weeks on the bestseller list, the
New York Times
ran a three-part article on consecutive Sundays.
She wasn’t at all surprised to receive an angry email from Anson Chaffins.
First you sic that cop on me, now this! You’re a lying bitch, and I’ll tell everybody who you are, where you are, what you are. I gave you the idea. You stole my article.
She wrote back only once.
My life, my story, and I never agreed to your
deal
. Tell anyone you want.
But he didn’t tell anyone. On her own she sent Detective Rossini flowers as a thank-you. She changed her email address, her phone number, and buckled down to focus on her schoolwork, her photography, and her family.
She told herself she’d put the past in the past now, where it needed to stay. And she’d really begun her life as Naomi Carson.
DEPTH OF FIELD
Ends and beginnings—there are no such things.
There are only middles.
ROBERTFROST
Six
Sunrise Cove, Washington State, 2016
I t hadn’t been impulse. Naomi assured herself of that as she roamed the rambling old house on the bluff. A little rash, maybe. A gamble, absolutely. She’d taken plenty of gambles, so what was one more?
But holy shit, she’d bought a house. A house older than she was—about four times older. A house on the opposite side of the country from her family. A house, she admitted, that needed work. And furniture.
And a serious cleaning.
An investment, she told herself, wincing at the grimy kitchen with its dated appliances—surely older than she was—and cracked linoleum floor.
So she’d clean it up, fix it up, paint it up. Then she could put it back on the market, or rent it out. She didn’t have to live there. That was a choice—something else she’d made plenty of before.
It would be a project. Something to keep her busy when she wasn’t working. A home base, she considered, and tried the faucet of the chipped porcelain sink.
It coughed, banged, and then spewed out fits of water.
A home base with bad plumbing.
So, she’d make a list. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to have made a list before buying the house, but she’d make one.
Plumber
went straight to number one.
Gingerly, she opened the cabinet under the sink. It smelled a little dank, looked dingy, and the ancient bottle of Drano didn’t inspire confidence.
Definitely find a plumber.
And a whole bunch of cleaning supplies.
She blew out a breath, pulled her phone out of a pocket of her cargo pants, opened an app.
Hire plumber
went on first.
She added more as she wandered back out, through a dining room with a wonderful fireplace of carved black wood. A chimney sweep. Did people still become chimney sweeps? Somebody must inspect and clean chimneys, and since there were five fireplaces in the old house,
chimney sweep
definitely went on the list.
Why had she bought a house with five fireplaces? And ten bedrooms? And six and a half baths?
She wouldn’t think about that now. Now she’d work on what to do about it.
The floors were solid. They needed refinishing, but the real estate agent had really sold the wide-planked ponderosa pine. She could do some research, see if she could refinish them herself. Otherwise,
flooring guy
.
And then there was
tile guy
—would that be the same person?
What she needed, Naomi thought as she started up the creaky stairs, was a contractor. And bids. And a plan.
What she needed, she corrected, as she stood on the landing where the hallway shot left and right, was her head examined. How the hell could she manage a house this size, and one in this shape?
Why in God’s name had she tied herself to this remote dot of land in Washington State? She liked to travel—new places, new views, new ideas. Just her and her equipment. Free to go anywhere. And now she had this anchor of a dilapidated house weighing her down.
No, it hadn’t been impulse. It had been lunacy.
She walked past dingy walls and, okay, gorgeous old doors, by far too many rooms for one solitary woman, and felt
New York Times
ran a three-part article on consecutive Sundays.
She wasn’t at all surprised to receive an angry email from Anson Chaffins.
First you sic that cop on me, now this! You’re a lying bitch, and I’ll tell everybody who you are, where you are, what you are. I gave you the idea. You stole my article.
She wrote back only once.
My life, my story, and I never agreed to your
deal
. Tell anyone you want.
But he didn’t tell anyone. On her own she sent Detective Rossini flowers as a thank-you. She changed her email address, her phone number, and buckled down to focus on her schoolwork, her photography, and her family.
She told herself she’d put the past in the past now, where it needed to stay. And she’d really begun her life as Naomi Carson.
DEPTH OF FIELD
Ends and beginnings—there are no such things.
There are only middles.
ROBERTFROST
Six
Sunrise Cove, Washington State, 2016
I t hadn’t been impulse. Naomi assured herself of that as she roamed the rambling old house on the bluff. A little rash, maybe. A gamble, absolutely. She’d taken plenty of gambles, so what was one more?
But holy shit, she’d bought a house. A house older than she was—about four times older. A house on the opposite side of the country from her family. A house, she admitted, that needed work. And furniture.
And a serious cleaning.
An investment, she told herself, wincing at the grimy kitchen with its dated appliances—surely older than she was—and cracked linoleum floor.
So she’d clean it up, fix it up, paint it up. Then she could put it back on the market, or rent it out. She didn’t have to live there. That was a choice—something else she’d made plenty of before.
It would be a project. Something to keep her busy when she wasn’t working. A home base, she considered, and tried the faucet of the chipped porcelain sink.
It coughed, banged, and then spewed out fits of water.
A home base with bad plumbing.
So, she’d make a list. Maybe it would’ve been smarter to have made a list before buying the house, but she’d make one.
Plumber
went straight to number one.
Gingerly, she opened the cabinet under the sink. It smelled a little dank, looked dingy, and the ancient bottle of Drano didn’t inspire confidence.
Definitely find a plumber.
And a whole bunch of cleaning supplies.
She blew out a breath, pulled her phone out of a pocket of her cargo pants, opened an app.
Hire plumber
went on first.
She added more as she wandered back out, through a dining room with a wonderful fireplace of carved black wood. A chimney sweep. Did people still become chimney sweeps? Somebody must inspect and clean chimneys, and since there were five fireplaces in the old house,
chimney sweep
definitely went on the list.
Why had she bought a house with five fireplaces? And ten bedrooms? And six and a half baths?
She wouldn’t think about that now. Now she’d work on what to do about it.
The floors were solid. They needed refinishing, but the real estate agent had really sold the wide-planked ponderosa pine. She could do some research, see if she could refinish them herself. Otherwise,
flooring guy
.
And then there was
tile guy
—would that be the same person?
What she needed, Naomi thought as she started up the creaky stairs, was a contractor. And bids. And a plan.
What she needed, she corrected, as she stood on the landing where the hallway shot left and right, was her head examined. How the hell could she manage a house this size, and one in this shape?
Why in God’s name had she tied herself to this remote dot of land in Washington State? She liked to travel—new places, new views, new ideas. Just her and her equipment. Free to go anywhere. And now she had this anchor of a dilapidated house weighing her down.
No, it hadn’t been impulse. It had been lunacy.
She walked past dingy walls and, okay, gorgeous old doors, by far too many rooms for one solitary woman, and felt
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