“There is if you’re a professional organizer. I should have had these boxes unpacked months ago. We’ve lived here for ten months. I always unpack all our boxes right away.”
“It’s a well-known fact that professional organizers who have a three-year-old and a toddler get an exemption from perfection. Let’s tackle it this weekend. I’ll help.”
“No. That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I’ll try to get in another hour tomorrow.” It was sweet of him to offer, but if I let Mitch unpack these boxes I’d probably never find the tax records again. He’d put them anywhere there was an open space. They could end up under a bed or in the laundry room. I clambered over two boxes to get to the door. “Sorry I’m so crabby, but knowing we have all this stuff crammed in here is like an annoying gnat that keeps buzzing around my head.”
“You’ll get it done,” Mitch said, and rubbed the back of my neck as we walked down the hall. “How about a relaxing game of Galaga after we get the kids in bed?”
I’d found a game system with Mitch’s favorite classic arcade games for his birthday. “Yeah, that’ll help,” I said dryly. I had to be the worst player ever. “Let me get in a walk first before it gets dark.”
“Great idea. I’ll get the stroller.” Mitch had already gone for his run, but he was always up for any type of workout.
“No, I meant a walk by myself.” The words popped out before I had time to check them.
“Oh.” I could tell from his subdued tone that I’d hurt his feelings.
“Mitch, I’m sorry, but I need some time alone.”
He leaned back on his side of the hall and crossed his arms. “Why don’t you want to spend time together, just us? Every night, it’s like you can’t wait to sprint out the door for your walk. You’re already by yourself all day.”
I gaped at him. “How can you say that?” I usually get tongue-tied when I’m in a heated discussion, but not this time. “No, I’m not. I have two kids and a dog with me all the time. That’s not being alone.” I braced myself on the other side of the hall. “While you’re talking to adults, going to lunch with the guys, and working out, I’m making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and changing dirty diapers. I load and unload that dishwasher so much I feel like I run a restaurant and I know every word to ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket,’ which has to be the most annoying song in the world.”
I blew out a breath, trying to calm down. I hated it when we argued. “Look, I want some couple time for us, too, but I feel like I’m being pulled in a million directions. The kids are so…labor-intensive right now. A twenty-minute walk is a sanity break.”
“My job isn’t all fun and games either,” he said quietly. Mitch never raised his voice. He just got quieter and more still.
“I know that. I know being in the squadron is stressful, too.” How could I explain? “Imagine if you never left the squadron. You were always at work. That’s how it is for me.”
Arms extended straight in front of her, Livvy “flew” between us, the pillowcase I’d pinned to her shoulders flapping out behind her. “I’m Super Livvy,” she shouted. Nathan “cruised” behind her, stumbling along on his pudgy legs as he transferred his grip from one piece of furniture to another to help him keep his balance. He gripped my knees for a second as he passed, then inched his way down the hall with one hand on the wall.
We stared at each other for a few seconds; then Mitch cracked a small smile. “Reminds me of my office. ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket,’ huh?”
My shoulders relaxed and I smiled, too. “As sung by Goofy, but don’t say it too loud or Livvy will break into song.”
Mitch stepped away from the wall. “You go on. I’ll get Super Livvy and her sidekick in their pajamas.”
I slid my arm around his waist and kissed him. “Thanks.”
A few minutes later, I punched in the remote code to close the garage door and then let out the leash as our Rottweiler, Rex, ran down our long driveway. He’d been waiting for me at the door, ears perked and an air of barely suppressed expectation nearly vibrating off him. With two weeks of almost constant rain, his walks had been severely curtailed. I rotated my shoulders and tried to put our spat out of my mind and enjoy being outdoors.
It was still slightly muggy, but the humidity was so much lower than it had been during the summer. After our move to Georgia in January, we’d enjoyed two months of ideal weather and I now understood snowbirds. A winter without snow tires was such a welcome break after our last assignment in Washington State, where it would already be cold by now and there might possibly be snow. Here in middle Georgia, the only signs of fall were pumpkins dotting the wide porches. Even though we were barely halfway down the block, a fine layer of sweat beaded my hairline and my shirt plastered itself to my shoulder blades.
I wondered what my old neighbors, Mabel and Ed Parsons, would think of our new neighborhood. We’d gone from an arts and crafts bungalow that could verifiably be called an antique to a house built three years ago. Only one occupant before us. We had all the bells and whistles now: remote garage door opener, garbage disposal, security system, and those clever windows that fold down inside so you can clean the outside of them without leaving the house. Although I didn’t see much window cleaning in my immediate future. In fact, my days seemed to consist only of keeping the basic necessities of our life clean: the clothes, the dishes, and (sometimes) the house.
Our new subdivision, Magnolia Estates, certainly lived up to its name with magnolia trees dotting almost every yard. Tonight, the scent of jasmine hung in the still air. Set back from the road, new brick houses in a traditional style kept up the southern theme: rooflines soared above Palladian windows and wraparound porches. A few homes had white rocking chairs on their porches.
I paced down the street as it curved around the edge of a large drainage pond to the end of the street. A silver Cadillac coasted to a stop at the curb behind me and Coleman May leveraged himself out of the car. As always, he wore a golf shirt—today’s was yellow—and khaki pants. A visor shaded his eyes, but left his mostly bald head bare to the sun. Surely his few strands of comb-over hair didn’t protect his head from sunburn during all the hours he spent on the course?
He popped the trunk and pulled out a black garbage bag. “Evenin’,” he said as he tore a garage sale sign from the corner light post and crumpled it, then picked up some litter.
“Mr. May,” I said, and reeled the leash in, then bent to help him with the bright flyers and posters that clogged near the drain. The rains had softened the paper and made the ink a runny mess.
“Can you see this light post from your house?” he asked.
“I suppose so.”
“If you see anyone putting up signs, flyers, or posters, give me a call. I’ll come down and take care of it. The only one who’s authorized to put anything up is Gerald Lockworth,” Coleman said as I picked up a flimsy water-soaked paper. “He’s filled out the permit with the homeowners’ association.” Even though it was smeared, I recognized the flyer.
It looked like hundreds of other flyers taped in business windows all over North Dawkins. FIND JODI read the bold letters above the picture of a smiling young woman in her twenties. Straight blond hair framed a pretty face. Her smile was wide and showed her even, white teeth. It was hard to reconcile the open face with the word below the picture, MISSING.
I wasn’t about to become the neighborhood tattletale, so I said, “You know, I don’t really notice things like that. Too busy with my kids.”
“You should notice. It’s everyone’s responsibility to maintain the standards of Magnolia Estates.”
It sounded like a line from the monthly homeowners’ association newsletter