Smitten Read Free

looked at each other as if they didn’t believe her.
    Lizabeth stood at the front door. “You guys know the rules. Don’t open the door to strangers. Call Mrs. Fee next door if there’s a problem. My work address and phone number are posted on the bulletin board in the kitchen.”
    Billy put his arm around his little brother. “Don’t worry, Mom. I can handle it.”
    â€œMmmmm.” They were great kids, Lizabeth thought, but Jason had his “ice cream for lunch” look. Good thing Elsie said she’d bethere by ten. She kissed both boys and locked the door behind her.
    The morning air felt cool on her face. Birds sang. Cicadas droned. Harbingers of hot weather, Lizabeth thought, taking a moment to listen to the insects. Bucks County was lovely in the summer. Lush and green, the air fragrant with the smell of flowers, cut grass, and fresh-turned dirt. The land bordering the Delaware River was a flat, rich floodplain, steeped in history, dotted by quaint towns unmarred by shopping centers and suburban sprawl. This was where Lizabeth chose to live. Chase Mills, Pennsylvania. Seven miles from Washington’s Crossing and a forty-five-minute drive from downtown Philadelphia.
    Lizabeth wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt, and she swung her lunch bag as she walked. The smell of coffee percolating in kitchens carried through the open windows. The newspaper boy cut through front yards, slinging his papers onto porches. Lizabeth could hear him marching up Gainsborough Drive. Thunk , the paper would hit against a front door. A patch of silence, then another thunk .
    In new neighborhoods, like the small cul-de-sac Matt was building, there would be the whir of central air conditioners. Lizabeth’s street had no whirring sounds. The houses on Lizabeth’s street were old, each one unique, built before the age of the subdivision, and they lacked some of the fancier amenities. The sidewalks were cracked and sometimes tilted from tree roots snaking beneath them. Houses sat back from the street, shaded by mature, thickly leaved maples and hundred-year-old oaks. Bicycles waited on wooden porches that wrapped around clapboard houses. It was a family neighborhood that was gently dealing with midlife crises. A few homes had succumbed to vinyl siding, but as yet no one had installed a hot tub. Dogs ran loose. Lawns were trimmed but were far from manicured. There was too much shade, too many roots, too many tiny feet tramping through yards for perfect lawns. Rosebushes lined driveways and grew along the occasional picket fence.
    Lizabeth walked to the end of Gainsborough Drive and turned into the new, blacktopped cul-de-sac that pushed into a small bit of woods. There were three houses under construction. There was room for four more. A plumber’s truck was parked in front of the firsthouse, which was a large colonial, almost completed. Two pickups and a Jeep were parked farther down the street. A radio blared. Hammers rhythmically slammed into wood, and from inside one of the houses a saw whined.
    Lizabeth could barely hear any of it over the pounding of her heart. She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans and tried to move forward, but her feet refused to budge. She had no business being here! She belonged back home, in her kitchen.
    Lizabeth, she told herself, you’re a liberated woman. There’s no reason for you to live your life in a kitchen. Yes there is, she silently wailed, I like my kitchen. I feel comfortable there. I know how to use a food processor. I do not know how to use a caulking gun.
    Okay, bottom line. She didn’t get paid for working in her kitchen. But why had she chosen this? What had she been thinking yesterday? The answer was obvious. She was thinking of her kids. She took a deep breath.
    â€œOkay. I can do it,” she said under her breath. “I’m ready. Come on, feet. Get going.”
    Â 
    Matt’s office was in a small corner of the colonial’s