Chapter 1: New Townhouses Lead to New Intimate Friendships

New Townhouses lead to new intimate friendships

I was the sixth person to move into Dillon Run, the brand new cream of the crop development of thirty-two townhouses in Dillon, Massachusetts. Romantic relationships and sex were the last thing on my mind.

The development ran along a picturesque portion of the Merrimack River where it took a turn, so the multistory buildings curved to follow the river, and to provide a break from the usual linear developments other contractors and speculators were building. My two-story unit was right in the middle – Unit 16.

The developers had put my name over the mail slot on the front door: ‘Jane Atkins.’ Missing were other defining features: age thirty two; two successful romance novels recently in print and selling well – the kind with a knockoff of Fabio on the cover – with muscles and long flowing hair, and holding a damsel about to break through the bodice of her dress because her boobs are so large and quivery; plus my regular job as a 9-1-1 dispatcher for the tri-county area.

I’d become single again, after what had turned out to be a disastrous seven-year marriage that tried to redefine love and affection with alcohol, drugs, verbal and then physical abuse, and a huge amount of cheating, lying, and financial malfeasance. We’d skipped having kids because, I guess, I could see the writing on the wall and left me penniless. I still had time, but as my friends reminded me constantly, my biological clock was nearing midnight so Cinderella better get busy.

The first thing after the divorce decree was move out of the dump I’d been forced to live in with my tramp husband. I bought one of the cheaper townhouse units in the development called Dillon Run. I think the most expensive ones sold for around three times what I paid – those units were on the ends of the development and had more windows, better decorating and appliances, and the best views up and down the river next to the units. The others had been sold, but when I moved in many were still having interior finish work done on them; almost as soon as a unit was finished, someone moved in.

For my investment, I got three thousand square feet of living space, plus a two-car private garage, access to all the common elements of the complex, including sauna, gym, meeting rooms, party rooms, additional storage space, picnic area, and routine security patrols of the property.

You might wonder how a lowly hourly employee and struggling author afforded such an expensive place to live, along with the attendant other expenses, such as large quarterly payments to the home owners association, taxes, and all the utilities. Well, normally I couldn’t.

Two things offset my financial burden. First, I inherited a bag of money, specifically five million. I paid cash for my unit, and invested the remainder of the money so that it would generate enough interest and dividends to allow me to stay there forever rent-free. I had upscale tastes, and this was what I wanted. It also left me without rent or a mortgage, plus money to play with if I didn’t go too wild.

The second offset was Sheila Morgan, my housemate who was twenty-eight, blond, blue eyed, and gorgeous, but with an inferiority complex the size of Montana. (Mine was only the size of Connecticut.) Not wanting to live alone, I rented out a bedroom and full house privileges throughout the rest of the townhouse. I’d picked Sheila rather carefully based on four interviews and careful reference checks that included a visit to where she worked. She had a steady income from her work as a high school science teacher and cheerleader coach, seemed quiet and well-spoken when I interviewed her, had hopes of meeting Mr. Right, and seemed to tolerate my quirky personality, or as much of it as I displayed during the interviews. She appreciated the thoroughness of my selection process, and moved in a week after I did. We were nicely compatible and seemed to flow nicely around each other; further, I enjoyed talking with her.

After watching Sheila for our first two weeks together, I concluded that she didn’t go out except to get some groceries and go to work.

I evaluated myself by the same criteria, and discovered that I didn’t go out except to get some groceries and go to work.

My opportunity to meet new people – men – was handicapped at that point in my new life by my job. The 9-1-1 center where I worked resided in a storm proof building on high ground that had few windows and mostly other women working the various phone lines, some for various types of dispatch – police, fire, EMT, and then a raft of special government and quasi-government communications needs, for instance, hazmat responses and suicide hotlines.

We worked in teams of two or three unless we were overloaded with calls, and then we were singles. In my work building, I did four two-hour stints a day at a desk wearing a headset, and facing a computer screen that showed the location of just about every emergency vehicle in the three county area, plus would pop up the location of a call, and as we learned the nature of the emergency, would give us scripts to work from, for instance, how to give CPR. The work was fun and I felt I was contributing to society in a meaningful way.

