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I roll my eyes. “Except it is, Mother, because the contractors just quit.”
“Now, why on earth would they do that?”
“Because they think this fucking place is cursed because you won’t stop running your mouth about it!”
“Joseph, I am not responsible for two hundred years’ worth of bad luck.”
“Except, you kind of are, because you won’t shut up about it! When you talk about the curse, you give it power. Don’t you see that? You’re eighty-three! Get it together and own up to your actions like an adult instead of a child who keeps blaming their ‘bad luck’ on the fucking boogeyman!” I shout.
My mother studies the shards of glass on the floor. “I wasn’t aware you thought so poorly of me. I think I’ll have lunch in my room alone.” She leaves in a rush, and I’m left feeling like an asshole. I didn’t mean to snap at her, but it pisses me off to watch an otherwise level-headed person put so much stock in make-believe.
When I return to my office, the meeting is finished. Only Seth remains. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay,” he explains.
“Thank you. It’s fine. I just need to find another contractor.”
“Oh no! What happened?”
“A chandelier fell, and they took it as proof that ‘the curse’ is real.”
“On its own?”
“No, I unscrewed it last night … what the fuck are you even saying? Yes! It fell on its own because this house is trying to kill me or at least give me an aneurysm!” I’m yelling again.
“Shit, that’s tough. You can’t find someone from the mainland?”
“No one wants to make a two-hour ferry ride part of their morning commute.”
“Well, shit. I have another meeting in ten, but good luck.”
“Thank you. I need it.”
Mother is still pouting at dinner, but Eleanor is too excited about her new job to notice my mother’s dour demeanor. She prattles breathlessly about the library and her co-workers, frumpy historians whom I’ve run into in the produce section of the grocery store for decades, who are hardly worth such ebullient praise.
“And the local history room is so gorgeous!”
“We donated that oil painting of the island,” my mother adds. “We might have a few more paintings in the attic. You can look tonight if you’d like.”
“I’d love that.”
“No, she can’t look because half of the attic doesn’t have a fucking floor right now!” I snap.
Eleanor stabs a forkful of her salad and shoots an uneasy glance in my direction.
“I’ll take a peek,” she acquiesces.
“We’ve been having some more difficulty with the contractors, and it’s throwing Joseph into a tizzy.”
“Mother, I’m right here.”
“You know how men are,” she says conspiratorially.
Eleanor grins at her as I glower at a limp piece of lettuce, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to survive their combined delusions.
Chapter 3
Eleanor
Theatticisprecarious.I have to go slow. First, I unleash the rickety ladder by pulling the silver chord hanging from the ceiling.
