Chapter 2: Deniece Trying to Get Back Into Life

Saturday morning found Deniece in the kitchen, pouring cereal and juice for the kids while mentally rehearsing her plans for the day. She had asked her neighbor Jaclyn to come over with her children around ten—the same time she’d scheduled the first viewing of the room. The arrangement was perfect: Jaclyn’s kids, Mason and Lily, got along wonderfully with her own children, and their playful energy would keep all four of them occupied in the backyard or basement playroom while Deniece handled potential renters.

“Mom, can we have waffles instead?” her son David asked, eyeing the cereal with disappointment.

“Not today, buddy. We’ve got a busy morning ahead,” she explained, ruffling his hair. “Remember what we talked about? Some people are coming to see the extra bedroom, and Jaclyn’s bringing Mason and Lily over to play.”

“Will they stay in our house forever?” her daughter Wendy asked, her small face suddenly serious.

Deniece knelt down to Wendy’s eye level. “No, sweetie. Just one person will rent the room, and they’ll only be living in that one upstairs bedroom. Our home is still our home.” She’d been careful to prepare the children, explaining several times that renting the room was like having a long-term guest who would help them around the house.

She glanced at the clock—only an hour before Jaclyn would arrive with reinforcements. She had already prepared a basket of snacks, juice boxes, and activities to keep the children entertained. The basement was stocked with board games and art supplies, and she’d set up the sprinkler in the backyard in case they wanted to cool off in the afternoon heat.

The kids would be well-supervised and happily distracted, giving her the space to focus on assessing potential tenants without little ears absorbing every word or curious eyes studying strangers with too much intensity.

As she watched her children eat breakfast, she silently thanked Jaclyn for understanding exactly what she needed without requiring lengthy explanations. That was the gift of the friendship they’d built since Michael’s passing—an intuitive support system that anticipated needs before they were voiced.

Deniece had put on another summer dress—a flattering A-line in soft coral that complemented her complexion and projected an image of a put-together homeowner. She checked her reflection briefly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before heading to the kitchen to prepare for the day’s visitors.

Opening the refrigerator, she inspected its contents with a critical eye. She’d stocked a pitcher of freshly made lemonade, some bottled water, and iced tea for offering to prospective renters. She wanted to appear hospitable without seeming overeager. Next to the drinks sat a small plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies she’d baked with David and Wendy yesterday evening--an activity that had doubled as both a distraction and a way to involve them in the preparations.

“Mom, when are Mason and Lily coming?” David called from the living room where he was arranging his favorite action figures in an elaborate battle formation.

“They’ll be here any minute, sweetheart,” she replied, glancing at the kitchen clock. “Could you please help Wendy pick up her coloring books from the coffee table?”

Wendy, still in her pajamas with unicorns printed on them, looked up from where she sat on the floor. “Do I hafta change clothes?”

“Yes, honey. Remember we talked about making a good impression? Why don’t you wear that pretty blue dress Grandma got you?”

As Wendy trudged upstairs to change, Deniece did one final walkthrough of the downstairs. The house was immaculate—she’d spent hours cleaning after the children went to bed, wanting everything to appear effortlessly perfect. She’d placed fresh flowers on the entryway table and subtle air fresheners in strategic locations throughout the house. The lease agreement she’d downloaded and modified sat neatly in a folder on the kitchen counter, along with a list of house rules and emergency contacts.

She checked her phone—fifteen minutes until Jaclyn would arrive with her kids, thirty minutes until the first appointment. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. It had been so long since she’d had to evaluate strangers, to make quick judgments about character and compatibility. What if her instincts were rusty? What if she chose wrong?

The sound of the doorbell interrupted her spiral of worry. Jaclyn was early—thank goodness. With her friend’s reassuring presence and the buffer of four energetic children creating background noise, perhaps this wouldn’t feel quite so much like inviting potential danger into their carefully constructed safe haven.

Jaclyn’s eyes swept over Deniece’s dress as she stepped through the doorway, her two kids rushing past to find David and Wendy. She raised an eyebrow and broke into a mischievous grin.

“Well, well, look at you! All dressed up and glowing,” she teased, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If the first applicant happens to be a good-looking single guy, just remember there’s a perfectly functional lock on that bedroom door. You know, in case you need to ... evaluate his long-term potential more thoroughly.”

