!
”
John turned suddenly and, throwing the plate like a Frisbee, shattered it against the wall.
Mariah handed him another one. “Good, huh?”
“Yeah.”
She took another herself. “This one’s for my father, who didn’t even
ask
if I wanted to spend nearly seven years of my life working eighty-hour weeks, who didn’t even
try
to quit smoking or lose weight after his doctor told him he was a walking heart attack waiting to happen, and who died before I could tell him that I loved him, the bastard.” The plate exploded as it hit the wall.
John threw his, too, and reached into the box for another before she could hand him one.
“This one’s the head of the bank officer who wouldn’t approve the Johnsons’ loan for a Foundations for
“Incredibly tall,” he added as he noted the heels that put them eye to eye.
Was that a compliment? Mariah took it as one. “Thank you,” she said, leading the way into the kitchen.“I’m ready to go, but I wanted to show you something first.”
He was dressed a whole lot more casually than she, in a faded pair of jeans, time-softened leather boat shoes and a sport jacket over a plain T-shirt.
“I think I might be underdressed,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. Knowing Serena’s friends, there’ll be an equal mix of sequined gowns and tank tops over swimsuits.” Mariah opened the door to the basement.
“Serena?” he asked.
“Westford,” she told him, turning on the switch that lit the stairs going down. “She lives a little more than three miles north, just up the road.”
“Is she one of the Boston Westfords? Funny, maybe I know one of her brothers.”
Mariah shook her head, poised at the top of the stairs. “She hasn’t talked about Boston. Or any brothers. When we met, she
did
give me a business card with a Hartford hotel, but I think that was only a temporary address. I think she lived in Paris for a few years.” She started down, careful of the rough wooden steps in her heels. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Into the basement? Is your darkroom down there?”
“My darkroom’s down here,” Mariah told him, “but that’s not what I want to show you.”
She turned on another light.
The ceiling was low, and both she and John had to duck to avoid pipes and beams. But it was a nice basement, as far as basements went. The concrete floor had been painted a light shade of gray and it had been carefully swept. Boxes were neatly stacked on utility shelves that lined most of the walls.
A washer and dryer stood in one corner, along with a table for folding laundry. Another corner had been walled off to make the darkroom.
But she led him to the open area of the basement, where an entire concrete-block wall and the floor beneath it had been cleared. Only one box sat nearby, in the middle of the room on top of a broken chair.
Mariah reached inside and pulled out one of the plates she’d bought dirt cheap at a tag sale that afternoon, when she’d borrowed Serena’s car. It was undeniably one of the ugliest china patterns she’d ever seen in her life. She handed it to John.
He stared at it, perplexed.
“It occurred to me this morning that you probably never give yourself the opportunity to really vent,” she explained.
“Vent.”
“Yes.” She took another plate from the box. “Like this.” As hard as she could, she hurled the china plate against the wall. It smashed into a thousand pieces with a resounding and quite satisfying crash.
John laughed, but then stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.” She gestured to the plate in his hands. “Try it.”
He hesitated. “Don’t these belong to someone?”
“No. Look at it, John. Have you ever eaten off something that unappetizing? It’s begging for you to break it and put it out of its misery.”
He hefted it in his hand.
“Just do it. It feels… liberating.” Mariah took another plate from the box and sent it smashing into the wall. “Oh,
yeah!
”
John turned suddenly and, throwing the plate like a Frisbee, shattered it against the wall.
Mariah handed him another one. “Good, huh?”
“Yeah.”
She took another herself. “This one’s for my father, who didn’t even
ask
if I wanted to spend nearly seven years of my life working eighty-hour weeks, who didn’t even
try
to quit smoking or lose weight after his doctor told him he was a walking heart attack waiting to happen, and who died before I could tell him that I loved him, the bastard.” The plate exploded as it hit the wall.
John threw his, too, and reached into the box for another before she could hand him one.
“This one’s the head of the bank officer who wouldn’t approve the Johnsons’ loan for a Foundations for
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