CHAPTER

1

All mine!

The house, the life growing inside her.

The husband.

Holly finished her fifth circuit of the back room that looked out to the yard. She paused for breath. The baby--Aimee--had started pushing against her diaphragm.

Since escrow had closed, Holly had done a hundred circuits, imagining. Loving every inch of the place despite the odors embedded in ninety-year-old plaster: cat pee, mildew, overripe vegetable soup. Old person.

In a few days the painting would begin and the aroma of fresh latex would bury all that, and cheerful colors would mask the discouraging gray-beige of Holly's ten-room dream. Not counting bathrooms.

The house was a brick-faced Tudor on a quarter-acre lot at the southern edge of Cheviot Hills, built when construction was meant to last and adorned by moldings, wainscoting, arched mahogany doors, quarter-sawn oak floors. Parquet in the cute little study that would be Matt's home office when he needed to bring work home.

Holly could close the door and not have to hear Matt's grumbling about moron clients incapable of keeping decent records. Meanwhile she'd be on a comfy couch, snuggling with Aimee.

She'd learned the sex of the baby at the four-month anatomical ultrasound, decided on the name right then and there. Matt didn't know yet. He was still adjusting to the whole fatherhood thing.

Sometimes she wondered if Matt dreamed in numbers.

Resting her hands on a mahogany sill, Holly squinted to blank out the weeds and dead grass, struggling to conjure a green, flower-laden Eden.

Hard to visualize, with a mountain of tree trunk taking up all that space.

The five-story sycamore had been one of the house's selling points, with its trunk as thick as an oil drum and dense foliage that created a moody, almost spooky ambience. Holly's creative powers had immediately kicked into gear, visualizing a swing attached to that swooping lower branch.

Aimee giggling as she swooped up and shouted that Holly was the best mommy.

Two weeks into escrow, during a massive, unseasonal rainstorm, the sycamore's roots had given way. Thank God the monster had teetered but hadn't fallen. The trajectory would've landed it right on the house.

An agreement was drawn up: The sellers--the old woman's son and daughter--would pay to have the monstrous thing chopped down and hauled away, the stumps ground to dust, the soil leveled. Instead, they'd cheaped out, paying a tree company only to cut down the sycamore, leaving behind a massive horror of deadwood that took up the entire rear half of the yard.

Matt had gone bananas, threatened to kill the deal.

Abrogate. What an ugly word.

Holly had cooled him off by promising to handle the situation, she'd make sure they got duly compensated, he wouldn't have to deal with it.

Fine. As long as you actually do it.

Now Holly stared at the mountain of wood, feeling discouraged and a bit helpless. Some of the sycamore, she supposed, could be reduced to firewood. Fragments and leaves and loose pieces of bark she could rake up herself, maybe create a compost pile. But those massive columns . . .

Whatever; she'd figure it out. Meanwhile, there was cat-pee/overripe-soup/mildew/old-lady stink to deal with.

Mrs. Hannah had lived in the house for fifty-two years. Still, how did a person's smell permeate lath and plaster? Not that Holly had anything against old people. Though she didn't know too many.

There had to be something you could do to freshen yourself--a special deodorant--when you reached a certain age.

One way or the other, Matt would settle...