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Which I guess I’m doing an okay job of, because when I think back to my interactions with the pissy protection officer, people pleasing was the last thing on my mind, and I think I created more conflict than what was warranted.
(I should probably stop thinking about him; he’s making my blood boil all over again.)
“Want some tea?” my mother asks, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. She always makes me a cup regardless of what I say.
“Sure,” I tell her, taking a seat at the kitchen island. “Where’s Liza?”
“Napping in the sun.”
Liza is my adopted pit bull, a short, gray, fat little hippo with the cutest face and laziest personality in the world. Her favorite place is the corner of the deck where one bare patch of trees lets the light in.
My mother named her after her obsession with Liza Minnelli, and she makes a really good companion/emotional support animal for her. Liza was rescued when she was a year old after being abused, and yet she’s come full circle and really helped all of us heal just as she was healing.
“Back to the neighbor,” she says to me, fixing her eyes on me. Despite the messy hair and the fact that she’s in her pajamas, she seems to be doing okay today. “When did he move in? I haven’t seen any moving trucks.”
“When was the last time you left the house?”
She shrugs. “Yesterday I took Liza to the ferry terminal and back. Didn’t see anything unusual.”
“Well, technically he’s looking to rent the place. Nothing has been finalized.”
“Does he have a wife?”
“No,” I tell her, even though now I’m thinking back to whether Harrison had a ring on. I mean, he could have a wife, but for this version of the story, he won’t.
“You sure?” She squints at me. “I know that’s your favorite type.”
I give her a stiff smile. Even though she’s just being blunt and isn’t trying to be mean, it always feels like a punch to the gut when she brings up my past mistakes, and I’ve made some pretty major ones.
“He’s not married,” I repeat.
“But you were grabbing on to him like he and you were together. So that’s something.” She tilts her head, studying me. “I don’t mean to be a nag, Piper, but you were so proud of those revelations you had during therapy with Dr. Edgar.”
“I’m still proud of them. And I’m not interested in this guy.”
“Harrison Cole,” she says.
“Yes. I was just being nice.”
Come to think of it, there really had been no reason for me to hang on to him like I had. I don’t know what I was thinking or what I was doing.
“So he doesn’t have a wife—does he have kids?”
“Uh, no.”
She turns her back to me as she mulls that over, checking on the teapot. “No wife, no kids. How is he going to afford that place? Doesn’t it belong to the Hearsts? What does he do for a job?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, and that turns out to be the wrong answer, because I see her shoulders stiffen and she slowly turns around to look at me with wide eyes.
“You don’t know what he does? Piper . . . he could be a drug dealer. A mobster. A criminal. How else would he afford that place?”
Uh-oh.
“He’s probably a lawyer,” I point out. “A successful one. Maybe a film producer. Perhaps he’s related to royalty . . .”
She shakes her head, and I know she’s not going to let go of whatever paranoid theory her brain conspires. “You can’t trust lawyers either.”
“How about next time I see him, I’ll ask him?” I say, hoping to soothe her. “Who knows, he may not even move in.”
That thought gives her pause. “I hope not. I don’t like strangers.”
“I know you don’t. It’ll be fine, I promise.”
And there I go, trying to be the mediator, trying to promise things that I have no control over. It’s hard to rise out of your old roles in life when you’re still so tied to your parents.
After she makes me some tea, I head out to the dock and sit there, taking in the peace and quiet and the soft summer air and the waning sunshine. A seal pops his head up in the water, his big dark eyes taking me in before he ducks under. A bald eagle soars overhead, heading for the group of nests by the marina farther down the narrow isthmus of Long Harbour.
This is the best part of living here, being one with nature, having time to de-stress and breathe in the fresh salty air and the breezes that rattle through the arbutus leaves and the smell of sunbaked moss.
If the royals end up moving next door, there’s a chance that all of this could change. I’m not a huge fan of change; I like my routine, as do a lot of people on the island. Bert wasn’t too far off when he said this might not be the best place for any kind of celebrity, especially a royal couple who have created headlines for two years straight and are now the hot topic of all media.
