Chapter 48: Katy’s Place

January 3, 1991, Londonderry, Vermont

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” Katy said as she let me into the room she’d rented above a small hardware store.

The upper floor of the store was configured as a studio apartment but had quite a bit of space. I saw a bed, partially hidden by a movable partition, a couch with a small television on a table near it, a dinette table with two chairs, two large wardrobes, and a couple of bookshelves. A door led to what I assumed was the bathroom. Rugs, tables, and plants created a sense of separation between the areas.

“You’ve made it look very cozy,” I said truthfully.

“The couch is a sleeper. That’s where I’d assumed you would sleep. It’s up to you.”

“No, Katy,” I said gently. “It’s up to you. As I said, I talked with Jess and Kara about this. You aren’t involved with anyone, so if you want, we can sleep in the same bed. What we do is up to you.”

“Let’s take a walk around town, have some coffee, get dinner in the next town over, then come back here.”

“As you wish,” I grinned.

We followed Katy’s plan and wound up back in her rented room just after 7:00pm. She opened a bottle of wine, put on a kettle for tea, and popped some popcorn. Before she sat down, she turned on her stereo and tuned to a soft rock station.

“This is very different from Chicago, that’s for sure!” I observed. “It’s even smaller than Milford and much further from a big city than Milford.”

“It is bucolic. I love how quiet it is and the fact that I can see the stars at night. I could do without the cold and snow, but that adds its own charm, in a way.”

“It is a very different lifestyle than Chicago. I’m not sure I could handle the lack of things to do!”

“You’re one of the most active, busiest people I know. And you seem to thrive on it. I don’t. The city was wearing on me, and not just because my marriage was failing. I had the same kind of feeling in Boston growing up. Too many people; too much going on; the pace was just too fast. My only regret in moving was leaving you and your family.”

“That was hardly sufficient reason to stay in Chicago if you were unhappy otherwise,” I said. “You told me long ago what your dream was, and now you’re living it!”

“Alone,” she sighed.

“That’s not a permanent state by any stretch of the imagination! Once you move closer to the state capital, you’ll have more chances to meet someone. Speaking of that, how do you plan to take time off?”

“You’ll see it in my business plan, but I’ll have someone work part-time, a few hours a day, doing cleaning and laundry, which will give me a chance to get out. And I’ll have someone come in one Friday or Saturday evening every other week, so I have a chance to go out.”

“It sounds as if you have it all worked out!”

“It’s just a matter of getting the word out through the travel agencies.”

“Do you mind if I call Chicago?” I asked.

“Not at all! The phone is on the wall there in the kitchen.”

I went over to the wall phone and lifted the handset. I clicked on the switchhook a couple of times then, in a loud voice, “Operator? I want to place a long-distance, station-to-station call to Chicago ... the number? LIncoln 5–6733! How long is the wait for a trunk line?”

I narrowly missed the pillow thrown at me, having been warned by Katy’s shriek.

“JERK!” she exclaimed, “I’ll get you for that!”

I dialed the house in Kenwood and talked to Jessica and Kara, telling them I loved them and that I’d call again on Friday evening. When I hung up, I went back to sit with Katy.

“That was low, even for you!” she said, rolling her eyes.

We talked, ate popcorn, drank, and listened to music until bedtime.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“Come to bed with me.”

I nodded. We undressed and climbed into her bed. She snuggled close but didn’t kiss me, so I just held her, and we fell asleep.

January 4, 1991, Londonderry and Montpelier, Vermont

“I’d say this plan looks very good,” I said as we sat at the dinette table, drinking coffee.

“Thanks. We need to leave in about ten minutes to get to the property. We’ll have lunch in Montpelier, if that’s OK.”

“Sure.”

We finished our coffee and went out to Katy’s car. There was a decent amount of snow on the ground, and the temperature was around 25°F, which was warm compared to what we’d had in Chicago since Christmas.

“About last night,” she said.

“You have nothing to explain,” I said. “You know my position on that.”

“But...” she protested.

“But nothing! I’m your friend, and I didn’t come here with any expectations other than seeing my friend and the property she wants to buy.”

“But you said you talked to Jessica and Kara about it.”

“Yes, of course. I have to follow the simple rules that my wives and I have agreed on. But it was purely speculative. In fact, I predicted to Kara that you would most likely just want me to hold you the way I did last night. And even that was a question because you and I hadn’t talked all that much since you left.”

“You are still a VERY frustrating man,” Katy sighed.

“Why, thank you!” I said with a grin.

Just under two hours later, we turned into a snow-covered drive that appeared to be gravel under the packed snow. We drove about half a mile through the apple orchard before the farmhouse came into view. One look told me this was a perfect place, one where I’d personally be very happy to stay and where I’d bring my wives.

