Chapter One

Would the small town of Endonford in the middle of Nowhere, New York, be small enough to hide us? Sitting in the front seat of a used Chevy truck, studying the placid scenery that resembled landscape paintings in paint-by-number kits, I hoped we’d done enough.

I glanced at my wife. M.E. (short for Mary Ellen), who had been driving the past six hours. I yearned to take over. My butt hurt from sitting, and I was way past bored. I was reminded of the time I had to suffer through a psychology course at Stanford University. Every humdrum two-hour class made me want to tear my hair out by the time the professor announced, “Class dismissed.”

Whoever decided students needed a psychology course for a degree in interior decorating needed to be drawn and quartered. At least, that was what I used to think. Then my first client turned out to be a narcissist. I found myself reaching deep into my brain cells to recall my notes on that chapter. It served me well. The client loved the finished product, which of course, was all about him.

I’d hung portraits of him in different styles ranging from Surrealism to Abstract (I decided abstract art clearly defined this man’s psyche), on almost every wall. The furniture I suggested could only be approved by him sitting on it or lying on it followed by, “This feels good on my ass,” or, “Anyone laying down here beside me on this sofa (or bed) could not refuse me.”

I gagged at that one. What I put up with to satisfy my clients…

“M.E.,” I said, noticing the different shades of greens in the passing landscape of hills, grass, and trees as if an artist had carefully chosen the colors for this landscape. They weren’t as vivid as the Irish countryside, but the multiple landscapes appeared to have their own hue, as if Mother Nature herself assigned each color to the sprawling vistas. Wooded areas had trees boasting darker green leaves, almost Christmas green, that fluttered in the breezes traveling in and around the branches. The subdued greens of the corn fields were a stark contrast to the golden greens, blanketing areas where there were no forests, lawns or plantings. On these sections of land, brilliant wildflowers pushed through the yellowish weeds and grasses.

It had been calming relaxing at first, but now I felt that if I saw one more stalk of corn, I was going to scream.

“M.E.,” I said again, this time in my “If you don’t answer me, you will regret it” tone.

M.E. shook her head. I knew the look she was trying to knock off her face. It was the same one she had when she was fired from her professorship position at Stanford University. It was where we met—both in college pursuing different careers. I smiled, remembering I almost turned down her advances when I discovered she was pursuing a degree in none other than, psychology. At the time I thought, Who does that? What would you even do with it?

It wasn’t until our third date when she told me what could be done with a degree in psychology, that I began to look past the uninteresting course of study. I was not impressed with the first part of her list, that included jobs in business, education, research, and criminal justice. But when she got to the medical field, I became interested. With that little tidbit, I went home with her for what ended up being the best mind-blowing sex I had ever had. I was hooked despite the fact she told me afterward that she wanted to teach.

It wouldn’t bring in the money I’d hoped, but she wanted to teach at the college level, her dream job being at Stanford. The university paid well enough, and if you combined the salary with the very intelligent and attractive woman, and the best intercourse I’d ever had…well, I decided I could work with that. And I did. For ten years.

Until she blew it.

“I’m sorry, what is it, Addy?”

“My turn to drive. I can’t sit here any longer.”

“We’re almost there. Just a little more time in the platitude seat.” She shot me a sideways smile at the word I had come up with halfway through our trip to describe sitting in the passenger seat for longer than a few hours.

I sighed heavily as I let my head fall back against the seat. “Fine, fine, fine. But you owe me. Big time.” I adjusted my body, hoping to direct the ache in my bottom to either leave or find another body part to annoy for the remainder of the trip.

M.E. reached out and took my hand, caressing my fingers with her thumb to placate me. “More than I can ever repay you, but I promise I will spend the rest of my life trying to do just that.”

I managed a weak smile.

“So, where were you?” I asked, my tone edging on apprehension most likely sounding as if I didn’t really care where she had been.

“I’m right here. Driving.”

“Ha, ha, ha. You were deep in thought.”

“Did you ever think that driving might be just as boring as sitting in the platitude seat?”

“If that’s the case, what does it matter which seat you’re sitting in? Let me drive. Please?”

“Look!” M.E. pointed at the windshield. She was bouncing in her seat with the enthusiasm of a little girl who had to go potty and was just told they were turning into a gas station with a bathroom.

