Which House?

Cynthia Woolrich opened the cornflower blue blinds and peered through them, scanning the street. “There’s a moving truck across the street,” she announced.

Her husband, William (not Bill or Billy, or even Will – always William) folded the paper and slurped his coffee. “Which house?”

“Rob and Jeanette’s old place.”

William huffed. “Well, good luck to ‘em. Robbie never could get the plumbing straight over there.”

“Mmm hmm, and the alkaline levels gave Jeanette fits with her rose bushes.” Cynthia was very proud of her own rose bushes; they were the envy of the block.

William walked around the dining room table and curled his wife into his arm. “We’ll go over there and welcome them when they get settled.” He kissed her on the cheek, then the mouth. “Isn’t that what the welcome wagon does?”

“Ah ha, like you care!” Cynthia squirmed out of his grasp. “When was the last time you helped us out?” She was talking about the Winter Glade Neighborhood Committee, a loose group of homeowners in the Winter Glade Estates who made fruit baskets for the newcomers and sent around a monthly newsletter with reminders to keep the lawns tidy and put out the recycling every Tuesday night.

“Well, I always seem to draw the grocery duty whenever you girls do your fruitcakes…”

“Fruit baskets.”

“Whatever.” He smiled at her. “I’m taking off. See you tonight?”

Cynthia nodded. “I’m making spaghetti, so don’t eat heavy for lunch.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” William blew her a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Their morning ritual complete, Cynthia returned to the dining room window and watched two men get out of the moving truck while her husband backed his Ford Mustang out of the driveway for the thirty minute commute to San Cibola.



Dinner was on the table by the time William walked in the door. He knew it would be. His job was to go into the city and make lots of money, and Cynthia’s job was taking care of the house. This included, among other things, having dinner on the table when her husband came home. That was the deal, and they both understood it. There were no fights or arguments. It was a comfortable, old-fashioned arrangement, the kind that their parents had. Not surprisingly, there were more than a few couples in their mid- to late-twenties like William and Cynthia in Winter Glade Estates, which accounted for the Winter Glade Neighborhood Committee and various soccer league carpools, fund-raisers, jogging clubs, and church groups that ensured a modicum of traffic on the wide streets every single day. It was the women who ran the neighborhood, make no mistake about it. The men would muster out for lawn duty on Sundays in sweats and sneakers and make a show of pushing or driving their lawnmowers around. They would stop and congratulate each other on their landscaping abilities and talk about college football until their wives would appear with water or tea and gently remind the men that the lawn wasn’t going to cut itself. This brought rueful chuckles and perhaps a quick, grubby kiss, and then it was back to work for another half-hour. The sweet reward, after the lawn had been tamed, was a backrub or a big sandwich in front of the television while the football game was in progress. Then on Monday, the vacation was over and the old roles were taken up. This was William and Cynthia’s world, and they fit into it very well.

Tuesday night was Candlelight night. Cynthia had three foot-long red candles in the center of the table that gave the room a warm, ambient glow. One of the women’s magazines that she subscribed to advised that once a week, dinner should be special and romantic if the woman was to keep the man interested. This, too, never failed to work.

William ate his pasta with gusto. In between bites, he told Cynthia about a particular client who was making his firm jump through hoops.

“The guy’s a regional player, but he’s acting like he’s king of the cola world,” William explained.

“Oh, dear,” said Cynthia. She really didn’t understand all that much of William’s work-speak, even after all this time. Soon, it would be her turn to talk. In the meantime, William needed support.

“I mean, he told Marcy—and you know Marcy—to go fetch him a coffee and a doughnut! Head of sales? What an asshole!”

Cynthia clucked disapprovingly. The world of advertising was too cutthroat for her. However, the profanity was a signal that William’s rant was over, so she went forward with her news. “Well, I found out about our new neighbors today,” she said with barely concealed glee. “Or should I say, neighbor?”

“Cynth, what did you do?” William put his fork down and raised his eyebrows. “Not go over there and bother them while they were unloading, I hope?”

“Of course not. I just called Norma Stillwagon...”

William rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother. Why her?”

“Because she’s good friends with Charlotte Gardner, who reps this neighborhood, and who it just so happens sold her the house.”

“Her? Her who?”

Cynthia put her fork down now. “Our neighbor, you caveman!”

“Sorry,” said William, retreating behind his wineglass. “I got all the names mixed up.”

