Suddenly One Summer
Page 3
* * *
AFTER THE FUNERAL service and subsequent lunch, Ford drove his mom back to his parents’ house in Glenwood, a suburb north of the city. His parents lived—or now, he supposed he should say his mom lived—in a subdivision nicknamed “the Quads” because each square-shaped building contained four small townhome units stacked back-to-back. Although Glenwood was well known as a very affluent town—one of the ten richest in the U.S., according to Forbes—the particular neighborhood in which he’d grown up was decidedly blue collar, mostly families with two working parents who’d specifically chosen the subdivision because of its access to public schools ranked among the best in the state.
“I’m worried about your sister,” his mother said as they drove along Sheridan Road, past the tree-lined side streets and multimillion-dollar mansions that, while technically part of his hometown, had always felt like a different world.
Ford glanced over, feeling a mixture of admiration, amusement, and frustration. The comment was so typical of his mother. She’d just buried her husband of thirty-six years, and of course here she was, thinking about someone else.
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Nicole will be fine, Mom.”
She gave him a no-nonsense look. “Don’t you start giving me the grieving-widow platitudes. There’ve been enough of those these past few days.”
That got a slight smile out of him. Fair enough. Unlike his father, with his wild mood swings, Maria Dixon had always been grounded and down-to-earth. “Fine. I’m worried about Nicole, too,” he admitted, despite being firmly of the belief that his mother didn’t need to be thinking about this today.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that his twenty-five-year-old sister, Nicole, had been struggling as a single mom ever since giving birth to her daughter, Zoe, four months ago. As a part-time actress and a full-time instructor at a local children’s theater, she worked days, evenings, and some weekends, yet still barely made enough to support herself in the city. Ford had talked to her about seeking child support from Zoe’s father—some musician Nicole had dated for a few months last year—but apparently the guy had freaked out when he’d found out Nicole was pregnant, and had packed his bags for L.A. without leaving her a forwarding address.
Ford hadn’t met the shithead, but his jaw clenched every time he thought about the way the guy had left his sister high and dry.
“I’ve tried talking to her, but she’s so hard to get a hold of these days,” his mother said. “I’d been planning to visit her at work this week, but then your father . . .” Her lower lip trembled as her voice trailed off.
Oh, man. It killed him to see his mother fighting back tears. No doubt, they were all reeling from the surprise of his father’s death. And while there was nothing he could do to change the past—a fact that ate away at him given the way things between him and his father had ended—there was, at least, something he could do in this situation.
So when his car pulled to a stop at a red light, he turned and looked his grieving mother in the eyes.
“I’ll make sure both Nicole and Zoe are all right, Mom. I promise.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Ford pulled into the parking garage of his loft condo building in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. He’d distracted himself with music during the drive home, but once he turned the car off, there was nothing but silence.
This was the moment he’d been dreading for the last few days, when the deluge of funeral arrangements subsided and he no longer had to be “on,” nodding and making small talk and graciously thanking everyone for their sympathies. The moment when he was finally alone, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.
A man stepped in front of Ford’s car and waved. “Hey, Ford.”
Or . . . maybe this wasn’t that moment.
Ford got out of his car to greet Owen, the guy who owned the condo next to his. “Sorry. Didn’t see you walking over.”
With a sympathetic expression, Owen shook his hand in greeting. “How’d everything go today?”
Ford appreciated that Owen had taken the time to drop by the wake yesterday. The two of them had been neighbors for four years, and had hung out occasionally. Less so recently, ever since Owen had moved in with his girlfriend and put his condo on the market. “It was a nice service, thanks.” He was quick to move off the topic. “What brings you back to the old hood?”
“Just came by to pick up my mail.” Owen gestured to the stack of magazines and letters he carried. “I saw you and thought I should mention that my real estate agent rented my place for the summer.”
“You’re renting?” Now that was a surprise.
“I know. Not my first choice.” Owen shrugged. “But in this market, I wasn’t getting any offers anywhere close to my asking price. So we thought we’d rent it for a few months, and maybe put it back on the market in the fall. Figured I should give you a heads-up in case you see a stranger coming out of my front door.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. A silence fell between them, and he realized he was probably supposed to say more.
“Her name’s Victoria,” Owen went on, “and she’s some big divorce lawyer or something. I haven’t met her, but from what I hear she just bought a condo in River North and needed a place to live until the sale closes at the end of August. Apparently, she was really eager to get out of her current home. Not sure what the story is there.”
This was all interesting information, and Ford knew that Owen was just trying to be friendly. But these last few days of making polite conversation were starting to wear on him. “Thanks for letting me know.” He gestured to the door that led inside the condo building. “Unfortunately, there’s some stuff I need to take care of . . .”
“Oh! Of course,” Owen said quickly. “Don’t let me keep you.”
After promising to stay in touch, and assuring Owen that he would let him know if he needed anything—only the hundred-and-thirtieth time he’d made that pledge this week—Ford escaped and got into the elevator.
He exhaled as the elevator began to rise toward the fourth floor, and prayed that he wouldn’t bump into any other neighbors—past, current, or future—before he got to his loft.
He got lucky.
His hallway was empty. He walked quietly to unit 4F, the loft all the way at the end. Key already in hand, he unlocked the door and let himself in.