“It’s fantastic,” I said.

“Wait until you see the interior!”

She parked her silver Ford Taurus next to a black Lincoln Town Car, and we got out. We walked up to the front door and went inside, where the agent, a middle-aged woman, was waiting for us in the foyer. Katy introduced us, and we began the tour.

Katy was right; the inside was a sight to behold. The floors were oak strip, and there was intricate woodwork for the baseboards and molding. A huge brick fireplace dominated one wall, and several large picture windows looked out over the expanse of the orchard. The kitchen had new stainless steel appliances, including a large six-burner stove, a double oven, and a chest freezer to go along with the refrigerator.

After touring the first floor, we walked up a wide, sweeping oak staircase to the second floor, which was appointed similarly to the first. A small door opened to a steep staircase that led to the finished attic where Katy would live. While not as nicely appointed as the ‘public’ floors were, it was certainly very nice. A quick trip to the basement confirmed what Katy had told me about it.

“Mr. Adams, what do you think?” the agent asked.

I smiled, “I think I need to speak privately with Katy.”

“Of course,” she she agreed.

Katy and I walked to the kitchen and stood by a picture window with a gorgeous view.

“I’d say it’s perfect,” I said. “I’ll co-sign the note and put up the amount we discussed. I wasn’t surprised when they accepted your contingent counteroffer.”

“The agent wasn’t either. They’ve been trying to sell for over a year. I could never afford something like this in Massachusetts or Illinois. Prices here are still rational.”

“You should see California,” I said, shaking my head. “My former boss at Nuvatec could only buy a house there with help from the company he works for. And he makes very good money.”

“Your house wasn’t cheap by any stretch!”

“No, it wasn’t, but thanks to my dad doing the deal with me and my renters, I could afford it when it was available. Did you arrange the financing?”

“We need to go to the bank this afternoon so you can fill out your part of the application. I assume you have all the necessary paperwork?”

“In my leather bag in the car. When the time comes, the bank will need to send me the documents by Federal Express to sign and have notarized in Illinois and I’ll send them back. Then, you can sign at the closing. I’ll have the money in the escrow account by then.”

Katy hugged me tight and kissed me on the cheek.

“Thanks for helping me make my dream come true.”

“You’re welcome.”

We walked back to the great room where the agent was standing.

“I have my investor,” she said. “We can proceed.”

“I’ll get things started on our end.”

“And we’ll go to the bank today to complete the loan application.”

We all shook hands and left the house. Katy and I got into her Taurus, and she drove me around so that I could get an idea of the area. It was beautiful, but not someplace I’d want to live full-time. Montpelier, the state capital, only had about 8,500 residents. Even Burlington on the New York border only had 40,000 people, less than many Chicago suburbs. Heck, Woodlawn and Hyde Park each had just under 30,000 people! Kenwood, where the house technically was, only had about 18,000, but it was still huge compared to most cities in Vermont.

We stopped in a small diner for lunch and then went to what appeared to be the only bank in the small capital city that was not even twice the size of Milford. We parked on the street and walked into the bank. We walked over to a woman sitting at a desk opposite the tellers.

“Mr. Allen is expecting us,” she said.

The young woman got up and went to an office just behind her desk.

“His name is really Ethan Allen?” I asked quietly.

“Yes. He’s related, distantly, to the famous one. Kind of like my neighbors back home who are distantly related to Paul Revere.”

“Mr. Allen will see you now,” she said.

Our meeting took about twenty minutes as we worked out the details of the loan. I provided Jamie’s and Bruce Grady’s names and addresses and got copies of all the forms I’d need to fill out. I handed him a folder of documents that Bruce had prepared for me, and after Mr. Allen reviewed them, we shook hands, and Katy and I headed back to Londonderry.

“Wow,” she said when we sat down on her couch after the two-hour drive. “Were you this excited when you bought the house?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “The only thing missing from that farmhouse is a sauna!”

“I don’t think we can afford one at this point. I’ll add it to the list!”

“I’d go with a freestanding one,” I said. “There’s enough space between the back of the house and the orchard to fit a nicely sized one. But that’s going to be a few years down the road, if you do it at all. When do you think you’ll open?”

“March. I’ll get started lining up furniture and everything else I’m going to need right away. Will you be my first guests?”

“I’ll see what we can do. We’d have to make it a three-day weekend, and I’m not sure we can bring all the kids with us.”

“Just let me know. Shall we make some dinner?” Katy asked.

“Sure!”

“What would you like?”

“You know me; I’ll eat just about anything!”

“How about me?” she asked quietly.

“Before or after dinner?” I asked.

