Chapter_9

With the staging furniture gone, nothing looked right. Their dining table was tiny, their coffee table enormous. In their Park Slope apartment, the TV had been vulgar, but it was even worse here, and the locations of the outlets meant that it sat at an awkward diagonal, its cords long and tangled like exposed entrails. Jordan had installed family friend speakers in the living room and kitchen, and every minute or so, their blue lights pulsed.

On their first night, exhausted from the move and without a bedframe, they set up their mattress in the living room in front of the fire, which Jordan managed to light by resorting to firestarters their broker had left for them, along with a note that read: Call me when you’re ready to sell. —Callie. He’d brought his ax—The Hugh—inside and leaned it against the wall near the front door, beside a box of electronics and the tiny guitar they’d ordered on their wedding night.

From the mattress, they watched the reality TV show. In the episode, the fiancés met one another’s parents. All the parents seemed to be deeply religious and owned the biggest furniture Rosie had ever seen. But she was struck by their apparently limitless commitment to their children’s happiness, and she felt a throb of envy. Her own mother disapproved of any decision Rosie made that did not mirror her own choices, even though her own choices led her to be miserable. Jordan guffawed as one of the men got down on one knee to ask the mother of his fiancée for her blessing. “Should I have done that with your mom?” he asked. He put an arm around Rosie, and she snuggled into him. He turned off the TV and kissed the side of her head. “What is it?”

“No, nothing,” Rosie said. “Just... I can’t believe we’re actually...” She put her hand on his chest. “We’re going to be OK, right?” She didn’t want to say the word “money.”

“Of course,” Jordan said. Rosie listened for doubt in his voice but couldn’t find any. The fire crackled and smoked. Drowsily they brushed her teeth at the kitchen sink. For the first time since the Alps, she went to sleep without knowing what time it was.

The next day they drove to the local general store, which was simply called the General Store, its sign perfectly weathered. It was, according to Google Maps, the only place in town to buy anything. “Wow,” Jordan said, craning his neck to find a parking space. “This is clearly the hottest club in Scout Hill.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Go ahead in. I’ll see if I can bribe someone for a spot.”

The general store was full of photogenic produce. Straw baskets brimmed with apples, tomatoes, tiny eggplants, basil, and corn. Ornate displays of jam and honey, coolers of trout and turkey, rows of dried herbs, scented oils, and tinctures—all of it taunted Rosie, its tidy abundance making her desperate to spend money.

It was hard to tell customers and employees apart; everyone in the store had an aura of incontrovertible belonging, as if they’d pulled the produce from the ground themselves. At the register, a group of people chatted with the clerk. Rosie stood with her back to them. She pretended to read the label on a jar of local honey as she listened to their conversation: one of them had found a family of rabbits in their car. She turned to look at them, and that was when she saw the man.

He was the tallest one in the group, and Rosie had a clear view of his wide, muscular back. He had a sweep of light, reddish hair, which he raked with a hand. He wore stiff, bright khaki work pants with gold rivets, cuffed at the ankles. His jacket was faded denim with a corduroy collar. A toddler straddled his hip, gripping him tightly with one hand, a mangled blackberry in the other. The man pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the child’s face with it. Rosie felt her pulse accelerate.

He passed the child over the counter to the clerk, who kissed the child’s face. The child reached both hands in the direction of another member of the group, a woman with a buzz cut and tattoos peeking out from her hoodie, and the clerk handed the child back over the counter, before helping another member of the group, a short woman with curly, dark hair, arrange a display of amber jars. Rosie began to catalog her questions: Did they all work there? Whom did the child belong to? Were these the most attractive people she had ever seen? Was she jealous or intrigued?

The woman with the buzz cut placed the toddler on a produce scale, wrote down a number on a round sticker, and stuck it to his overalls, which made him scream happily. The man wrapped his arms around the short woman with dark curly hair, who turned to face him. A dimple appeared as he kissed her. It wasn’t until he pulled away that Rosie realized that he was, in fact, a woman. Her mouth fell open slightly. She corrected herself. Maybe she did identify as a man. Or neither. She stared at the jar of honey in her hand.