Sheila was relatively low key and unemotional, a trait I thought unusual to have as a cheerleader coach, which I thought had to be all rah-rah, go-go, and all. Thus, I paid special attention to her when she burst through the door after her second week at the high school, flashed me a huge smile, and gave me the news; “Jane, I just met the man who’s moving into the unit on the south end. Oh, God, he’s so handsome he made my heart beat faster. I’ll have fantasies about him for a week.”

I asked, “What’s he doing?”

“Moving in, he said, even though some of the rooms aren’t done yet. He told me he had a company along Route 128 – his own company, can you imagine that? He also has a new black Jaguar, such a sleek looking car. He must be loaded with money. Did I tell you he’s so handsome; he reminds me of Matthew McConaughey. He has arm muscles, and I bet he even has six-pack abs. I wanted to rape him on the spot.”

This was the most emotive I’d ever heard Sheila since I’d met her forty-five days prior, plus she’d never displayed passion about anything, and here she was ready to throw herself at the newest resident of Dillon Run.

I asked, “What’s his name?”

“Paul King. Isn’t that the greatest name?”

“Is there a Mrs. King?”

Sheila stopped short. In one clipped sentence I’d shattered her daydream. The bubble burst, her shoulders dropped, and she dejectedly said, “I don’t know. He seemed alone.”

“Well, take me and introduce your housemate. You can get to see him again.”

Sheila perked up, “Great idea. I’ll have to figure out how to ask his marital status.”

I checked myself in the mirror, and then followed Sheila out the door. We strolled down the brick paved street towards the large moving van. I noted the black Jag in his garage; the doors were open, a violation of HOA rule of some kind, but I guess we’re forgiving on moving days.

A tall sandy haired man matching Sheila’s description came out the front door of Unit 32. She was right; he was a hunk.

Sheila and I walked towards him, but he scowled in our direction and then went to the door of the moving van and gave a few instructions to someone inside as he pointed to various boxes.

Before I could say anything or stop her, Sheila hopped ahead a few steps. “Hi, Mr. King. I brought my housemate over to meet you.”

He turned with a neutral look on his face.

He said, “Oh, yes. You’re Shelly, right?”

“No, Sheila, and this is my friend Jane Atkins. We’re in Unit 16.”

The way Sheila had spoken, I was sure he thought we were lesbians. I cringed, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Paul didn’t offer a hand. He gave a flash of a smile, and said, “Nice to meet you two. Busy day here.” After that he turned back to the foreman of the moving team and started to talk about which boxes went to which rooms.

I pulled Sheila away. She looked dejected.

I said, “Sheila, there’s no Mrs. King, so cheer up.”

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“He wasn’t wearing a ring. All the boxes in the van that I could see were all male oriented stuff. There are only a couple of wardrobe boxes. The car is obviously his, and he’s already filling the other side of his garage with one bicycle, one pair of skis and equipment, and one single-person kayak. He may be spoken for elsewhere, but I’m pretty sure there ain’t a Mrs. King.”

Sheila soaked all that in, and started to bubble over again as we walked back to our unit.

I next saw Mr. Paul King about a week later as I was leaving for my 9-1-1 job. He was just starting to roll past my car in his to the exit from our little complex. I waved. I got a serious look for him, even a stare that seemed to say ‘Who are you, Weirdo?’ and then he drove on by. I had become very under-impressed with Mr. King’s social skills.

A week after that, we had four more units occupied, all by couples. One young and eager couple – Jack and Katie, organized a wine and cheese hour after work on a Friday. Sheila and I showed up, and we all welcomed each other to the newly opened Dillon Run.

About six-thirty, Paul King, showed up with a male friend in tow. They greeted a few people, but I had the feeling that the illusive Mr. King was going out of his way to stay clear of Sheila and me.

I thought that made three strikes for him: crappy attitude, failure to return a friendly wave, and avoidance in a pleasant social setting. Well, I thought, Mr. King, fuck you.

I watched Sheila try to engage him in conversation, but she obviously got brushed off. King wanted to talk to his guest and avoid us. I wondered if the guy was Mr. King’s boyfriend, as in gay buddy. I watched, but couldn’t see any inclination that they were doing anything other than talk. Eventually, after one drink, the pair left the courtyard where the early autumn event had been held and walked back towards King’s unit.

Sheila burst into the apartment after work about ten days later. “Jane, I think Paul King is having an affair with Leslie Rollins in Unit 23.”