“Are you going to let me tell this? Anyway, Charlotte sold the house to a single woman, a widow, at that. Her husband died over a year ago and she’s moving here to take over her husband’s family business, or something like that, Norma didn’t get all the details. Something to do with a legal battle over a will.” Cynthia picked up her fork again. “Pretty interesting, if you ask me.”

“Huh,” said William. He drained his wine glass. “So, how’d the husband die?”

“Norma didn’t know. Mysterious, huh?”

“Sad, is more like it. She’s all alone out here, no husband, and she probably no friends, either.”

Cynthia made a face. “William, please. It’s not like we’re going to stone her to death in the streets. If she wants to start over, we’ll all welcome her into the neighborhood.” Cynthia said it with the firm emphasis of one accustomed to ruling her territory. Her eyes widened. “Lord, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Probably go crazy. I can’t imagine what she must be going through.”

William smiled. “A minute ago, you were hoping for a controversy.”

“William, please. Speculation is fun when it’s done in the privacy of one’s own home. Out there, it’s called gossip.”

William made a buttoning motion in front of his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose I’ll be going to get the stuff for your bag of fruit?”

“Well, we are the closest block house...” Cynthia shrugged helplessly.

“That’s what I get for picking such a popular street,” William muttered, but he wasn‘t really too upset about it.



Four days later, on Saturday, Cynthia and William Woolrich strolled over to their new neighbor’s house with William bearing a huge basket of fruit. They both wore their weekend active wear, which meant Cynthia looked ready for an informal game of tennis and William looked ready for an informal game of golf.

“Okay, now,” said Cynthia as she rang the doorbell. That was her code phrase for “let me do all the talking.”

William grunted.

The door opened to reveal an older woman in her mid-forties. She was wearing loose blue jeans and a man’s denim work shirt over a white t-shirt. The woman’s long, dark hair was held in check with a red bandana. Cynthia was a little taken aback, as she had been expecting someone younger.

The woman’s face split into friendly creases. “Yes? Hello? Oh my, fruit!”

“Hi,” said Cynthia, noticing the woman’s crow’s feet around her eyes. “We’re your new neighbors from across the street. I’m Cynthia Woolrich and this is my husband, William.”

William smiled and said nothing, holding the fruit basket aloft.

The woman looked stricken, clutching at her bandana and her work shirt self-consciously. “Oh my stars, and just look at me, too…” She stopped herself and opened the door wider. “I’m Leila Powell,” she said, warmly shaking their hands. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“Oh, we don’t want to put you out, you’re still getting settled…” It was the standard neighborhood attack-and-parry, the dance of the pot of coffee that all visitors and visitees must do in suburbia.

“Nonsense, it’s no trouble, I need to take a break anyway.” Leila held the door open as the Woolrichs stepped inside.



“So, which one are you?” asked Leila from the kitchen.

Cynthia and William were seated at the small dining room table, gawking at the stacks of boxes yet to be unpacked. “What’s that?” said Cynthia.

“Which house?”

“Oh! Sorry. 1908, across from you.”

Leila reappeared with three mismatched mugs full of piping hot, aromatic coffee. She gazed out the dining room window, diagonally across the street. “Oh, there you are. God, your place looks great. If you and I learn semaphore, we could have conversations from our dining room windows.”

Cynthia smiled and said nothing, as she was valiantly trying to add enough cream and sugar to make her coffee drinkable. It was definitely not Folgers.

“Still,” Leila continued as she turned from the window and sat down. “This place isn’t so bad. Except for the plumbing."

William threw a knowing look at Cynthia.

“Ever notice,” Leila said, “how when you’re looking at a house, there’s always one damn thing wrong with the place that you never think to check on, like how close the smoke alarm is to the bathroom, or that the garbage disposal only works if none of the kitchen lights are on?” She shook her head. “Well, this house’s one damn thing is the shower.”

Everyone politely laughed. Cynthia made a “do it” face at William. He nodded to his wife.

“Uh, listen, Leila, if you want to buy the parts and the new showerhead, I can come over and install them for you. I mean, since you’re…” he let the sentence trail off awkwardly.

Leila looked at them both, her eyes shining. “Honestly, everyone in this neighborhood has been so nice. I simply cannot get over it. It’s such a change from what I’m used to. In dealing with Harry’s family, I sort of figured that everyone out here was an asshole, pardon my French. But you people…” she looked ready to cry.

“Hey, it’s no trouble,” said William.