“Both, please. You can do anything you want. Anything.”

“Katy, is this because of the property?”

She sighed deeply, “I just need to feel close to someone right now. And I know you love me.”

I nodded, “I do, which is why I’m concerned about you.”

“Will you stop arguing with me and ravish me?” she demanded, exasperated.

I smiled, “Let’s go to bed, Katy O’Connor.”

We never did get to eat a real dinner. We ate fruit and cheese and drank some wine while I recovered, though I spent a lot of time pleasuring Katy with my tongue as well. Our lovemaking was gentle and slow, and Katy cried out in ecstasy over and over before we finally fell asleep around midnight.

January 5, 1991, On the road from Londonderry, Vermont to Boston, Massachusetts

“I still don’t believe you turned that down,” Katy said as we neared Logan Airport.

“You didn’t REALLY want that,” I said gently. “You were just so emotional that you were willing to do it.”

“I would have let you,” she said quietly.

“That’s just it. It’s not about letting me; it’s about wanting to do it.”

“I maintain you are the strangest man I know!” she laughed. “No other guy on the planet would say no to that if I’d offered it!”

“Bethany has really worked me over about the issue of consent over the years and it sunk in. The key thing she said is that acquiescence is not consent. And I think she’s right about that. Following her guidance has served me well.”

“I’m glad she’s doing OK. She’s such a sweet girl and had more than her share of adversity.”

“No kidding,” I agreed. “She has to be the strongest person I know.”

“I’ll just drop you at ‘Departures’; Logan doesn’t let me come down to the gate.”

“O’Hare just implemented the same rule,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t think it makes any real difference in security. It might SEEM more secure, but it really isn’t. Hijackers buy tickets; they don’t just rush the plane.”

“Is this another patented Steve Adams ‘Police State’ rant?” Katy laughed.

“No, just an observation. I actually don’t have a problem with security screening because it’s done by companies employed by each individual airline or a consortium of airlines. To me, that works because the airlines have a vested interest in not letting a gun or bomb or whatever on the plane.”

“Ever the capitalist!”

“If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be buying your property, Miss O’Connor!”

We pulled up to the American Airlines doors, and after a quick kiss, I got out of the car, taking my bag with me.

January 5, 1991, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

“These are excellent seats!” I exclaimed as we waited for the puck to drop.

“The Pens don’t sell out very often, so it’s not hard to find seats for games. And there are lots of season ticket holders who put some of their games up for sale. The Devils aren’t a high-demand ticket like the Flyers.”

“Are you a hockey fan, Marie? Or are you just here because Mario is?”

“I like hockey, but I prefer baseball.”

“How is your PhD work coming?”

“It’s only a question of whether I kill my advisor before or after I finish my dissertation.”

“Of those two options, I’d advise ‘after’, and by ‘after’, I mean after he accepts it.”

“She. But yeah!”

“Tara, where are you going to school?” I asked Marie’s younger sister, who filled out our foursome.

“CMU. I’m a Freshman, and I haven’t declared a major yet. I’m not sure what I want to do yet. Where did you go to school?”

“Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago.”

“And you started your company right out of college?”

“Yes. Mario was our first hire after the Founders. He’s been with us almost from the start.”

We stopped our conversation to stand for the National Anthem, then the puck was dropped, and all of my attention was on the game. Two hours later, I was hoarse and happy. Five different Penguins scored — Coffey, Errey, Jágr, Murphy, and Recchi. Tom Barrasso held the Devils scoreless, giving the Pens a 5–0 victory.

“How did you get to be such a huge Penguins fan living in Chicago?” Tara asked.

“When The NHL and WHA merged, Cincinnati lost their team. I had to pick and chose the Pens.”

“It’s been a long, sad ten years, hasn’t it?”

“They have what they need to win the Cup this year if Super Mario can get healthy! Adding Jágr was a huge benefit, and Barrasso is an excellent goalie.”

“Do you want to get some drinks?” Mario asked.

“Sure!” I agreed.

“There’s a pub close to the Igloo that has tables. So long as we order food, there’s no problem with Tara being there.”

I’d questioned Mario about why he brought her along, and he’d told me he had to buy four tickets from the season ticket holder. Marie had suggested offering the extra ticket to her little sister, a hockey fan. That had been a great idea because Tara turned out to be fun and engaging and had been almost as excited with each goal as I had been.

We left the stadium and walked a few blocks to a sports-themed bar, asked for a table, and ordered loaded nachos and drinks.

“Still drinking bourbon?” Mario asked.

“That’s pretty much all I drink, though I do occasionally go for rye, Irish whisky, or others in the same basic family. I will drink wine with dinner, of course.”