I roll my eyes at my crazy, meandering thoughts. But crazy and meandering make sense under the circumstances. After all, a book of poetry with no explanation falls squarely into the realm of what the fuck?
"Which house, Miss?"
"Almost to the end of the next block," I say. "Next to the blue two-story."
I love my street. The houses are all charming, and they range from smallish--like mine, with only eleven hundred square feet--to huge and fantastic. Most are older and fixed up to pristine condition. But there are a few that need a facelift, and every time I pass one, I want to grab a bucket of paint or a toolbox.
That's why I'd taken out the equity loan that is the current monkey on my back--I'd needed the cash to fund massive renovations on my house after a series of pipes had burst, decimating the kitchen and bathroom. I hadn't done the plumbing work myself, of course, but I'd spent countless hours refinishing cabinets, searching out new fixtures, and refurbishing the floors. Not to mention sanding and painting and a whole bunch of other details.
I'd started the project in order to save the house I'd grown up in. But as I'd gotten deeper into the work, my motives had changed. I wanted to save the house, sure. But I also wanted to transform it.
I love my mother and my brother--and I miss them so damn much. But living here--coming home from work every day to the memories that filled each and every room--it was too much. I spent two years balancing on a precipice, and the smallest thing could send me tumbling over into tears and depression. I was lost and alone and scared. And the only thing I had was the house and my memories, and I let myself be entombed with them.
But as the house changed, so did my feelings. It still held memories, sure, but coming home stopped feeling like torture. I started looking forward to walking through the door. And the house started feeling like a home instead of a tomb.
The renovations had given me peace, and that could have been enough. But in the process, I'd discovered a love for that kind of work--and a talent, too. And as soon as I dig my way out of the financial hole I've sunk into, I'm going into the business of buying ramshackle houses, fixing them up, and selling them. Not original, I know. Half the television shows these days seem to be about folks flipping houses. But that's okay. It's what I want. And I fully intend to make it happen.
Right now, though, I just need to focus on my own little house on my own little street in my own little corner of the world.
As soon as the driver brings the car to a stop, I pay him, then step out of the taxi and head to the wooden gate that stands sentry in the middle of the stucco fence that fronts my property and keeps pedestrians and tourists off my lawn. A necessity since this close to the beach the street is often noisy and crowded.
But it's also close to local hangouts like Blacklist, not to mention a decent market, an ATM, and most of my friends. I rarely use my persnickety car, instead choosing to walk or bike most everywhere.
Now, of course, the street is dark and quiet, illuminated only by the dim glow of the few street lamps that line the block like soldiers.
I have a keypad lock on both the gate and my front door, and I enter the six digits of Andy's birthday to unlock the gate, then step into the sanctuary of my little front yard. The walk is paved in flagstones that I laid and mortared myself, and the lawn is green and lush, thanks to the wonderful California weather.
My tall lemon tree provides both shade and a bumper crop of lemons that Mrs. Donahue next door turns into lemonade, chocolate-dipped candied lemon peels, and a limoncello that's perfect for sipping on the back porch on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
Unfortunately, lately I've been working so many hours that I haven't had a lazy Saturday afternoon. But drinking, reading, and relaxing are tops of my To Do list the second I get this damn loan paid off.
My motion sensor porch light comes on as I approach the front door, and I quickly key in Mom's birthday, then step inside. Now that I'm here, exhaustion is catching up to me, and I can't stop fantasizing about falling facedown onto my bed and passing out for three glorious hours.
I'd prefer eight glorious hours, but I have the eight to eleven shift at Maudie's in the morning, and if I want tips, I should probably shower, too.
As I move from the tiny entrance hall to the tiny combination living and dining area, I hear a squeaky meow.
"Hey, you," I say, sitting on the couch next to Skittles, who's curled up on the side he's claimed as his own. He raises his head, his eyes narrowed as he yawns. I shrug. "Sorry, big guy. I had to work. And don't give me that look. I know Joy came by to feed you."
Joy, however, wouldn't have stayed. And that means Skittles didn't have his usual evening ritual of eating while I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a book. I read until he finishes, then he gets on the bed while I take off my makeup. Then I join him, read for a while, and finally drift off to sleep.
It's ridiculously domestic, but it's our routine, and so even though it's past three, I stand with a nod to the kitchen. "Come on, then," I say. "Late night s
nack."
At the word snack, he leaps off the couch and does figure eights through my legs all the way to the pantry. I grab a can, make him a plate, then put it on the placemat I keep on the floor for him.
And since I can hardly break tradition, while he attacks the salmon in savory sauce, I sit at the table with a glass of red wine and the book that Lyle gave me.
It's a narrow volume, its plain dust jacket a bit stained, as if someone put a drink on it more than once. The pages are brown, the paper cheap, and the title page says simply, Collected Poems.
But when I turn to the next page, I see that the book is a collection of poems by William Ernest Henley, and I feel a little chill creep up my spine. Because Henley wrote the poem Invictus, and it was the memory of that verse that I'd learned in high school that later helped me survive those first days after Mom and Andy died. That reminded me I could survive. That I had, like Henley said, an unconquerable soul.
Did Lyle know that?
How could he have known that?
With my pulse pounding, I start to flip the pages, because I know that poem has to be in here. It's by far his most famous work. That's when I realize that the backside of the dust jacket is being used as a bookmark. I open the book to the page and gasp.