“Oh, no, dear, we understand,” said Cynthia. She nodded to the door. “Look, we’ll let you finish getting settled and check on you later, okay?”

Leila stood up with them. “You guys are so great. Thanks for making me feel welcome.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” chirped Cynthia.

“Once this place is clean, I’ll have you over for dinner to thank you properly,” said Leila as they all walked to the door.

“Just let us know.”

“Nice to have met you two.”

“Bye!”

As they walked back across the street, William said, “All crying aside, that wasn’t so bad.”

“Except for the coffee,” Cynthia mumbled.

“I liked it. Tasted like Starbuck’s.”

Cynthia shook her head at her clueless husband.



A week later, all of the houses in the neighborhood received a cellophane-wrapped ball of homemade potpourri and a handwritten note from Leila Powell, thanking each house for stopping by, bringing fruit, or whatever they did to welcome her. For the few houses that didn’t play ball, she simply wrote, “From your new neighbor,” and signed the card.

All of the women in the neighborhood were bowled over. It was the first time in a long time that they had been thanked for their welcome, and with homemade potpourri, at that! They lost no time in digging out their old potpourri crock-pots and firing them up, commenting on how relaxing the scent was.

Cynthia took a couple of cautious sniffs of her bundle. There was chamomile, and roses, and something else in there she couldn’t place.

“Smells good,” said William, giving an unconcerned, manly sniff.

“Yes, well, we’re a very vanilla household here,” said Cynthia by way of an answer.

William didn’t know if that meant their house smelled like vanilla, or their house was boring. Either way, the homemade potpourri wasn’t getting burned in their house. He watched his wife toss the whole mess into the garbage can.



It started with the cowboy.

Cynthia Woolrich found a black metal silhouette of a cowboy, boots and all, leaning against a wall, which was meant to be affixed to one’s porch. It was clever, being that they had a ranch house, and as soon as the girls in the neighborhood saw the thing attached to the outer right side wall of the Woolrich entranceway, they squealed with envy.

“Where did you get it?” They all wanted to know.

“Oh, I just find these things,” Cynthia said mysteriously (it came from a catalog).

In any case, the silhouette was hers. It made the house stand out. Cynthia came to think of the iron cowboy as a sheriff. It was her badge of leadership. No one dared get another one, not in this neighborhood. Get wacky with a bird feeder, or a weather vane, or an interesting birdbath. The cowboy-silhouette quotient was full up in Winter Glade Estates.

Until Leila Powell moved in.

About two weeks after the potpourri hit the neighborhood, the sheriff’s twin sprouted from the corner of Leila Powell’s home. Now they regarded one another evenly, rival gunfighters about to saunter out into the street at high noon.

Cynthia was livid. “How dare she?”

“Now, Cynth,” said William from the side of his mouth. The Australian crocodile wrestler was on television, and William was hoping that this would be the show where he cashed in his chips. “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.”

“Not intentional? William, it’s the same god-damned cowboy!” She was staring across the street through the dining room blinds and talking out of the side of her mouth.

“Maybe she just liked yours so much, she got one of her own.”

“Well, that’s not the way we do things around here.” Cynthia snapped the blinds shut and put on her shoes.

William turned away from the television; a commercial was blaring. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go talk to her.”

“Cynthia!”

“Politely, William. I’m going to be very polite. Honestly, do you think I’d pull her out into the street and kick her ass over this?”

“Yes,” said William, smiling. “Can you maybe sit on top of her? And pull her hair?”

“Oh, honestly, William…” Cynthia left her husband and marched across the street, a polite smile fixed to her face. As she neared Leila’s house, the front door opened and Leila came out wearing a red flannel shirt and blue jeans. Her hair was down today and flowed behind her like a cape. Car keys jingled in her hand.

“Hey, neighbor!” said Leila cheerfully as she angled towards her car.

“Leila, hi, do you have a second?” said Cynthia, still grinning.

Leila grimaced. “Ugh, no I don’t, I’ve got a full day ahead of me with the lawyers and shopping. The house is finally looking like a home and not a bomb shelter.” She chuckled.

Cynthia was not to be put off so lightly. “Oh, well, do you think we could talk later, then?”

“Sure! I’ll knock when I get back, maybe we can have coffee.” Leila unlocked the door to her Volkswagen hatchback and turned with a funny look on her face. “Cynthia, I hope you don’t mind about the cowboy.”

“Well, I…” started Cynthia.