“I’m looking for bourbon!” Jordan boomed as he entered the store. “Do you carry anything local?” He approached the register, and the clerk pulled a bottle with a wax seal off the shelf.

“Thanks,” he said. “Rosie? Where are you?”

Rosie emerged from the aisle and joined him, placing the honey on the counter. She wasn’t sure if she should look at everyone, or no one, so she fixed her gaze on the clerk, a tall woman with two long braids. She had a narrow, elegant face and wore a brown linen dress and rubber clogs. The group of friends quieted as the clerk scanned the honey.

“So it’s basically just Union Square in here, right?” Jordan said to Rosie. He squeezed her shoulder. “Same brands and everything.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Rosie said. She felt the gaze of the group of friends.

Jordan balked at the total. Rosie reached for her wallet, and he brushed her away. “Budget starts tomorrow,” he said cheerfully to the clerk. “Guess it’s not less expensive to go to the source.”

The clerk gave him an unamused smile. When the confirmation screen appeared, Rosie quickly tapped the option to leave a 20 percent tip and hurried out of the store, Jordan’s hand on her back. Through the window, she felt the group of friends watch her climb into the Tesla.

“That was an interesting scene,” she said, buckling her seat belt.

“What was?”

“The group in there. The clerk and those other people. I couldn’t tell who the toddler’s parents were.”

“I don’t think I saw who you’re talking about,” Jordan said.

“Yes, you did. They were standing right there at the register when we checked out.”

“Huh. Really? I don’t know.” He pulled out of the parking lot. “I guess I wasn’t really paying attention.”

The sun collapsed behind the tallest mountain peak as they approached the house. The sky was pink. Each cloud held its own color, as if lit from within. “What the...” Jordan said. He was staring at a boxy SUV that sat at the top of the driveway. Two middle-aged women looked around the property, the sunset fanning out behind them. One woman put her arm around the waist of the other. They took a selfie. “Do you know them?” he said, putting the car in Park.

“Me? No,” Rosie said.

Jordan opened his door. “Hi there,” he said, stepping out and approaching the women. “Can we help you?”

One of the women shaded her eyes to look at him. “Howdy,” she said. She wore a yellow beanie and a red bandana around her neck. Her demeanor was more relaxed than Rosie thought appropriate for a trespasser. She looked between Rosie and Jordan. “Do you two live here?”

“Yes?” Rosie said. She glanced up at the house.

“Fantastic,” the woman said, beaming. “To get to see this view every day. This is my partner, Pam. Do you do tours?” She looked at Rosie, and then Jordan. The other woman had begun setting up a tripod in the grass.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Jordan said, “but are you lost?”

“Isn’t this the Bakker Estate?”

“Are you a broker?” Rosie asked. “The house is off the market.”

“A broker? No!” She slapped her thigh. “We’re up here for the weekend. Dyke Hike recommended it.”

Jordan stiffened. “Who?”

“Dyke Hike. The Instagram account.” She glanced between them. “Do you want us to leave? We just thought we’d squeeze this in on our way back to the city.” She looked over at the other woman, who had begun taking photos of the mountains.

Rosie glanced at Jordan. “No,” she said. “I think that’s fine. Right, babe?”

“Sure,” Jordan said. “Um—want me to take the photo?”

“Fantastic!” the women said in unison, and as Rosie headed toward the house, Jordan began coaching them on where to stand.

From inside, Rosie watched as the women kissed and held each other, their backs to the sunset, Jordan crouching to take their photo.

“It is a great view,” Rosie said when he was back inside.

“Dyke Hike,” Jordan stage-whispered. He opened his phone and cleared his throat. “?‘Don’t sleep on this secret Hudson Valley destination,’?” he read. “?‘Walk the grounds of the former home of painter and lesbian icon Lise Bakker. She lived here in a Boston marriage with her lifelong partner and muse, Katharine Alden, a professor of English literature.’?” He frowned. “A Boston marriage? What is that?”

Rosie shrugged.