We passed a worn sign I couldn’t read because it blurred as we drove by at a higher rate of speed than the following speed limit sign imposed.

“Slow down, babe. We don’t need a ticket on our first day in our new town. We’re also in the backcountry. The cops look for people like us.”

M.E. glanced at the speedometer and then hit the brakes so fast, my seatbelt snapped in response to the vehicle thinking we had been in an accident.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“I will be so happy to get out of this truck,” I moaned, rubbing my shoulder and chest.

“Are you okay?” my wife asked, as she glanced back and forth between me and the road.

“I’m fine. Just keep your eyes on the road.”

It wasn’t the fact we were in a car that made me miserable, but it was more the type of truck we were in. Our jobs in California gave us the luxuries and stability I had hoped for when I married her. After she lost her job, we had to sell both our Infiniti SUVs and our trendy San Francisco townhome in the upscale Pacific Heights neighborhood. We used the money to buy a home in Endonford, New York, purchase a ten-year-old Chevy Silverado to drive across the country, and pay for the subsequent move. The rest was put into stocks and bonds in hopes it would pay off and one day get us back to San Francisco, where I really wanted to be. I wasn’t so sure about my wife.

If it wasn’t for the Endonford Stone House built in 1822, one year after the teeny, little town of Endonford was established, I wouldn’t have chosen New York as a place to settle. Taxes were way too high, and I wanted nothing to do with the rest of the state. Except for the big city. The only saving grace in my eyes was that New York City could rival San Francisco. We would be approximately a six-hour drive from there or a short plane ride from the minuscule airport outside of Ithaca. It was doable on a long weekend. It would have to do.

For now. Thank God my father was able to help M.E. land the job in Ithaca.

Too many changes had assaulted us in the last few months and sitting in a ten-year-old truck only solidified the real truth: I was now a country dweller (a much-preferred title over country bumpkin or hick). We had lost so much, and I had to accept the path our lives had taken. Because of that, I had to make this work.

“So, what did the sign say? I didn’t see it.”

“Endonford. Ten miles.”

“Oh, thank God. Well then, you might as well drive the rest of the way.”

She flashed her million-dollar, perfect, white teeth and full-lipped smile at me. A few strands of her soft, dark-brown bangs swept across her forehead, accentuating brilliant blue eyes outlined by thick velvety lashes. At thirty-three, her striking features were still enough to draw in any woman of any age. I not only knew this first hand, but I had seen it happen over and over again, and it was often a thorn in our marriage. But the feature that sealed a woman’s fate in my wife’s presence was her childlike dimples that softened the sharp lines of her jaw and cheekbones. Any woman subjected to those dimples became a drooling mess.

God, I did love her despite her indiscretion that almost ruined us. I loved her broad shoulders and concrete ribbed abs. I would lay next to her and count the “six-pack,” and then boast to my friends that they were more like an eight-pack. I loved her slender hips and strong muscles that shouted to be seen when she wore tight shirts and pants that hugged her physique. And then there were the parts of her body that made sex with her more pleasurable than…well, there really was no describing it.

But it wasn’t just the physical being that kept me chained to a relationship I probably should have left after her recklessness. She was often a kind, caring, thoughtful, and extremely romantic woman, and I knew with every fiber of my being that she loved me with all her heart. Then again, I was becoming mistrustful of my being’s fibers. After all, if she really loved me that much, why did she feel the need to have sex with one of her students?

That thought stared me in the face more times than I cared to admit, forcing me to examine myself in the mirror. Who was I kidding? My biggest flaw was that I overlooked her biggest flaw that should have sent me packing—she was a flirt, and she was hormonally cocky about it because she was totally aware of how women responded to her flirting. She pretended to be oblivious to her shenanigans. She wanted to believe she could be friends with all women including the ones she made what she thought to be innocent sexual advances toward. It didn’t help that the women in turn always wanted more. Again. Who was she kidding? Me? Herself? The women she flirted with? More than likely it was all of us.

M.E. was a woman who enjoyed feeling good. Flirting did that for her, but she never did it to pursue more than a fun, sexually suggestive friendship. That’s all she expected and wanted from her female friends: that every one of them would be her friend despite her improprieties. That made her stupid in my eyes. I tried to tell her that, especially after her infidelity. Flirting with a woman who didn’t know her libidinous ways always led to trouble. She insisted the definition of friendship was a carefree connection with someone with the capacity to sexually tease yet remain absent of sexual emotion. No matter what I said and the following arguments that ensued, she just couldn’t get it through her head.

