Chapter Four
Jack
Jack left Manhattan earlier than planned so he could stop off at the property he now owned but had done nothing with, and with every mile he travelled away from the city toward the simplicity of Connecticut the tension fell away from him. Who knew, perhaps getting started with renovation plans could help him to see clearly, give him some direction in his life, a clue as to what to do next.
The house sat at the end of a long road on the outskirts of New Haven. It had enough land to afford privacy, yet the facade of the vintage home still sat prominently enough to belong to the rest of the neighbourhood. By the time he pulled up in the driveway, in front of the garage with crooked, rotten doors and a huge gap looming between them, the rain had started. He ran from the car up to the porch and beneath the shelter, threw off the hood of his charcoal-grey Harvard hoodie and pulled the bunch of keys from his pocket, cursing that he hadn’t figured out which one fit the front door and put a sticker on it the last time he was here. Metal keys jingled together as he worked his way through them—there were keys for internal doors, one for the rear door of the garage, another for the dilapidated shed at the foot of the garden. At last he found the right key and let himself in.
It was cold inside, but out of the wind a strange sense of calm fell over Jack. It felt warming to know this place was his. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling—the beneficiary of the deceased estate had just wanted to get rid of it so hadn’t bothered to clean it up at all before presenting it for sale. He walked up the stairs from the hallway, thankful they were sturdy. He’d noticed the smashed window as he’d pulled up outside and it was noticeably colder up here. He wasn’t worried about the temperature, but he didn’t want wildlife making its way in, if it dared to come out in the Connecticut winter, so he looked around for something to board up the window. He found cardboard in one of the bedrooms and put it up against the window, somehow wedging it between the wall and the frame. He’d have to come back on his way home from Hollyhock Farm with some duct tape and fix it properly.
Jack took out his phone and snapped away, taking pictures of all the rooms. His passion had been quietly simmering when he’d talked about this place with Nigel, and this morning on the drive up it had begun to boil gently, but now it was bubbling away nicely. He wanted to make plans, get started on a path that would lead him away to something else entirely. Walking around the rooms, he took pictures of as much as he could: cracked walls, the old fireplace, the hideous bathroom with the brown stains where water had run down the once-white sides of the enamel bath. He photographed views from the windows over the back yard that stretched out before him, bordered by trees of all shapes and sizes. Already he could feel the buzz of spring, a garden he could work on until it was filled with a riot of colour.
Jack checked his watch. He needed to get going out to Hollyhock Farm as he’d originally planned. He stood at the front door for a moment, looking back into the hallway. It was light enough even in winter, and already he could see what it would be like come summer with reclaimed wooden floorboards, a curled oak bannister leading upstairs.
With a spring in his step, he locked the door behind him. The rain had lessened but he still pulled his hood up, and he was about to go down the steps of the porch when he stopped. Something was moving beneath a grey blanket at the very end and if it had been there when he’d arrived, he hadn’t noticed. He looked around and picked up a fence panel discarded at the opposite end. He armed himself with it and walked over to the blanket.
Was it a cat? Maybe a racoon? As he advanced he decided it couldn’t be either. It was too big. He prodded the blanket with the fence panel, and prodded a little harder when whatever was beneath it didn’t budge.
He jumped when the blanket curled back to reveal a kid who couldn’t have been much older than sixteen. The kid cowered, covering his filthy face with hands encased in gloves that were either fingerless or had fallen apart.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Jack demanded.
The boy held up his hands, staggered to his feet, not daring to get closer to Jack. ‘I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘This is my property!’ Jack lowered the fence panel. This boy was half his age at least, and he wasn’t going to use violence, at least not yet.
‘I’m sorry, mister.’ The boy gathered up his blanket, along with a black garbage bag.
‘What have you got there?’ Jack snatched it from him, wondering what he’d pilfered from the property.
‘It’s nothing, just my stuff. I didn’t steal anything.’
Jack peered inside and saw nothing except a half-empty bottle of water, a sweater and a box of cereal. He gave the garbage bag back, convinced. ‘Well, you are trespassing. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’
The boy braved moving forwards past Jack, sensing a truce. ‘You don’t need to do that. I’m leaving now. I won’t come back.’
Jack glared at him until he was out of sight, swallowed up by the neighbourhood. He leaned against the porch railing until he realised the rotting wood probably wouldn’t hold his weight much longer. But at least he knew one thing for certain now. He didn’t want some squatter staying here, so the sooner he started renovations, the better. He’d have this place alarmed, well-lit and regularly maintained so he wouldn’t get any more trouble.
*
‘You’re looking more relaxed since you arrived.’ Julia handed him a mug of steaming hot coffee.
Jack sat opposite Julia, his best friend Nate’s fiancée, in the kitchen of their house at Hollyhock Farm in Hazelbrook, a simple town out past New Haven, Connecticut, and before you reached Hartford. Hollyhock Farm had been Jack’s sanctuary for years. At first he’d only come out here to visit Nate, but he’d soon become accustomed to the wide, open spaces as he cruised away from Manhattan in his Lexus sedan, away from the skyscrapers, the brownstones, the concentration of so many people in one space. Out here was an America he rarely got to see, an America many New Yorkers may not even be aware of when they were buried deep in their everyday lives in the metropolis.
‘You know me, Julia. I’m always relaxed when I come here.’
‘Even after finding an intruder at the house?’
‘He wasn’t an intruder as such. He was outside.’
‘But it’s your property, he was trespassing.’
Jack nodded. He agreed, of course, but since he’d driven away from New Haven all he’d been able to think about was the moment his father had thrown a homeless woman off their property three years ago. He’d shuddered at the realisation that he may be more like his father than he cared to admit.
‘Nate won’t be much longer,’ Julia told him. ‘He’s in the far field, bundling trees ready for shipping today.’
Many people confused the ownership and running of a Christmas tree farm with a business that only demanded attention around that special time of the year, but Jack knew what a full time job his friends had on their hands. It was year-round activity, fertilising the soil, monitoring plants for animal pests or diseases, replanting and planning for the years ahead. Nate and Julia had inherited the family business, a far cry from the jewellery business that was handed to Jack on a silver platter, and life in Manhattan couldn’t be more different than here at the farm. The city was fast and exciting, and for a time Jack had wanted nothing more; but since Nate had settled down with Julia and Jack had been coming out to visit them, he felt a weight lift every time he made the two-hour drive from New York City. Hazelbrook was a picture-perfect small town. A white, curved sign welcomed you and stood beside an iron clock on top of a post. The clock had the town’s name on it, and beyond the clock, lining either side of the small street, were shops and amenities including a post office, a bakery, a bank, a small convenience store and a pub. It was a town with a big country feel, and once you’d passed through, the road continued on until ten minutes later Hollyhock Farm came into view.
‘People don’t wait long after Thanksgiving to get on with the next celebration, do they?’ Jack laughed. ‘How’s business anyway?’ He blew across the top of his coffee before he took a sip.
