Chapter_10

The knob of the old porcelain sink in the outbuilding wouldn’t turn. A bare pipe jutted from the wall, dripping into the basin every few seconds. Beside it, a plug-in electric cooktop rested on a piece of plywood and two sawhorses. Rosie had tied a flannel shirt around her face in case of toxins. Jordan dragged doors, windows, raw lumber, and rusty tools outside. He wore a respirator, his forehead a red strip, sweat beading at his hairline. Rosie opened the Notes app on her phone.

“I’m trying to think of a way to describe this place,” she said, looking around.

Jordan used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his forehead. He started investigating an upholstered armchair, then pulled off his respirator. “?‘Located in the scenic Hudson Valley, our guest home—’?”

“Guest home?” Rosie said. “That’s a little misleading.”

“OK, what about, ‘Our rustic shed ...’?” Jordan said, carrying the armchair’s cushion outside like it might explode. “?‘Our shabby chic cottage...’?” he called from outside.

“?‘Hygge’? Does that word apply here?” Rosie said, following him out.

“?‘Our cozy outbuilding on a historic property ...’?” Jordan said. “?‘Available for anyone looking for...’?”

“Indoor air pollution?” Rosie said.

“?‘A one-of-a-kind getaway!’?”

Rosie thought it over. Technically accurate. She typed it into her Notes app.

“?‘Complete with several original details...’?” Jordan continued, his hands on his hips. He gazed at the gigantic pile of garbage. “?‘We can supply bedsheets and a couple pillows.’?”

“Can we?”

“No, you’re right. How about: ‘We encourage you to BYO sleeping bags and mattresses for extra comfort.’?”

Rosie left out the word “extra.” She walked back inside and tried to put herself in the position of a stranger encountering the space for the first time, but all she could see was disrepair and an impending asthma attack. She tried taking photos but found no good angle. She attached a photo of the view and left it at that.

Imagine waking up to this, she wrote. You’ll have to see it to believe it.

Jordan stood in the threshold and looked around, panting slightly. “I think we should paint the front door,” he said. “Give it a little curb appeal.”

Rosie laughed.

“What?” Jordan said, but he was laughing, too. “OK, what do we have so far?”

Rosie read the listing back to him.

“That’s good. We should also add the amenities.”

“Amenities?”

“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Free Wi-Fi—they can use ours—and a state-of-the-art smart-home system. I found another family friend in the trunk of the Tesla.” He jogged to the car and returned with a small speaker. Two long wires dangled from it, like antennae. “This,” he said, holding it up to the light, “was actually the prototype for the most recent model. You can install it flush with the drywall. All you need is a screwdriver. Just watch.” He fit the respirator over his face again. “We’re going to rent the shit out of this place.”

“Hm,” Rosie said. She adjusted the listing to include the family friend. “Something in here is giving me a headache. I’m going back to the house to look for an Advil.”

“Just watch!” Jordan called after her.

In the morning, they hiked. This was Rosie’s idea, to distract them from the humiliation of posting such a derelict listing and the likely scenario that they would never find renters. They’d received several responses to the listing, all of them spam. One person had asked them for their credit scores. Rosie wore a stiff pair of hiking boots that rubbed against her ankles. The boots had been advertised in an Instagram ad that had guaranteed against chafing, and now she wondered if she could get a refund. She had a constant urge to check her phone, but there was no service. She conjured Claudine’s voice: What is the most distant sound you can hear, and the closest? Jordan sipped noisily from the hose of his backpack reservoir. “I really miss sushi right now,” he said. He hiccupped. “That spicy tuna roll with the crispy rice...” A trio of vultures hovered over them.

“But this is nice too, right?” Rosie said.

“Of course.” Jordan pulled her close to him. They’d reached an elevated point in the trail, and Rosie’s phone buzzed against her thigh. “Whoa,” she said. She had three unread emails.

“We have takers?”

“Yes! Oh, hang on.” She held her phone up to the sky. “I think these are more scammers. This one wants to know our routing and account numbers for an ACH deposit.”

Jordan picked up a rock and hurled it off the ledge. A large, shaggy dog with a branch in its mouth trotted past them, its owner several paces behind. “I think we just have to be patient,” Rosie said. Her phone buzzed again. She scrambled to the top of a large rock to open it and groaned. “This person started their email Hi, dear. That has to be spam, right? Jordan, what are we going to do if this doesn’t work?”

“We’re going to be fine.”

She stared at him, waiting for him to expand, anxiety ballooning in her chest. “Isn’t that what you said when we were bidding?”

“I got the rug pulled out from under me, Rosie,” Jordan said. “Don’t worry. I’ve always covered us. This thing with Noguchi is going to take some time. A lot of red tape to get through. But once we do, I promise we’ll be fine.”

“OK,” Rosie said. “OK. I’m sorry.” She took his hand, and he looked up at her.