But when Raeann, a pretty third-year student in one of her classes, requested help with the unit on Human Behavior, M.E. learned that lesson the hard way. M.E. never told me the specifics of how it happened, but from what she said, Raeann wanted more than a passing flirtation. M.E. said no, making one naïve student a very angry woman who reported M.E. to Human Resources at the university. She got caught violating the Code of Conduct, and we both suffered the consequences of her continual actions she maintained were innocent.

I wanted to say “I told you so” so bad, it took everything I had to keep my mouth closed. Deep down, I knew that saying those words to her would only add salt to an already festering wound. I couldn’t do that to her. For whatever reasons, I still loved my wife.

So, here I was, still married to her, with the worst ache in my butt ever. And here we were, void of our cushy San Francisco life, driving cross-country in a big ole truck, hoping to start anew. It was a chance she convinced me to take.

Nine miles later, we came to a flashing yellow light at a crossroads. Fields covered three of the corners, but the plants pushing up from the dirt were unrecognizable to me because I had never been on a farm. I ordered meals online that came in boxes with the ingredients already cut and diced and measured. I never cared where the produce came from or what it looked like before it found its way onto my dinner table. Cooking was not one of my strong suits or lifelong desires. It wasn’t even on my bucket list. I just knew we had to eat. So, for me, a meal in a box was one of the best things that had come to the Internet.

On the fourth corner, a dirty building with two run-down fuel pumps sitting on a lot of cement-like dirt stood out like a sore thumb. Pocket ruts larger than a car’s tire threatened to swallow your vehicle if you weren’t careful when pulling into the parking lot. Despite the sign on the building that advertised there was not only gas available, but in fact, a store inside, the beat-up appearance of the business was not very welcoming.

However, it made me happy I wouldn’t have to travel too far to get creamer for our coffee, but I fretted about the brands. They most likely didn’t carry Nut Pods, Califia Farms or Starbucks creamers. God, I loved Starbucks creamers. I would most likely be stuck with cow’s milk.

I sighed as M.E. completed a right-hand turn. The first thing I noticed was Endonford Elementary School. It looked new, built out of red bricks with big windows and paved parking lots and drives. A simple playground stood off to the side, consisting of a few swings, two slides and a monkey gym all built from metal and plastic. Okay, the school bordered more on city than backwoods town.

More farmland followed by—you guessed it—more farmland. And…well, you get the picture. Finally, more signs of possible life came into view. A long building with identical doors and windows running the length of it sat close to the road. It appeared to be some type of housing. There were ten units, each looking as dismal as the one next to it. A filthy white façade faded into the dirt-and-stone parking lot sparsely filled with dated vehicles. I frowned.

A few hundred feet down the road, a public building sat atop a small hill. It housed the Grange, the fire department and the town hall. Next to it was a church built in 1822, the same year the Endonford Stone House was built. The church was in bad shape much like the home we would arrive at shortly. Must have been a bad year for building. Chipped and fading paint, moss-covered front steps that were crumbling announced it was in desperate need of repair.

I cringed, keeping my nose pressed against the window so my wife couldn’t see the distaste that I knew was surely written all over my face. The reflection of my downturned lips, squished nose, and dipped eyebrows in the window stared back at me as if to taunt me with the wrinkles the past year of stress had added to my thirty-four-year-old skin. I looked online for every miracle wrinkle cream, but deep down I knew no cream could erase what had happened or the path our lives were about to take.

Why did I have to love her as much as I did? Was she worth giving up my elite job as a top interior decorator to the important people of San Francisco? Or my luxurious life in a plush townhome I had so lovingly enhanced and garnished to make my own? Did she really learn her lesson? She promised—no, she swore to me that she had—over and over and over again. She made me believe that this new start would be good for us. We could carve out a place where I could start my own upscale decorating business, keeping all the profits for myself and not for someone else. This could make the move remunerative at the very least.

From the looks of this town, they needed some upscale decorating. I wasn’t blind to think I would get rich from it. But a woman could dream, couldn’t she?