“It’s just that, well for one thing it’s just so cute, but also... See, me and Harry didn’t live in as nice a neighborhood as this, and I just want to…I don’t know, fit in. I mean, you and Bill have it so together…anyway, I guess I just wanted to christen this house like you two did because I honestly don’t know where to begin.”

“Oh…uh…” All of the wind left Cynthia’s sails at once.

“Listen, once I get all of my business out of the way, do you think that maybe you could, well, help me out with my place? Sort of make it my own?”

“Oh, sure! I’d be glad to!” Cynthia was elated. Leila has walked right into her snare. Cynthia could advise her to decorate based on her own preferences and Cynthia could deftly steer her away from anything that would match the cowboy. Leila would then take it down of her own free will. And thus peace would be kept. “I’m available, just say when.”

“Thanks!” Leila glanced at her watch. “Oh, now I’m late! Gotta go!”

Cynthia waved her down the street, pleased that she was once again in control of things.



A week later, the pie showed up, along with a note of thanks to William for fixing her shower. It was a homemade apple pie with a super flaky crust and lots of cinnamon. William had eaten two pieces by the time Cynthia got back from Great Hills Mall.

“What’s this?” asked Cynthia.

“It’s pie. Leila made it for me, because I put that shower head in for her.”

“Oh,” said Cynthia.

“Try a piece, it’s good.”

“I can see that,” said Cynthia. Did she think that Cynthia didn’t know how to cook for her man? Leila Powell was sorely mistaken if she did. Glancing out the dining room window, she could see the cowboy across the street, head down, leaning against the house. Fuming, she began pulling out all of the ingredients for her world-famous double chocolate cake.



Over the course of a month, changes occurred at an alarming rate. Cynthia saw rosebushes bloom and flourish (“It won’t last,” said Cynthia), a new mailbox appear, and bricks in a zigzag pattern line the sidewalk. Each new thing brought howls of outrage from Cynthia. All Leila Powell was doing was copying her design! And no one seemed to know it, either!

“That Leila Powell is so clever!” said Cheryl Beckworth during one of the weekly Popular Authors Reading Group meetings.

“Oh, I know!” gushed Michelle Greensage. “She’s so crafty, you know? Cookies and pie, her own potpourri…”

“And those roses! Oh! I’m jealous!” said Cheryl.

“Did it ever occur to you two girls that I had that cowboy first? And the bricks on the sidewalk?”

Cheryl looked uncomfortable. “Well, Cynthia, I’m sure…”

Michelle chimed in, “We’re not insinuating…”

After that, Leila wasn’t mentioned around Cynthia at the Popular Authors Reading Group meetings, and that was just fine with Cynthia.

What opened up the floodgates was the paint. Leila was half-finished with the front when Cynthia came barreling outside, out of breath and spitting fire.

“Dammit, Leila, that’s my color!” she said loudly.

Leila turned on the ladder, a frown on her face. “Hi. What?”

“That color—” Cynthia pointed at the house “is corn flower blue. It’s mine. I was here first. It matches my blinds, my shutters, and my house. You can’t paint the house that color.”

Leila came down off the ladder. “Cynthia, I know you think it’s your color, but really, it’s going to dry much lighter than this. It’ll be sky blue when I’m finished with it, I swear.” She cocked her head to one side. “Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

“No, I…”

“I’ve got strudel,” Leila said in a singsong voice.

“And that’s another thing. You may have the neighborhood fooled, but you don’t have me fooled.” Cynthia pointed her finger at Leila, who was now grinning. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

“And what exactly do you think you see, Cynthia?” Leila said it quietly and without cheer and the effect was so startling that Cynthia stepped back.

“You can’t just come in and take over this neighborhood!” Cynthia cried.

Leila smiled and the warmth came back with it. “Is that what you think?” She scrunched up her nose. “Oh Cynthia, nothing could be further from the truth. Now are you sure you don’t want some coffee?”

“Yes, I’m sure!”

Leila shrugged. “Okay, well, I tried. But if you’re not going to drink my coffee, then I’ve got to…” she gestured with the paint-caked roller and mounted the ladder again.

Cynthia stared at Leila’s back until she heard a car turn onto her street. Then she turned and quietly walked back to her own, not-so-unique house.



Well, after that, all bets were off.

William was forbidden to speak to Leila Powell. All gifts, notes, and food were (usually) thrown away, untouched. Leila learned to drop food off while Cynthia was out, which meant that William got one good piece of pie, cake, or cookie before he had to throw it all away.

