“We’ll take a vote. It’s legal that way.”
“No it’s not. You need my signature—”
“Not if we outnumber you.”
“That’s
enough
!” Bitty said. Loud. The children were sitting on the couch with their feet together and their eyes down as if they were trying to make their small bodies even smaller. Vic, too, was unnaturally still.
Aubrey felt some of the heat go out of her. “You’re right. Let’s not fight. That’s the last thing Mariah would have wanted.”
The room was quiet. Aubrey went to the window.
Although the property around the Stitchery had changed over the decades, the building itself hadn’t been updated in years. Since the late 1700s, the Van Rippers had been in the Stitchery. The scuffs and dents in the baseboards, the slight crookedness of the back door, the long arcing scrapes along the hallway floors—all marks of the people who came before.
True, Aubrey was tempted from time to time to throw it all away. To pawn the treasures in the tower and start oversomewhere, anywhere, else. How could she not be tempted? The work was draining, the hours long and lonely, the rewards dubious. But if
she
did not continue the traditions of her family, there would be no traditions at all. And what would Tarrytown do without the Stitchery? Long before she’d been born, her job had begun.
She looked at Vic, whose face was grave with worry. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the front gate.”
Outside, they traipsed across the Stitchery’s yard, over its blue slate walk that was slowly being swallowed by moss and crabgrass. The unseasonably warm sun glazed Vic’s hair in gold. The day had brightened slightly, smelling of charcoal and burning leaves. In the distance the river was cobalt blue.
“I’m sorry you saw all of that,” Aubrey told him. “My sisters and I … it’s complicated.”
“Family’s complicated. Don’t apologize.”
“Are you walking home?” she asked. He lived a few blocks away in a small two-family that he owned and also rented to his sister. She knew this, but she’d never been to his house.
“Yes. Could you use a walk?”
He held out his arm and she took it. He made it so easy.
They went down the old, blocky street, the sounds of seagulls and car tires, the smells of fresh air and fabric softener. To other people in Tarrytown, those old families who lived high on the ridge and high on the income spectrum, Tappan Square was one strong gust of wind away from being rubble. But Aubrey knew that just because a block was a bit rough around the edges, that didn’t mean it was
bad
.
All the people of Tappan Square were pariahs in one way or another: They were artists and students and vagabonds who lived to push the envelope. They were people who had emotional or mental disabilities—or some harmless quirk that made them “not quite the same.” They were immigrantswho came from many countries, some scrimping by and living under the radar, others with empire-sized dreams. They were all on the fringes, caught in an eddy that churned far from the mainstream.
Horseman Woods Commons—Steve Halpern and his buddies said—would be a “great improvement” over Tappan Square. Whereas Tappan Square was a patchwork of mismatched houses from hand-me-down decades, Horseman Woods Commons would be an über-sleek, brick-and-glass complex that offered the occasional neoclassical column or fanlight window as a nod to the past. The lower levels of The Commons would offer upscale salons, boutiques, a café, and even a few novelties for the tourists, including the Headless Horseman Museum of Oddities and Legends. The three upper stories of the plaza would be luxury housing for the fifty-five-and-up crowd. Retired people—everyone said—would be a great addition to Tarrytown. They were as low-maintenance in condos as hamsters in cages. They brought in a lot of disposable income and little aggravation (the current Tappan Square residents offered the exact
“No it’s not. You need my signature—”
“Not if we outnumber you.”
“That’s
enough
!” Bitty said. Loud. The children were sitting on the couch with their feet together and their eyes down as if they were trying to make their small bodies even smaller. Vic, too, was unnaturally still.
Aubrey felt some of the heat go out of her. “You’re right. Let’s not fight. That’s the last thing Mariah would have wanted.”
The room was quiet. Aubrey went to the window.
Although the property around the Stitchery had changed over the decades, the building itself hadn’t been updated in years. Since the late 1700s, the Van Rippers had been in the Stitchery. The scuffs and dents in the baseboards, the slight crookedness of the back door, the long arcing scrapes along the hallway floors—all marks of the people who came before.
True, Aubrey was tempted from time to time to throw it all away. To pawn the treasures in the tower and start oversomewhere, anywhere, else. How could she not be tempted? The work was draining, the hours long and lonely, the rewards dubious. But if
she
did not continue the traditions of her family, there would be no traditions at all. And what would Tarrytown do without the Stitchery? Long before she’d been born, her job had begun.
She looked at Vic, whose face was grave with worry. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the front gate.”
Outside, they traipsed across the Stitchery’s yard, over its blue slate walk that was slowly being swallowed by moss and crabgrass. The unseasonably warm sun glazed Vic’s hair in gold. The day had brightened slightly, smelling of charcoal and burning leaves. In the distance the river was cobalt blue.
“I’m sorry you saw all of that,” Aubrey told him. “My sisters and I … it’s complicated.”
“Family’s complicated. Don’t apologize.”
“Are you walking home?” she asked. He lived a few blocks away in a small two-family that he owned and also rented to his sister. She knew this, but she’d never been to his house.
“Yes. Could you use a walk?”
He held out his arm and she took it. He made it so easy.
They went down the old, blocky street, the sounds of seagulls and car tires, the smells of fresh air and fabric softener. To other people in Tarrytown, those old families who lived high on the ridge and high on the income spectrum, Tappan Square was one strong gust of wind away from being rubble. But Aubrey knew that just because a block was a bit rough around the edges, that didn’t mean it was
bad
.
All the people of Tappan Square were pariahs in one way or another: They were artists and students and vagabonds who lived to push the envelope. They were people who had emotional or mental disabilities—or some harmless quirk that made them “not quite the same.” They were immigrantswho came from many countries, some scrimping by and living under the radar, others with empire-sized dreams. They were all on the fringes, caught in an eddy that churned far from the mainstream.
Horseman Woods Commons—Steve Halpern and his buddies said—would be a “great improvement” over Tappan Square. Whereas Tappan Square was a patchwork of mismatched houses from hand-me-down decades, Horseman Woods Commons would be an über-sleek, brick-and-glass complex that offered the occasional neoclassical column or fanlight window as a nod to the past. The lower levels of The Commons would offer upscale salons, boutiques, a café, and even a few novelties for the tourists, including the Headless Horseman Museum of Oddities and Legends. The three upper stories of the plaza would be luxury housing for the fifty-five-and-up crowd. Retired people—everyone said—would be a great addition to Tarrytown. They were as low-maintenance in condos as hamsters in cages. They brought in a lot of disposable income and little aggravation (the current Tappan Square residents offered the exact
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