Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

I figured the best way to resolve the whole Miriam/Amos plotline was to — okay, this is cheap and sensational and not at all how I normally do things — trap them in a well together. By the time the next book rolls around, I’ll know what to do with them, but for now, they’re out of sight and off my plate. Hopefully fans will actually enjoy having a bit of a cliff-hanger.

I’ve got to plow through the final chapter and then I’m officially done, at least with the book. Then I have an entire house to rebuild on a nonexistent budget and. . Okay, if I start thinking about it I’ll get all stressy and won’t be able to concentrate.

All righty, let’s do this. I’m immersing myself in this book. I’m not in this enormous, drafty construction site that I hate with every fiber of my being. Instead, I’m strolling the verdant green hills of Nappanee, Indiana.

Is it hilly there? I should probably check.

Scratch that; I’m strolling the verdant green fields of Nappanee, Indiana. I’m engaging all my senses now so I can experience the scene. The air is warm but not sticky, and I feel the sunlight on my face over the brim of my bonnet. I smell the rich, damp earth and I lightly trail my fingers across the scratchy wooden posts of the cattle fence as I walk by. Later, after I’ve done my chores, I’ll feast on hot baked biscuits topped with honey and freshly churned butter. In the distance I hear the wind ruffling the trees and the gentle trickle of the creek. The bell on our old milking cow Bessie tinkles and—

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Son of a bitch.

Ignore it. You’re so close, Mia. Just put in the earplugs Mac bought you. You can do it.

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

Ahem , green fields, trickling stream, nice cow—

Tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock, tock!

You know what? I need to think more like the Amish. I’ve got to get inside their heads. How would they deal with this? WWMD? 150

And then it comes to me. My plain-talking, straight-shooting characters wouldn’t mess around with the symptoms — they’d directly address the cause.

I head down to Mac’s workshop and grab some protective goggles and his good shootin’ gloves. And then I pick up the chain saw and march back to the house.

That tree is going down.

“All rise.”

We rise.

“You may be seated.”

We sit. Then I rise again when my attorney pokes me, because everyone’s supposed to sit but me.

The judge begins to speak. “This is Mia MacNamara, case number 0360144237. Good afternoon, Ms. MacNamara. I understand you want to plead guilty to the charge of an unlawful discharge of a firearm, code 13-3107.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge glances up from his files to take his first look at me. He peers long and hard over his half-glasses.

“Ms. MacNamara, what is this all about?”

“Your Honor, have you ever seen Sixteen Candles ?”

“Ms. MacNamara, I ask the questions around here.”

“Sorry. It’s just that it’s superrelevant. Anyway, long story short, we bought this house that was featured in that movie almost three decades ago and we made a stupid, emotional decision, and because of a birthday cake and a song and John Hughes we bought a money pit that we thought we could fix up ourselves and we couldn’t, and then a contractor ran off to fight a war in some former part of the Soviet Union and he took all our cash and I don’t have a shower or a kitchen and I got covered in ants and now the only way we’ll have enough funds to finish the house and start living like human beings again and not like bears or something is for me to turn in my manuscript, which I couldn’t do because a stupid woodpecker wouldn’t shut up already, so I threw shoes at it and shook a shovel at it and then cut its tree down and after all that I kind of lost my mind a little bit and I shot at it and I’m sorry but I almost don’t even want to go home because my husband is mad at me and because I want to take another shower and because they’re serving spaghetti for lunch at the jail today.”

I gasp for air because all that came out in one big breath. “So, yes,” I continue, “I’m guilty. I’m sorry, but I’m guilty. Whatever my punishment is, I’ll take it, but please know there were extenuating circumstances that led to my discharging the firearm.”

The entire courthouse is quiet after my soliloquy, and the judge takes a long time before he says anything. He takes off his half-glasses and rubs his eyes.

“Ms. MacNamara, what do you know about Spanish tile?”

I shrug. “Virtually nothing, Your Honor.”

“My wife loves Spanish tile. In fact, she loves it so much she decided to have our kitchen redone in it. The whole job was supposed to take a week. ‘One week, that’s it,’ she promised. We’d have the contractors do the renovations while we were on vacation. We’d be out, they’d go in, and we’d come back to a brand-new kitchen. Piece of cake.” He swings around in his big chair to face his bailiff. “Remember that, Marcus? When I told you it would take a week?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Marcus the bailiff replies.

“And what did you say to me?”

“I said, ‘Take however long they told you it’d take, double it, and then double it again.’ ”

“So four weeks,” the judge says. “I did your math and I estimated the job would, at worst, take four weeks.”

The bailiff simply chuckles in response.

“But the project didn’t take four weeks. After the contractors ordered mismatched tiles and put in the wrong-size cabinets, my wife decided she didn’t like her initial choices because they weren’t ‘Spanish enough,’ whatever that means. So she had the contractors order different items. Then she liked what she picked, so we waited for them to be installed. You remember that, Marcus?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“This whole time, I don’t have a kitchen. I’ve got men in and out of my house every day, except for the days when they flat-out don’t show up. No call, no e-mail, no texts, they just flat-out don’t come. When I’d protest, they’d apologize and then not show up the next day. Seemed like they were intent on teaching me who really was boss.”

Marcus is nodding the whole time. “I remember those days.”

“Then, just as I thought we’d seen the light at the end of the tunnel, they broke a water main and flooded my basement. My finished basement. Ms. MacNamara, do you have any idea how long they were in my house?”

“Two months?” I guess.

“Try six. Six months. I lost my kitchen and my basement TV room for the better part of six months. I had to watch the World Series on the little TV my wife keeps in her sewing room. That was the year the White Sox were in the series. Instead of seeing the action on a sixty-inch plasma, I saw it all unfold on twelve inches of screen. Every pitch, every catch, every strikeout. Twelve inches.”

“I’m really sorry,” I tell him, for lack of anything else to say.

“I don’t believe you’re dangerous, Ms. MacNamara. I don’t believe this is something you’ll do again. I’m willing to take your extenuating circumstances and let you off with a warning, this one time. But if I see you in here again, I will not be so understanding. Do I make myself clear, Ms. MacNamara?”

“Crystal clear, Your Honor, and thank you so much.” Relief washes over me.

“One more thing, Ms. MacNamara. There is the matter of the tree.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You chopped down a tree that was more than four inches in circumference. I understand the circumstances surrounding your actions, but the city of Abington Cambs strictly enforces this ordinance, so there is a fine involved.”