Meanwhile, support for Leila swelled. She was invited to serve on the Lawn Decorating Committee and welcomed into the Bridge Circle and the Mysteries and Thrillers Reading Group. Cynthia charred and twisted over the fire of her hatred, but knew better than to speak out publicly. It would only cause the other women in the neighborhood to take sides, and frankly, Cynthia didn’t think she had enough support for a landslide victory. That realization caused a brief withdrawal from her usual group activities while she sorted her thoughts. She stayed at home, kept her house at minimal functionality, and took plenty of baths and naps. She even stiffed William on Candlelight Night, and what’s worse, he didn’t notice. This caused a rare fight between them, and sent Cynthia into an even deeper depression.

It took a lot to dispel Cynthia’s funk, but it was well worth it: three new outfits, shoes and all, a full makeover, and a new haircut. Short and sporty, but still feminine and stylish. It was perfect. She finally figured out what to do about the Leila-shaped thorn in her side: live well. She would treat herself and get happy and pretend that nothing was bothering her. Let the neighborhood women see her show of strength and know who was still in charge of things around here. Leila who? Oh, her, well, she’s new, isn’t she? That’ll be the new order of things, she thought. Polite and dismissive.

It was with this new attitude that she strolled into her Coupon Clipping Group the very next day. “Hello, all!” she sang.

The girls all looked around and put on smiles. “Hey Cynthia,” said Michelle Greensage.

Cynthia stopped short. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, why?” said Cheryl Beckworth, her eyebrows arched so high they threatened to disappear under her hairline.

“Oh, okay, then,” said Cynthia, genuinely baffled by the lackluster reception. She threw the bundle of coupons down on Michelle’s dining room table. As casually as she could manage, she asked, “So, what do you think of the new hair?”

Silence.

Cynthia looked up at her friends. “Hello?” None of them would meet their gaze.

Finally, Norma Stillwagon mumbled into her coffee, “We’ve seen it already.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The calm in Cynthia’s voice was cracking.

“Well, Cynthia,” said Cheryl Beckworth, “it’s fine if you want to get the same hairdo as Leila, but really, you shouldn’t act like it was your idea.”

“What?” Cynthia came up out of her chair, forcing Cheryl to flinch. “I got this hairdo three days ago!”

“Well, I saw Leila last night at the grocery store and she had the same cut…” said Norma.

“And she had the cut on Monday at the reading group,” added Michelle.

Cynthia was torn between yelling at all of them and tears. She decided to do neither, getting up and going straight out the door to her car. She drove home, parked the car, and stomped across the street.

As she neared Leila’s front door, it opened on its own and there stood Leila with a matching hairdo, right down to the coloring. Cynthia blinked for a second, then rushed the door and got right into Leila’s face.

“You,” she said, pointing a finger at Leila’s nose, “will stop spying on me right now!”

“Cynthia, sweetie, you should have called me first!” Leila stepped around the finger and continued walking to her car. “I was just on my way to the grocery store. We have a new couple moving in, from Columbus, Ohio, at that. Can you just imagine the culture shock?” Leila ran her fingers through her hair and smiled. “Anyway, I’m going to the store to get the stuff to make my world-famous apple pie.”

Cynthia reeled. “But…the fruit basket…Welcoming Committee…I didn’t get the letter…”

Leila’s face was unreadable. “Cynthia, you have to sign up for the Welcoming Committee, you know that.”

Cynthia didn’t quite remember how she made it back to her house.

When William came home later in the evening, he found a pizza box on the dining room table, along with a can of beer. It was the cheap stuff, not William’s usual fare. But he shrugged and smiled and ate the whole thing. It wasn’t until he checked the bedroom that he found Cynthia fitfully sleeping. He watched ESPN in the living room so as not to disturb her.

The next morning, Cynthia had breakfast on the table at her usual time. She was devoid of cheer, but William didn’t notice. He scarfed up the eggs, bacon, and toast like he was planning on running a marathon. “I think I have a tapeworm,” he joked.

So do I, she thought. Is yours named Leila Powell, too? Instead, she said, “What would you like for dinner, dear?”

“Huh. Dinner. You know, this sounds silly, but I’m really craving spaghetti and meatballs.”

Spaghetti. Meatballs. Somehow, it clicked in her brain. That she could do. Nothing else felt right, but she could do that. “Sure. Maybe…by candlelight…?”

William smiled. “Okay.”