Deniece felt heat rush to her cheeks as she laughed and swatted Jaclyn’s arm. “Stop it! This is strictly business. The only thing I’m evaluating is whether they can pay rent on time and won’t burn the house down.”

“Uh-huh,” Jaclyn replied, her expression unconvinced. “That’s why you’re wearing your ‘make the dads at school pickup take a second look’ dress. Very businesslike.”

“It’s called making a good impression! I want to look respectable.”

“Respectable is a cardigan and sensible shoes. That dress says, ‘I might have forgotten what fun feels like, but I’m willing to be reminded.’”

The sound of children’s laughter drifted up from the basement, providing a welcome distraction from Jaclyn’s relentless teasing. Deniece shook her head, grateful for her friend’s ability to break the tension even as she protested, “The only thing this dress says is ‘I’m not a slob who lives in sweatpants,’ which seemed like an important message for a potential tenant.”

“Well, mission accomplished. And just so you know,” Jaclyn added with a wink, “I’ve got the kids covered for as long as you need. Even if your ‘tenant interview’ requires checking out how sturdy that guest bed is.”

“I hate you,” Deniece laughed, feeling some of her nervousness dissolve in the warmth of their friendship.

“No, you don’t. You love me and my inappropriate commentary. Now, where’s the wine? I think we both need a glass before the candidates start arriving.”

The women moved to the kitchen where Deniece produced a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the refrigerator with practiced efficiency. She poured two generous glasses, and they settled at the kitchen table, the sounds of delighted children shrieking and giggling in the basement providing a chaotic soundtrack to their moment of adult calm.

“To your new adventure in landlady-dom,” Jaclyn said, raising her glass. “May your tenant be clean, quiet, and completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve forgotten how to talk to adults who aren’t parents of your children’s friends.”

Deniece clinked glasses with a laugh. “I can talk to adults just fine!”

“Really? Because last week when that cute guy at the grocery store asked if you knew where the coffee filters were, you turned the color of a fire truck and pointed in three different directions before running away.”

“I did not run—I walked briskly. And he wasn’t cute, he was ... unexpected.”

“Unexpected hotness is still hotness,” Jaclyn countered, taking a sip of her wine. “So what’s your strategy here? Are you going to interrogate these poor people like they’re applying to the CIA, or just rent to whoever doesn’t have visible face tattoos?”

Deniece pulled out a small notebook. “I have a list of questions and red flags to watch for.”

Jaclyn grabbed the notebook and flipped through it, her eyebrows climbing higher with each page. “Good lord, Dee. ‘What time do you typically shower?’ ‘Do you cook with strong spices?’ ‘Rate your singing voice on a scale from one to Whitney Houston’? This isn’t tenant screening, it’s dating profile material!”

“I need to know these things!” Deniece protested, reaching for her notebook.

“And God forbid someone belts out Celine Dion at 7 AM while shampooing,” Jaclyn teased, holding the notebook just out of reach. “You know what? I’m staying for these interviews. Someone needs to translate your crazy into normal human interaction.”

About that time, the front doorbell chimed, its melodic tone causing both women to freeze mid-conversation. Deniece’s eyes widened as she glanced at the clock—ten minutes early. She smoothed her dress, took a fortifying sip of wine, and gave Jaclyn a panicked look.

“You’ve got this,” Jaclyn whispered, squeezing her friend’s hand. “I’ll be your wing woman. Just try not to interrogate them about their showering habits in the first five minutes.”

Deniece hurried to the front door, took a deep breath, and pulled it open with what she hoped was a welcoming smile. Standing on her porch was a young woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in neat khaki pants and a crisp blue blouse, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She clutched a leather portfolio and wore the slightly anxious expression of someone determined to make a good impression.

“Hi, I’m Aisha Carter,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m here about the room rental? I know I’m a bit early—I’m so sorry. I always overestimate traffic.”

“Deniece Wilson,” she replied, shaking the offered hand. “Please, come in. Being early is refreshing, actually.”

As Deniece led Aisha through the foyer and into the living room, Jaclyn appeared with an easy smile and two glasses of lemonade. “I thought our guest might appreciate something cold. I’m Jaclyn, the nosy neighbor who’s here to make sure Deniece doesn’t scare you away with her extensive questionnaire.”

Aisha laughed, some tension visibly leaving her shoulders. “Thank you. It is warm out there.”