“OK, why do you think that?” My tone of voice dripped with disapproval, not at Sheila but at the apparently flamboyant Mr. King.

“Well, I just saw him coming out of the Rollin’s front door. He was barely dressed: no shirt, running shorts, and sneakers. He does have six-pack abs by the way. Leslie had come to the door with him. She was wearing a robe – a short one that showed lots of leg. They talked for a minute and waved goodbye. He was carrying some repair tools ... I suppose he could have been helping her.”

I pondered that situation for a moment. I said, “Or using the tools as an alibi. Well, I hope they’re happy. Didn’t we meet her husband at the social event?”

“Yeah, David Rollins. He was nice.”

So, now I rated Mr. King as not only socially obnoxious, but also as a philanderer with married women. He was not only striking out, he was out of the ballpark. I noted that my sports analogy seemed to be breaking down. My opinion of Leslie Rollins wasn’t all that high as of that moment either.

Sheila said in an animated tone, “Besides that, this morning I met Paul King’s friend, the man he’d brought to the party. His name is Mike Jenkins. He’s been living at Paul’s for a couple of weeks until his unit is finished – Unit 1. He said his stuff was in storage, so he’d been living out of a suitcase. He’s a venture capital guy with his own business too, and I bet he’s put money into King’s company.”

“Sheila, you make a great gossip, and you make me curious about the two of them. Someday, I’ll do a little research on them.” I was curious enough to start that research about twenty minutes later when I finally got to my computer.

King Enterprises was heading for an IPO or initial public offering, so they were in the news a great deal, mostly speculating about the opening or strike price for the stock. The company made, marketed, and distributed electronic stuff, including home and small business security systems. Part of what they made came from South Korea or Viet Nam, and the rest was made in the U.S. They employed about one thousand people, but were growing at a rapid rate.

Mike Jenkins was a little harder to trace. He had been a partner at Ross, Hendricks, Jenkins, and Prendergast on the west coast, but left to start his own firm apparently in Boston. He was apparently worth a small fortune, and was heavily invested in companies like Paul King’s, always for an equity share, particularly if the company might go public within a year. He was reported to have coined the expression, ‘get in fast, and get out slow,’ a mantra describing how to scoop the market, and not let shares deflate when you sold out.

There was little about either man’s personal life in the research I uncovered. It’s nice to know your neighbors.

While I occasionally saw both men and automatically waved, the best I got in return was a reply wave or nod. At least, I elicited a smile from each of the once in a while, including Paul King.

My first reversal of opinion about Paul King came one day when I was leaving and waved at Sheila. I pulled up to wish her a nice day.

Sheila said, “You know, the way the light hits your windshield or other car windows with the tint on them, no one can see you inside the car. You’re just a big dark blob. I had to look really hard to see if anyone were even driving.”

Her remark gave me pause for thought, and made me revisit many of the times Paul King had gawked at me as I drove by. Maybe he wasn’t being unfriendly; maybe he was just trying to figure out who was inside.

I also was outside sweeping some leaves off our front step one autumn weekend afternoon when Mike Jenkins came by on his bicycle after a ride.

“Hi. Isn’t this the perfect day?” he laughed. “All the leaves are changing colors, the temperature is perfect for a workout, and we’re all young enough to appreciate it.”

I smiled at him and held up my end of the conversation.

Eventually, he asked, “How’s your partner?”

Now, the word ‘partner’ in my social circle is reserved for use with same sex couples.

I tilted my head and replied, “Sheila’s working on her lesson plans for next week.” I gestured into the townhouse. “Did you think we were a couple?”

“Errr, yes. The only time I’ve seen you, except for heading off to work, you’ve been together. I just thought ... and Paul also speculated...”

I clarified, “No, we’re not. I own the house, and Sheila merely rents a bedroom. She’s very easy to get along with and has also become a good friend.”

I could see the shades lift in Mike’s eyes. I wondered whether we’d just been added back into the list of eligible females he’d want to date.

I turned the tables, “And, you and Paul are not... ?”

Mike laughed, “No, not at all. We met through business. I funded part of his business’s expansion with our VC funds. When I moved here from Silicon Valley, my unit was supposed to be finished by the end of August. It wasn’t, so Mike invited me to stay at his place until I could move into mine.”

I chuckled, “I think we’re both the victim of erroneous assumptions about two members of the same sex living together. Please accept my apologies for my stereotypical behavior.”