AFTER THE FUNERAL service and subsequent lunch, Ford drove his mom back to his parents’ house in Glenwood, a suburb north of the city. His parents lived—or now, he supposed he should say his mom lived—in a subdivision nicknamed “the Quads” because each square-shaped building contained four small townhome units stacked back-to-back. Although Glenwood was well known as a very affluent town—one of the ten richest in the U.S., according to Forbes—the particular neighborhood in which he’d grown up was decidedly blue collar, mostly families with two working parents who’d specifically chosen the subdivision because of its access to public schools ranked among the best in the state.
“I’m worried about your sister,” his mother said as they drove along Sheridan Road, past the tree-lined side streets and multimillion-dollar mansions that, while technically part of his hometown, had always felt like a different world.
Ford glanced over, feeling a mixture of admiration, amusement, and frustration. The comment was so typical of his mother. She’d just buried her husband of thirty-six years, and of course here she was, thinking about someone else.
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Nicole will be fine, Mom.”
She gave him a no-nonsense look. “Don’t you start giving me the grieving-widow platitudes. There’ve been enough of those these past few days.”
That got a slight smile out of him. Fair enough. Unlike his father, with his wild mood swings, Maria Dixon had always been grounded and down-to-earth. “Fine. I’m worried about Nicole, too,” he admitted, despite being firmly of the belief that his mother didn’t need to be thinking about this today.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that his twenty-five-year-old sister, Nicole, had been struggling as a single mom ever since giving birth to her daughter, Zoe, four months ago. As a part-time actress and a full-time instructor at a local children’s theater, she worked days, evenings, and some weekends, yet still barely made enough to support herself in the city. Ford had talked to her about seeking child support from Zoe’s father—some musician Nicole had dated for a few months last year—but apparently the guy had freaked out when he’d found out Nicole was pregnant, and had packed his bags for L.A. without leaving her a forwarding address.
Ford hadn’t met the shithead, but his jaw clenched every time he thought about the way the guy had left his sister high and dry.
“I’ve tried talking to her, but she’s so hard to get a hold of these days,” his mother said. “I’d been planning to visit her at work this week, but then your father . . .” Her lower lip trembled as her voice trailed off.
Oh, man. It killed him to see his mother fighting back tears. No doubt, they were all reeling from the surprise of his father’s death. And while there was nothing he could do to change the past—a fact that ate away at him given the way things between him and his father had ended—there was, at least, something he could do in this situation.
So when his car pulled to a stop at a red light, he turned and looked his grieving mother in the eyes.
“I’ll make sure both Nicole and Zoe are all right, Mom. I promise.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, Ford pulled into the parking garage of his loft condo building in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood. He’d distracted himself with music during the drive home, but once he turned the car off, there was nothing but silence.
This was the moment he’d been dreading for the last few days, when the deluge of funeral arrangements subsided and he no longer had to be “on,” nodding and making small talk and graciously thanking everyone for their sympathies. The moment when he was finally alone, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.
A man stepped in front of Ford’s car and waved. “Hey, Ford.”
Or . . . maybe this wasn’t that moment.
Ford got out of his car to greet Owen, the guy who owned the condo next to his. “Sorry. Didn’t see you walking over.”
With a sympathetic expression, Owen shook his hand in greeting. “How’d everything go today?”
Ford appreciated that Owen had taken the time to drop by the wake yesterday. The two of them had been neighbors for four years, and had hung out occasionally. Less so recently, ever since Owen had moved in with his girlfriend and put his condo on the market. “It was a nice service, thanks.” He was quick to move off the topic. “What brings you back to the old hood?”
“Just came by to pick up my mail.” Owen gestured to the stack of magazines and letters he carried. “I saw you and thought I should mention that my real estate agent rented my place for the summer.”
“You’re renting?” Now that was a surprise.
“I know. Not my first choice.” Owen shrugged. “But in this market, I wasn’t getting any offers anywhere close to my asking price. So we thought we’d rent it for a few months, and maybe put it back on the market in the fall. Figured I should give you a heads-up in case you see a stranger coming out of my front door.”
“Right.” Ford nodded. A silence fell between them, and he realized he was probably supposed to say more.
“Her name’s Victoria,” Owen went on, “and she’s some big divorce lawyer or something. I haven’t met her, but from what I hear she just bought a condo in River North and needed a place to live until the sale closes at the end of August. Apparently, she was really eager to get out of her current home. Not sure what the story is there.”
This was all interesting information, and Ford knew that Owen was just trying to be friendly. But these last few days of making polite conversation were starting to wear on him. “Thanks for letting me know.” He gestured to the door that led inside the condo building. “Unfortunately, there’s some stuff I need to take care of . . .”
“Oh! Of course,” Owen said quickly. “Don’t let me keep you.”
After promising to stay in touch, and assuring Owen that he would let him know if he needed anything—only the hundred-and-thirtieth time he’d made that pledge this week—Ford escaped and got into the elevator.
He exhaled as the elevator began to rise toward the fourth floor, and prayed that he wouldn’t bump into any other neighbors—past, current, or future—before he got to his loft.
He got lucky.
His hallway was empty. He walked quietly to unit 4F, the loft all the way at the end. Key already in hand, he unlocked the door and let himself in.