“So, Aisha,” Deniece began, shooting Jaclyn a warning glance, “what brings you to this area?”

“I just accepted a position at Memorial Hospital as a physical therapist,” Aisha explained, accepting the lemonade gratefully. “I’ve been living with my parents about forty minutes away, but the commute would be brutal.”

“A physical therapist!” Jaclyn exclaimed. “That’s perfect! Deniece here has this recurring shoulder thing that makes her cranky as—”

“What Jaclyn means,” Deniece interrupted, “is that’s a wonderful profession. Very stable. Do you work irregular hours? Nights? Weekends?” She tried to sound casual rather than interrogative.

“I’ll work some weekend rotations, but mostly regular business hours,” Aisha replied.

Jaclyn leaned forward conspiratorially. “What Deniece is trying to ask in her roundabout way is whether you’ll be coming home at 2 AM and waking up the household. She’s too polite to just ask directly.”

Aisha smiled. “No late nights for me. I’m actually quite boring—early to bed, early to rise. I do yoga in the mornings, but I’m very quiet about it.”

As the conversation continued, Jaclyn seamlessly translated Deniece’s carefully worded concerns into straightforward questions, and Aisha’s answers into reassurances. What could have been an awkward interview transformed into a pleasant conversation among three women, punctuated by occasional laughter from the basement below.

“I’m sorry, but I have three others scheduled today,” Deniece said, rising from her seat with a polite smile. “I’ll need to consider all the applicants before making a decision. Would it be alright if I call you tomorrow with my answer?”

Aisha nodded understandingly as she gathered her portfolio. “Of course, that makes perfect sense. Thank you so much for your time and for showing me the space. It’s really lovely.”

After walking Aisha to the door and exchanging pleasantries, Deniece closed the door behind her and leaned against it with a dramatic sigh.

“Well,” Jaclyn said, raising an eyebrow, “she was horrifically normal and stable. What a disappointment.”

Deniece laughed despite herself. “I know, right? No visible red flags, steady income, goes to bed at a reasonable hour. Where’s the fun in that?”

“She didn’t even have the decency to have a suspicious hobby or a questionable pet,” Jaclyn agreed, refilling their wine glasses. “Just ‘yoga’ and ‘reading.’ How are you supposed to get juicy gossip for our wine nights with that?”

“Maybe one of the next applicants will be a part-time clown or collect taxidermized squirrels,” Deniece suggested, taking her glass. “Something to really liven up the place.”

“My money’s on the next one having at least one mysterious scar and a story that changes every time they tell it,” Jaclyn said, settling back at the kitchen table. “Cheers to boring, stable tenants who pay their rent on time and don’t murder us in our sleep.”

“The absolute lowest bar,” Deniece agreed, clinking glasses, “and yet, somehow refreshing to clear it on the first try.”

It was about thirty minutes later when a sharp knock—not the doorbell, just three decisive raps—interrupted Deniece and Jaclyn’s second glass of wine. They exchanged glances before Deniece rose to answer.

Standing on her porch was a heavyset man in his mid-forties with a gleaming bald head that caught the afternoon sun like a spotlight. He wore an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt stretched taut across his substantial midsection and carried a small pet carrier in one hand.

“Gerald Finkelstein,” he announced without preamble. “Here about the room.” His eyes darted past her, taking inventory of the foyer.

“Yes, of course. Please come in, Mr. Finkelstein,” Deniece replied, stepping aside while trying not to stare at the pet carrier, from which suspicious scratching noises emanated.

As Gerald stepped into the living room, Jaclyn’s eyes widened at the sight of the carrier, her wine glass freezing halfway to her lips.

“This is my neighbor, Jaclyn,” Deniece explained, gesturing somewhat helplessly.

“Ladies,” Gerald acknowledged with a nod before setting the carrier on the coffee table. “This is Professor Whiskers. He goes where I go.”

On cue, a large gray rat poked its nose through the carrier door, twitching its whiskers inquisitively at the women.

“I, um, didn’t mention pets in the ad,” Deniece stammered, taking an involuntary step back.

“Professor Whiskers isn’t a pet,” Gerald said, looking genuinely offended. “He’s a certified emotional support animal and my research assistant. He has his own business cards.” He reached into his pocket and produced a tiny, actual business card that read “Professor Whiskers, Ph.D. in Cheese Studies.”