I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but first impressions are often entirely wrong.
~Lemony Snicket
So, apparently, Iamstaying at the Sea Winds tonight. It's either that or in my car because there is no way I'll be getting my services hooked up today. In fact, I was robbed of the pleasure of yelling at someone because when I called the gas company, instead of a real person, I received a voicemail informing me they are ‘closed for a family celebration, but they’d be back bright and early Monday morning to take my call—unless the party gets out of hand in which case, it’ll be closer to noon.’
A family celebration? Since when isfamilya reason to close the gas company? I left a long, terse message, then looked up the number for the water company, which as it turns out, is the same place. Ditto for the electrical company. So, there’s that.
I'm now hunting around in the trunk of my car to find a box of full-sized Snickers bars to take the edge off my hunger. It won't fix the problem, but it will soothe me for a good minute or two. The sound of a vehicle coming up the driveway interrupts my search for sustenance. When I look up, my retinas are assaulted by a brilliant white Ford Fiesta sporting a huge image of Eunice Beckham’s grinning face on the side. A word bubble covers the side window that says, ‘If I can’t sell it, no one can!’
Makes sense. She’s the only realtor in town, so...
She offers me an open-mouthed Barbara Walters smile as she unfolds her lanky body from the car. “Abby, welcome to South Haven! I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you first pulled in.”
Eunice is wearing a cotton candy pink pantsuit and is coming toward me at an alarming speed. She claps her hands together and then holds her arms out wide, moving in for a—oh dear God, no—she wants a hug?
A second later, I’m being choked by a pink cloud of White Diamonds perfume. Every muscle in my body tenses up and I stand perfectly still, trying not to breathe until it’s over.
When she finally releases me, she takes my cheeks in both hands. “Oh, how fun to have our very own New Yorker in the village! You’ll bring such a sassy spice to the place.” She is beaming at me. Literally beaming. Or is that the makeup? Are those sparkles? Yes, yes they are.
“Thank you?” I say, allowing my tone to rise in that way that says I’m not at all sure about being the new resident New Yorker in the village.
“Oh, silly me. I haven’t introduced myself! It’s me! Eunice Beckham. And if you’re wondering if we’re related to a certain rock-hard soccer player who doubles as a Calvin Klein underwear model, yes,he’sa distant cousin of my husband, Dennis Beckham, mayor of Cape Breton County.” Her voice goes up when she says mayor as though she’s announcing a prize at the ham bingo. “It’s easy to remember. Eunice and Dennis. Dennis and Eunice. Beckham. But now I don’t want you to feel at all intimidated by us, love. We’re just like everyone else here. I still put my pantsuit on one leg at a time.” She laughs gaily at her down-to-earthiness.
Before I can respond, she slides the strap of her briefcase off her shoulder and holds the case up with one hand so she can open it. It’s pink and matches her suit perfectly.
“I have never seen a pink briefcase before,” I remark.
“Isn’t it fun? I have every color of the rainbow. When you’re in my business, appearance is everything. People need to know you have an eye for detail.”
You can’t argue with that logic. “I never would have thought of that.”
She pulls out a pink clipboard bearing a stack of forms and a pen neatly inserted in the slot at the top. “So, I need you to sign these, and I’ll take care of the rest. How do you like the house so far?” She’s talking and moving so fast I’m having trouble keeping up.
The pen is thrust into my hand, and she holds up the clipboard. I take it and begin signing next to each of the Post-it arrows. “Well, to be honest, it’s in a lot worse shape than I thought. You said it was ‘a little worse for wear’ but this looks really bad.”
Shaking her head, she says, “That’s just because the yard’s overgrown and the boards are on the windows. Trust me, this house is solid as a rock. It’s survived four hurricanes over the past ninety years and hasn’t moved a centimeter.”
“I hope so.”
“Iknowso. You’re going to love it here.”
“There’s also another pretty major problem. I expected to have services hooked up today and when I called about it, no one is there.”
“Yes, it’s Clara McTavish’s ninetieth birthday today.”
Well, that explains it. “And everyone who works there has to attend?”
Eunice looks at me like I’ve sprouted gills. “Of course. Both her daughters run the utilities office. But truth be told, even if they were working today, they wouldn’t be able to get you hooked up. Gus is up in Dingwall.”
Oh, Dingwall. Wherever the hell that is.
“Did Nettie come by and tell you I’ve arranged a room for you next door?”
“Yes, she—” I stop because, apparently, Eunice was only pausing for a breath.
“You’ll love it there. They have the best bisque in all of Cape Breton—but don’t tell my mother-in-law I said that. And every Thursday night, they have a big kitchen party.” As she talks, her hands move swiftly, taking the documents and tucking them into her briefcase. “Such a fun time. The mayor and I are there as often as our schedules allow, but not tonight,” she says, shaking her head. “Tonight, we’re at a fundraiser for the Breton Abilities Center. Which reminds me, I must run so I can stop at the office in time to process your land title before my updo appointment.”
And she’s off, teetering down the gravel driveway in her pink heels. “Tootles! Call me if you need anything!”