Jordan raised his voice slightly. “Hey, family friend? What’s a Boston marriage?”

Hey, guys, the family friend replied. A Boston marriage was when two financially independent women chose to live together instead of marrying men.

“Huh,” Jordan said. He continued reading. “?‘The Bakker Estate was the shining jewel of Scout Hill in the early 1900s. In recent years, the property has fallen into disrepair, but the iconic view remains. This is a Dyke Hike pick for autumn!’?” He glanced at Rosie. “?‘View: Check. LGBTQIA+ friendly: Check. Parking: Free-slash-private.’?”

“Free parking is a stretch,” Rosie said. “I guess we need to correct the record.”

“What does the A stand for?”

“Asexual,” Rosie said.

“No, actually, I think it’s Ally,” Jordan said. “That’s cool. We own a cultural landmark. I’m honored! Maybe we should start charging.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little...”

“Enterprising?” Jordan said.

“Opportunistic,” Rosie said.

“Maybe, but we’re almost out of firewood. And my severance runs out soon. The local chèvre isn’t going to afford itself.”

Hey, guys, the family friend said. Do you needCherry Split Firewood Seasoned Kiln-Dried Clean-Burn for Outdoor Indoor Firepit Woodstove Long-Last Burn Includes Optional Warranty—

“How much?” Jordan asked.

Forone thousand poundsofCherry Split Firewood Seasoned Kiln-Dried Clean-Burn for Outdoor Indoor Firepit Woodstove Long-Last Burnyou’re looking at three hundred dollars plus an optional ten-dollar warranty and one-hundred-fifty-dollar stacking fee.

“Yeesh,” Jordan said. “At least it’ll last the winter.” He turned to Rosie. “You good to order it?”

Rosie hesitated. “Maybe we can wait until we have some income?”

“But we kind of need it now, right? Don’t you have savings?”

“I do,” Rosie said, “but it’s supposed to be for emergencies. Don’t you think we could find it cheaper somewhere around here?”

“But this comes with a warranty.”

“What does a warranty on firewood even cover?”

“I don’t know, but it’s only ten dollars, so why not? And what is this, if not an emergency? Our house is only going to get colder by the day. How much do you have?”

“Like, six grand,” Rosie said.

“And this is four hundred and sixty dollars, so... what’s the problem? We just spent, like, eight hundred dollars on heirloom tomatoes.”

Rosie closed and then reopened her banking app. She wondered if they were both thinking about their parents. She couldn’t remember the last time she had asked her mother for money—or anything else, for that matter.

Jordan sighed. “Do you want me to pay for it?”

“I’m just...” Rosie said. “I think I’m just stressed about making money up here.”

“I’ve been thinking about the income issue, too.” Jordan rubbed his earlobe. “What if...”

“What?”

“I was thinking we should find renters. It could help tide us over while this project with Noguchi takes off.”

Rosie winced.

“I know,” he said. “But just hear me out. We’ll polish the shed thing and put it on Airbnb or something. My buddy from college did that with a little yurt on a farm he bought in the Poconos, and people pay hundreds of dollars a night to stay there.”

Rosie thought of the outbuilding: the smell of mold, the peeling walls. Someone would have to pay her hundreds of dollars a night to stay there. “I think this is a little different than that.”

“Trust me,” Jordan said. “It’s workable.”

“This feels like the premise of a serial killer movie. We rent that absolutely cursed building out to a stranger... and...”

“And they pay us the rent we need to tide us over,” Jordan said. “Very spooky.”

Rosie looked at him.

“You think about it. I’ll order the firewood.” He raised his voice. “Hey, family friend, we’ll take the firewood.”

You got it, man, the family friend said.

They hadn’t yet eaten dinner, but Rosie wanted dessert. She wished she’d more carefully considered the rows of fair-trade organic chocolate bars at the general store. As if reading her mind, Jordan disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a package of Oreos.

“You packed these?”

“Priorities,” he said, handing her one.

She dipped it in milk. Outside, a chorus of frogs and insects swelled, and beyond the glare of the television, the large moon was now visible, divided into four pieces behind the window.