So, I accepted that even though her new position at Ithaca College in the psychology department didn’t pay like her previous job, it did have possibilities. It could open doors to the more prestigious Cornell University, and from there, maybe back home. That was my hope, and I hoped it was hers.

A few more miles on my tired ass and I recognized the simple, large, rectangular, two-story stone building that came into view. I had looked at the pictures at least five times every day since I spotted the country residence on the real estate website. I smiled at the large red-and-white SOLD sticker plastered across the For Sale sign still on the front lawn, announcing a closure on the two-story home that was really in need of a makeover.

I felt a twinge of excitement fighting its way through the negative emotions that had become my normal. I had only seen pictures of the house until now. Yet seeing it in all its decayed and shabby state, the positive feeling it gave me wove its way through the trepidation that had taken hold of me since M.E.’s dismissal had upturned our very prestigious and comfortable life.

When we realized the only position she could secure was the one at Ithaca College, I began to search the surrounding area for a home or condo. One day, I stumbled onto the stone house while browsing real estate sites on the Internet. Possibilities immediately flashed through my mind. For the first time in my life, I could have something of my very own. I could turn it into a showplace for a new business. My business. A world-class interior decorating establishment excelling in vintage home styling décor (that would be antiques). What better place to forge this type of decorating enterprise than upstate New York where antiques were still a reputable business? And the stone house was most definitely an antique. The potential instilled a new hope in me.

I marked the webpage and continued to search Zillow and Realestate.com for possible homes, but nothing caught my attention. That was because my thoughts kept floating back to the stone house. There was something about it that intrigued me. It was plain and simple, yet regal and mysterious.

As I stared at the laptop screen, I began to imagine the changes I would make. I even printed pictures of the interior so that I could pen in these renovations that took form in my mind, like an elegant wallpaper in rich colors to enhance the dining room. I might even take out a few walls for a more open floorplan, but when I found out it was a historical home, I knew I might be constricted to their regulations in refurbishing a historical building.

When M.E. caught me mulling over the photos several times, most likely catching the intrigue on my face, she suggested we look into it. Upon hiring a realtor in San Francisco to sell our townhome, we set her to work with the realtor for the antique home on three-and-a-half acres in Endonford.

New York was complicated when it came to closing on property, but we made our way through it with the help of our realtor and an inexpensive lawyer. Soon, we became the proud owners of a historic stone house born in the 1800s. I still couldn’t believe it was ours despite the fact I carried the photos with me in my purse, taking them out every opportunity I got—just like a proud parent with a newborn. They were a reminder of what I had lost and now the possibilities of what I might find.

The home and its acreage sat on a corner lot with a rutted dirt driveway on one side. M.E. steered the truck into the driveway and shut it off before facing me. “Are you ready?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready,” I replied, my eyes focused on the grandiose structure standing like an age-old king.

She took my hand. “Babe, we’ve talked about this. It’s a new beginning for us. We can make it what we want. We can do anything, be anything. Let’s go into our new home and start this next chapter.”

I smiled at her and nodded. Then we got out of the car. She walked around to stand next to me, and as she put her arm around my shoulder, she said, “I can’t wait to see what you do with this place.”

Neither could I.

While we gazed at our new home, that would require an enormous amount of work that was beginning to feel overwhelming, we heard a car approaching. M.E. kissed me before we turned to see it slowing as it passed by our property. A middle-aged man and woman sat in the front seat, and there was no denying the disapproving looks on their faces: Disgust filled their expressions. We’d seen it before, just not in San Francisco. There would always be those who reprehended what they didn’t believe was right in their own minds.

I wasn’t quick enough to stop my wife from waving, smiling, shouting hello, and making a fool out of herself. I knew it would aggravate a burgeoning situation because my wife had a habit of acknowledging bigots with intentional satire.

The couple’s vehicle nearly stopped, making their wretched stares painfully evident, more so than they would have been if M.E. hadn’t goaded them. Then they turned into the driveway of the house across the street as the garage door opened.

When the ugly faces in the car windows were out of view, I stepped away from my wife and faced her. “Was that necessary?”

“Absolutely. No one has the right to treat us that way.”

“You need to remember one thing,” I said as I walked toward the front door.

“And what’s that?” she called from behind me.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore.”