“And mine,” Mike chuckled. “Maybe we should all get together to have drinks sometime soon.”

“I’d like that, and I’m sure Sheila would.”

On that note we parted.

My next interaction with Paul King occurred about one a.m. the Monday before Thanksgiving.

I awoke to an insistent pounding on our front door. I whipped on a robe, and went downstairs to street level to see what the commotion was all about.

I opened the front door, and there stood King in running shorts, but wearing a jacket. He wore sneakers, but they were not laced.

King said excitedly, “You should wake up. There’s a fire two doors down. I just called 9-1-1. Come on, I think you should get out of there. You’re not in danger now, but if it spreads in this direction, I’d worry about you.”

I said, “Thank you. I’ll get Sheila up. How’d you see it?”

As he headed to the next unit, he said, “I’d just stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air, when I smelled smoke. I threw on some shoes and a coat, and figured out the source of the odor. Now, there’s smoke coming from inside the unit.”

I ran back up the stairs. Five minutes later, Sheila and I burst out the front door, clothed and wearing jackets since we expected to have to stand around in the chilly night air for a while. The fire department had just arrived. The odor of smoke permeated the area.

Heavy smoke rolled out of a cracked upstairs window at Unit 14. Moments later, we watched as the local fire department broke the door in, and deployed into the place, most wearing oxygen tanks and face masks.

Paul King was evident at the scene, talking to the battalion commander. Most of us knew the unit hadn’t been occupied yet, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was empty.

A few minutes later, we saw several of the upstairs windows opened, and copious amounts of additional smoke. A high volume fan was taken into the unit to air out the smoke. An hour later, as we stood outside our unit, the all-clear was given to return.

Paul came up to us to share that news. “One of the workmen left a bunch of batteries charging overnight. Something happened and the charging unit shorted out in some way. It caught onto some papers and rags nearby. One fireman said there was some significant damage in one room, but except for the smoke, nothing spread further. It’s all under control now.”

We thanked Paul for his news and started to reenter our townhouse.

As I did, I saw Paul walk up to Doug and Leslie Rollins, sharing the news with them. In front of her husband, Leslie hugged Paul but he seemed a little stiff about the encounter. That interested me. There must be some crazy relationship there.

Climate change got blamed for the thirty-inch snowfall in twenty-four hours the whole area received on December 17^th. Roads were impassable, if one could even get out of their garage. The governor asked everyone to stay home.

The small street that ran past the townhouses and enabled access to our garages was barely walkable, and our plowing service had not kept up with the load. The snow was at least level with the tops of the picnic tables our complex had put down near the river.

I opened the front door to face a pile of snow up to my waist. Sheila and I looked forlorn about ever clearing our snow. We had one small snow shovel.

“I’ll start on this,” I said. “You relieve me in twenty minutes or so.”

Sheila nodded, and I waded into the drift of snow with my inadequate tool. I started throwing small shovelfuls atop the bushes that had long since disappeared.

I had just hit my stride when a voice behind me said, “Oh, let me help.”

A dark figure stood behind me in an insulated snowsuit, the kind snowmobilers wear. He started to dig into the mass of white flakes from the path in the street. Paul King was clearing my sidewalk and a path to my front door to meet up with the meager attempt I’d started.

He said, “Isn’t this marvelous? I love snow. Everything is so beautiful and pristine. I wish I were a better photographer.”

“Is that your hobby,” I asked as I tossed more snow onto the bushes that fronted my unit.

“One of them, but I don’t have much time for any of them.”

“Did you close you company today?”

“Yes, of course.” He looked skyward; “The powers that be had other plans for me today.” He opened his mouth to catch a few snowflakes.

A perky female voice from several doors down shouted, “Hey! Hi. Merry Christmas. It’s guaranteed to be a white one this year.” It was Leslie Rollins, also sporting a snow shovel.

Paul turned and smiled, “Hi, Sis. Yes, it is. If I ever get out of here, I’ll go help Mom and Dad.”

I had frozen in position. I stared at Paul. Another misconception about him lay in shattered pieces on the ground.

I blurted out, “Leslie is you sister?”

Paul laughed, “Yes, and Doug my brother-in-law. Can you believe the two of us decided to live in the same complex? We’re not real social with each other, haven’t seen each other all that much, but...”