Next Door

Here is Next Door, my latest fiction. Every month I will share a new chapter. I’m serializing it mostly to keep myself on track and on task, but partly because it seems like a good idea at the time. Afterall, it worked for Charles Dickens.

I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One

Canary Landing

Paul let go a long low whistle.

“It’s perfect!”

And he had only seen the garage.

From its white ceiling to its concrete floor: In all 600-feet of space just brimming with potential. On one wall he imagined a work bench beneath 10 hanging cabinets. On the other, he envisioned even more cabinets, two rows of shelves, and a chest of little, tiny drawers just right for nuts, bolts and God only knows what else Paul had accumulated in his 40-year construction career. He even imagined his boat fully stocked with fishing poles of all sizes, a bait bucket, a pair of life jackets and a couple of gas containers ensconced there. In all, the 3-car garage contained enough space to accommodate the boat, a second refrigerator, another countertop and more shelves. Everything but our cars.

Paul grinned. “It’s perfect.”

Fortunately, the rest of the house was too. Inside were a master suite, a guest room, spots for a pair of offices and a niche for my art gallery. The kitchen was a bit small, but convenient, a dining room for entertaining, and a breakfast nook when it was just us. Sliding glass doors opened to screen-covered lanai and an in-ground pool. Just beyond the house was a large pond ringed with cattails where wild birds bathed and otters swam backwards.

The whole property suited us just fine.

And then we tried to buy it.

We had looked a long time for this house. Sifted through what seemed like a million Zillow postings, chatted with a thousand real estate agents. Every single other house was either too large or too small, on too small a lot or two far from a spot where Paul could go fishing.

In truth, I didn’t care much where we moved as long as I could get out from under the complications of living in Monticello, Kentucky.

Oh, the house there was beautiful, hanging off a cliff 200-feet above Lake Cumberland. Paul had designed and built the house, but no matter how impressive it was, the people in that neck of the woods didn’t care much for anyone who had not been born and raised there. And anybody with a foreign sounding name was not at all welcome.

So, we went on the hunt for a new home and settled on a location in Parrish, Florida near Tampa because we had family – my cousin, and Paul’s brother and uncle – lived nearby.

When we found what we would soon consider the perfect house, it had been vacant for three years and, according to our real estate agent, in all that time activity on the property was sparse. Fortunately for us, the house had just become eligible for a short sale, and at the peak of the housing crisis, the property’s $180,000 price tag seemed to be just right. But when we made a full price offer to purchase the property, the property’s owner balked demanding $192,000 instead. We argued that the property wasn’t exactly burning up the stagnant marketplace, but we made a $182,000 counter offer anyway. Still the owner dug in. The price was $192,000. After weeks of negotiation, he finally conceded that $10,000 might be rebated back to us if we paid cash for the deal.

“It’s as though the bank doesn’t want to part with it,” I told Paul. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”

In fact, the glitch had nothing to do with the bank at all. It was eager to sign off and be free of the property. The problem was with the previous owner who had created a tangle of red tape ostensibly to discourage anyone who might show even the slightest interest in the house.

So, we dug in, too. We plundered our bank accounts, sold our stocks and cashed in our interests in three home insulation companies. Eventually we cobbled together $192,000 in cash, and 24 hours later, Paul’s dream garage and the house attached to it were ours.

“Well, we’re moving to Florida,” I told Paul. Should we open a bottle of champagne or start packing?”

Without hesitation he replied, “I’ll get the boxes.”

Three weeks later we were emptying the last of those boxes from our rented trailer when a bright orange golf cart rolled up our driveway. From the driver’s seat, a sun-tanned man with a shock of white hair stuck out his hand for me to shake.

“Welcome to Canary Landing. I’m Jimmy DeTolve.

“Frannie Riccetti. That guy juggling that big, brown box is my husband, Paul.”

Paul shifted the box into his left hand. “Glad to know you,” he said, shaking Jimmy’s outstretched hand.

Within the next 85 seconds, Jimmy explained that he was a semi-retired pilot-for-hire who grew up in Montana and loved to fish, duck-hunt and shoot skeet. His wife Evvie was a hairdresser with a local business and a weakness for thrift shops and yard sales.

“Where you from?”

“Chicago,” I told him. “We just got tired of the cold and driving in the snow. This seemed like the perfect place to settle.”

“I retired from having employees and moved my real estate investment business down here,” Paul explained. “Frannie writes freelance for those supermarket gossip magazines mostly.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Jimmy said, nodding. “It’s about time we got some newcomers in this neighborhood. Most of the people who live here are pretty strange. You look pretty normal to me.”

Paul and I exchanged glances.

“I’ll have Evvie ride by on her bicycle later to say hello.”

Jimmy waved, “See ya!”