Three Story House: A Novel by Courtney Miller Santo Page A

place that looked like people had to work hard. She pushed herself faster even though she was supposed to be cooling off. If she had any chance of getting back on the team, she had to become so good that they couldn’t ignore her.
    Sunday mornings were quiet at Spite House. Lizzie allowed herself to stay in bed after sunrise and on those days, lying in the bed that had been her grandmother’s, she let herself imagine the life she’d have after soccer. She imagined a satisfied life—one lived in a sunlit house with a husband who looked younger than he was and studious children who ran cross-country and played instruments. It was a lot to ask of the world, but the thought got her through the monotony of her present life. When she heard her cousins stir, she collected the newspaper and brewed coffee. After nearly a month and a half of living together, Lizzie knew to set aside the comics for Elyse and the real estate section for Isobel.
    When they were awake enough to talk, they discussed the past. Elyse became a natural storyteller, recounting the demise of her ill-themed bed and breakfast, The Boston Cream, or her disastrous engagement at nineteen to a German pastry chef. “You wouldn’t believe the sex jokes,” she said and Lizzie didn’t know if she were talking about the chef or the inn. There was little doubt that Elyse embellished her failures, but at least (and Lizzie envied her for this) she enjoyed them. Isobel tried to tell stories in which she failed, but in the end, there was always triumph. She bought a house in which chickens were kept indoors that turned out to have marble flooring under the soiled carpet. There was the time she and her father had to pay to have asbestos siding removed and discovered that the ugly cement tiles had been hiding striking stained glass windows. Lizzie talked about the incremental successes and failures that marked her time in rehab.
    A knock on the front door interrupted their reminiscing. After a long pause, the bell rang twice. The cousins looked at each other and, although they’d done nothing wrong, they felt as if they’d been found out. At times, living in Spite House offered the same insulation from the outside world as a fortress. Lizzie offered to get rid of the salesman or Jehovah’s Witness or whoever the uninvited party might be. With her rehab, she counted every step she took as one that got her closer to being whole. She opened the door, letting light into the confined space of the entryway. T. J., whom they had not seen since he threatened to evict them from their own house, stood with his hand raised as if to knock again. After speaking with him so often on the phone, the intimacy of seeing him in person was almost too much for Lizzie. “I took you for the sort of man who spends his Sundays in church,” she said.
    “My sister is the one who’s big on church,” he said, giving her a look that made her wish she were wearing something other than sweatpants. “But I have been known to sing in the choir.”
    “I thought so.” Seeing him made her wish she’d done more to follow up on their case. “Are we in trouble?”
    He held out a manila envelope. “Is that coffee I smell?”
    “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit.” Lizzie stepped aside and invited him into the house. As they walked toward the kitchen, she opened the envelope and slid out the paperwork from the code enforcement office. They had stopped the auction process and issued a temporary occupancy permit for the house, which gave them the legal right to stay.
    T. J. reintroduced himself to Isobel and Elyse and then helped himself to a cup of coffee. He stood slightly behind Lizzie and watched her look over the papers. “It’s not bad,” he said. “It looks worse than it is and you’ll have until June.”
    Isobel reached over and took the paperwork from Lizzie. “We’ll need far longer than June.”
    “There’s a renewal option,” T. J. said, blowing on his coffee and then taking a