At My Daughter's Baby Shower, My Husband Gave My Place to My Best Friend novel · Chapter 2 of 24
Chapter 2: Coming Soon
Mark calls Helen confused and says she left the shower chat herself; the next morning a Coming Soon sign with Diane's face stands at the barn mailbox, and the listing names Mark as seller.
I got home before Mark did.
I carried the cradle into the barn and set it on my work bench under the lamp.
The sign went on the shelf next to my sanding blocks.
Then I sat on the stool and waited, because I wanted to see what he would say.
His headlights came up the gravel drive at ten past seven.
He came into the barn still wearing his good suit.
"That was a scene, Helen."
He said it quietly, the way he talked to customers who were about to leave.
"You took a sign off a chair in front of thirty women. Sophie cried in the bathroom."
"You put Diane in my chair," I said.
"Diane was filling in because you were late."
"The invitation said two. I was there seven minutes after. You moved the photos to one-thirty and took me out of the chat."
Mark set his keys on my bench.
"What chat?"
I held out my phone with the screenshot on it.
He looked at it for a good while.
"Helen. You left that group yourself. It was three weeks ago, right after you complained about the noise."
"I never complained about the noise."
"You did. You told Diane the pings were driving you crazy."
"I did not."
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"This is what I keep telling people. You get certain of things, and then they aren't true."
I had been married to him for thirty-one years.
I knew his voice when he was sorry, and I knew it when he was handling me.
This was the handling voice, and it was gentler than I had ever heard it.
"Show me where I said it," I said.
"I'm not doing this tonight."
"Show me the message where I left."
"Helen, go in the house and sleep. Tomorrow you call Sophie and apologize."
"Why was Diane at every appointment?"
His face didn't change.
"Because you were in here with your chairs."
"I asked Sophie if I could come. She told me the room would be too crowded."
"Maybe she was being kind."
He picked up his keys again.
"I'm going to bed. Come in when you've calmed down."
He walked out, and I heard the screen door slap.
I did not go into the house.
I pulled the old cot out from behind the paint shelf and lay down on it with my coat over me.
The barn smelled of walnut oil and cold iron, and it was mine.
My mother had left it to me alone, with the farmhouse, in a will I kept in the file cabinet by the door.
Mark had always said it didn't matter whose name was on it.
I lay there until three, going back over every time he had said "she's tired" or "you know how she gets" to someone with me in the room.
There were a lot of times.
At six I got up and made coffee on the hot plate and walked down the drive to get the paper.
At the end of the driveway, next to our mailbox, there was a new sign on a metal stake.
It was white and red.
COMING SOON.
Under it was a large photograph of Diane, smiling with her head to the side, and her phone number in blue.
I stood there holding the coffee.
The stake had been pushed in deep, and the earth around it was still dark and wet.
Someone had come while I was lying on the cot, a hundred feet from the mailbox.
I took out my phone and typed in the address.
The listing came up on the first try.
Restored 1890s barn workshop on six private acres, with farmhouse. Seller very motivated. Owner has health needs and is relocating to be near family.
There were nine photographs.
They were of my barn, my bench and the window over my sink.
The agent was Diane Fessler.
Under the price, in smaller type, was one more line.
Showings begin Monday. Seller: Mark Wendt.
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