“This was your idea,” he said.

“I just wish...”

“What?”

Rosie’s face was hot. “I was ready to back out of the bidding war. But you said we’d be OK.”

It began to drizzle. Rosie wiped at her face. Jordan hugged her close to him as they walked. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry I got so focused on winning the bidding war. I just—I really wanted to win it for you. For us!” They passed a group of rock climbers holding their chalky palms out to the rain. “I’m trying to make this work. I know this isn’t how it was supposed to go. But we can sit here and freak out, or we can get that place rented, make some money, and be OK with the fact that it’s going to take us a minute to get back on our feet.” He slipped on a rock and caught himself. They’d reached a clearing. A few hikers sat with a picnic on a rocky ledge, their rain gear glistening. Rosie’s stomach grumbled. They’d packed bananas and nuts, but all she could think of now was a spicy tuna roll. Another email came in. “This one looks possibly real,” she said, scrolling. She read it aloud.

To whom it may concern.

My name is Alan and I am a 47 year old male.

I am passionate about animal husbandry and I am looking for a suitable place to raise my Bengal cats.

“Animal husbandry,” Jordan said.

“Why is it called that again?”

“Is that cats with an S?”

“Is it weird that he called himself a male?” Rosie said.

Jordan looked out at the view, his hands on his hips.

She kept reading.

The cats and I are clean and considerate. We do not have many belongings. We are a growing family—with another litter on the way—and we hope to find a suitable place to lay our heads to rest before our devoted matriarch is due. Please let us know when we can come see the cottage.

Ciao, Alan

The rain picked up. The sun moved behind a large purple cloud. “Can we get out of here?” Jordan said miserably.

Rosie tried to warm up in the car but couldn’t. She was desperate for a hot shower. She hadn’t before appreciated that their shower in Brooklyn had incredible water pressure. Their shower in Scout Hill was temperamental and weak. Sometimes a jet of freezing water blasted through unannounced, and sometimes it was scalding.

Jordan drove, and Rosie opened Instagram. Between sponsored ads for flat-packed cribs and glass mobiles was a photo of Alice and Damien eating steak frites at one of Rosie’s favorite restaurants. Another email came in.

“Wait a minute,” she said, moving a hand to Jordan’s leg. “I think this one might be legit. A guy named Dylan and his partner, Lark.”

Jordan stared ahead. “Do they want our mothers’ maiden names?”

“Dylan’s a woodworker!” Rosie said. “That’s cool.”

“Hm,” Jordan said. “What does his wife... girlfriend... do?”

“Doesn’t say,” Rosie said. “I’m telling them to come by at six. That way we’ll have a few hours to neaten up the place.” She started typing. “Should we tell them in advance it’s cursed or let them find out on their own?”

Jordan barked a laugh.

“If Dylan is a woodworker, maybe he won’t be scared off by the ruggedness.”

“Ruggedness,” Jordan said. “I guess that’s one word for it.”

“Let’s just see,” Rosie said. “You never know.”

They approached the general store. “Oh,” Rosie said. “Could we stop? I’ll roast a chicken tonight.”

“We could get a chicken for, like, ten bucks at a supermarket.”

“I’ll pay for it,” Rosie said. “Just wait in the car.”

She found her way to the refrigerated section and picked out a chicken. She stared at the price—$29.99—but put it in her basket, along with lemons, garlic, potatoes, and a loaf of sourdough bread.

The clerk was the same woman she’d seen there before, and this time she wore all white, from the handkerchief around her neck to her sneakers. The order total jumped to over $100, and Rosie felt lightheaded. She tried to convince herself the supplies would last them the week. “I’m celebrating,” she said to the clerk. “I just moved here.”

“You can tap your card,” the clerk said.

The checkout screen prompted Rosie to leave a tip, which she felt she must do, having set a precedent, and which added $15 to her order total. “Are you hiring?” she asked.

“No,” the clerk said.

“Did you have to take out a loan for all that?” Jordan said when she got back into the car.

Rosie sat with the bag on her lap. “What?” she said guiltily. “It’ll last all week.”

When they turned into their driveway, she saw that a blue pickup truck had pulled off to the side near the outbuilding. The bed of the truck was full of wood, buckets, and power tools. A dog with a merle coat nosed around the yard while a man pulled things from Rosie and Jordan’s garbage pile. He squatted to inspect one of the old windows they’d thrown out. Then he took a hammer from a holster strap at his hip and punched out one of the broken glass panes. Covering his hand with his coat, he broke away the remaining jagged pieces.

“What in the hell is this guy doing?” Jordan said.

Rosie squinted. “Maybe more tourists?”

The man stood and loaded the window frame into the bed of his truck. Rosie stared at his bright khaki work pants with gold rivets, his shiny copper hair that grazed his shoulders. He turned and the recognition jolted her—she felt electrified. It was her.