Beginning of Under Water
On realestately.com:
Amazing opportunity to own this peaceful bit of Highgrove’s history. This stately Victorian farmhouse dates from 1895 and is set on 2.63 acres of mixed meadow and woods. The second-floor master bedroom’s deck is perfect for watching the local wildlife. The kitchen has handmade maple cabinets, and the dining room a huge fireplace. The stone-floored conservatory is bright and inviting with its glass roof, the massive living room resplendent with oak floors and a cozy fireplace.
Make this property your dream come true! All the above PLUS a quiet, peaceful pond to sit beside on lazy summer days!
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“What the hell did you get us into?” Benny said as they stepped into the dank and musty house. It was a disaster: ancient pine floors creaky, antique wiring, mildew-mottled plaster, mouse droppings, and corroded pipes.
The website’s photos had been taken with the magic camera realtors use to lure the unsuspecting. Those photos had lured Iris and Benny all the way from California.
His smile disappeared when he eyeballed Iris’ German Shepherd running from the barn. “That dog aggressive?”
Iris put a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Imagine how beautiful we can make this place.”
Benny looked like he’d been smacked with a dead trout. “Imagine us bankrupt.” He pivoted on his heels. “Air-conditioning before summer or we’re gone.” He returned to the car for the luggage.
Iris didn’t protest. Better to have a bit of time and distance when they disagreed—forty-some years of marriage taught her that. Though, in the back of her mind, she’d thought of the move as a fresh start for their marriage, a way back to each other.
Two months later, on a humid June day, men arrived to shovel out the muck beneath the duckweed in the backyard’s pond. Unlike the online photos, the water was murky green, a mosquito nursery. Obviously, the circulating pump wasn’t on. Peaceful, my ass! she thought.
I Wrote a Vicious Satire
After tackling serious literary fiction with Under Water I was in the mood for something funny and irreverent. OK, there’s still some social commentary too. Get the first 7 chapters if you sign up for my freebies list.
As she led the way, frogs leaped, landing in the water with pleasant little plops. Iris loved frogs, especially the tiny ones discovering dry land on new-grown legs. At the very least, frogs meant tadpoles to eat most of the mosquito wrigglers hatching beneath the weeds. But the stone-lined pond was yet another thing to return to health.
“Bought this place online, huh?” Paul, owner of Paul’s Ponds, slammed the gate of his gold-logoed truck.
“Yes, a long-distance purchase. COVID, you know, all those quarantines, flying impossible. We had lots of inspections done. Everything checked out okay.”
Paul grinned. Iris imagined him thinking, One born every minute. His smile disappeared when he eyeballed Iris’ German Shepherd running from the barn. “That dog aggressive?”
For a brief second, Iris wished Freddy was. “Only if you really upset me.”
She took Freddy into the house to mix some tuna for lunch, Benny’s favorite. The dog would get to lick out the cans.
An hour later, she went back out the kitchen door. Paul lay on the grass, overseeing his men. Iris thought, He could get off his ass and work alongside his employees! but didn’t say anything aloud—she didn’t want to be that kind of newcomer to the county. Meanwhile, the hourly charges for the work added up in her mind like a New York taxi meter—tick, tick, tick.
She was about to ask why he’d stayed mum about this in bidding the job, when one of the men lifted his shovel and said, “What the fuck?”
“The pump’s broken. Too old to be worth fixing,” Paul said, scratching his sweaty receding hairline. “Just so you know.”
She was about to ask why he’d stayed mum about this in bidding the job, when one of the men lifted his shovel and said, “What the fuck?”
On the end of the shovel lay a filthy cloth bag—the size of a supermarket sack—closed with a ragged tartan ribbon.
“Put it on the ground,” Paul said, rising from his seat. “Sometimes they hid coins and stuff under water. Could be valuable.”
Iris clambered up over the low wall and joined him. The bag was stained with mud, its original color indeterminant until, as more water leaked out, the grimy ribbon shifted, exposing unstained cloth of a remarkable violet color.
“This bit looks new,” Iris bent over to peer closer.
“Yeah, well, that muck’s been accumulating for a long, long time. Decades at least. Thick and sticky…stuff.”
She could tell Paul would have said “shit” if she hadn’t been there. Or if he didn’t think of her as old.
“Should I open it?” the worker asked, wiping his hand across his already saturated jeans.
Paul looked at Iris. “Your pond, your call.”
She shrugged. “Why not.”
The young man tugged at the knot, releasing it before jumping back, yelping, “Jesus Christ,”
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