Cynthia felt the black clouds lifting. Everything else was messed up, but she and William were all right.

“Oh, hey, I gotta run.”

“Okay. Bye William, I love you.”

William stopped on his way out the door. “William? Are you mad at me, honey? You always call me Bill.” As the door closed, the breakfast dishes she’d had in her arms shattered on the tiled floor.



The phone rang once, twice. Then, “Kimball Advertising?”

Cynthia said, “Hi Beth, this is Cynthia. Can I speak to William, please?”

“Uh, which William do you want, Woolrich or Thompson?”

“Woolrich.”

“One moment.”

Cynthia was baffled. Beth, the receptionist, knew her voice by now. The phone picked up. It was voice mail. “Hi, this is Bill Woolrich, I’m not in right now…”

Cynthia hung up, staring at the phone.

When she picked it up again, it was with purpose. She dialed a number. “Hello, Norma? Hi, it’s Cynthia. WOOLrich. Right. Listen, I’m sorry to trouble you, but could I get Charlotte Gardner’s number from you?”



It was six-twenty; Cynthia kept glancing at the kitchen clock. William would be home in two minutes. She checked herself in the reflection of the oven door again. Her hair was done and she was wearing a short black cocktail dress. Her make-up was applied, just so. She smiled, checking her reflection for lipstick on her teeth. Clear. Good.

Cynthia turned to the dining room table, where a spread of new red candles was laid out. She lit them, for no other reason than to give her hands something to do. Tonight was their night, she told herself. Leila may have stolen her standing in the community from her, but she was not going to take her husband.

Somehow, Leila had put a spell on William, she was sure of it. Only no one else could see it, because she had put a spell on them, too. But Cynthia knew, because she hadn’t accepted any of Leila’s gifts, hadn’t eaten any of Leila’s apple pie. She alone knew what was going on, and there was only one thing that would bring William around: her love. All they had to do was one Candlelight night, their special night, and Cynthia was sure she could reach him. It was her last chance.

A car turned onto the street. Cynthia ran to the window. It was William’s Mustang. She watched as it slowed down to turn…and then it rolled by the house without even stopping.

“NO!” Cynthia screamed. She tore herself from the window, screaming inarticulately. Somehow, she got the door open and ran across the lawn, shouting, “William! Come here! I love you!”

William was so startled that he dropped the bottle of merlot (the bottle Cynthia had asked him to pick up) and stepped back against the garage of Leila’s house. The front door opened and Leila ran outside.

“Stay away from him, you dirty bitch! You slut! You whore! You give me back my husband!”

“Hey, now…” said William, stepping forward, his face twisted in anger.

“Bill, honey, don’t. She’s confused, that’s all. I’ll deal with her,” said Leila, soothingly.

“NO! That’s my husband!” Cynthia screamed through tears.

“Lady, Jesus, you need to…”

“Bill, no, go on in, okay?”

“But she made me drop the god dammed wine.”

“We’ll make do.” Leila kissed Bill on the cheek and pushed him towards the front door. As soon as he rounded the corner, Leila turned to Cynthia, her eyes flashing.

“Leila, that’s my husband!” screamed Cynthia.

“Was your husband.” Leila took a pouch of potpourri out of her apron pocket. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget about him.”



“Oh my god, David, come here, quick!”

Michelle Greensage peered through her dining room blinds, mouth open.

“What?” said David, engrossed in the evening news.

“There’s a fight going on across the street!”

“Which house?”

“Bill and Leila’s place. That poor Cynthia will not leave them alone.”

“Huh. She needs a man,” said David through the weather.

“Well, she can’t have mine,” snapped Michelle. “Oh, look at that, Leila is still trying to be nice to her.

“What?” Sports was up next. David needed to wrap this conversation up.

“Leila is still trying to be nice to her. She’s giving her potpourri. That woman is a saint, I tell you, to put up with that.”

“Uh huh.”

Michelle turned away from the scene outside to look at the back of her husband’s head. She fixated on his bald spot for ten seconds. “Ugh,” she said, “never mind.”

“Okay,” mumbled David.

Shaking her head, Michelle walked back into the kitchen and fired up the little potpourri crock-pot. She shook the peculiar blend of flowers, herbs and spices into the bowl and covered the concoction with the matching vented lid. Soon, the unusual but pleasing smell of Leila Woolrich’s homemade potpourri filled the house, but Michelle and David were watching their prime time shows and, as usual, didn’t notice.