Tumbledown Manor

by Helen Brown

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Helen Brown comes a witty, uplifting novel about a woman who discovers that it's never too late to build the home--and the life--you've always longed for… The windows rattle. The roof leaks. Every surface cries out to be stripped, painted, or polished. But for writer Lisa Trumperton, the dilapidated manor house that once belonged to her great-grandfather is far more than the sum of its battered parts. It's the chance for a new start on her own terms. The fact that it's in the Melbourne countryside of her Australian homeland, far from the deceitful ex-husband she just left behind in New York…well, that's a bonus. Lisa sets to work refurbishing Trumperton Manor, assisted by her son, his friends, and a "Gray Army" of retired handymen. But it's not just her ancestral home that's being transformed. As she trades her chic Manhattan clothes for jeans and work boots, Lisa is changing and fortifying her relationships with her family and her sense of self. There are floods, fires, and catastrophes, but there are new allies too, including a one-eyed cat, a stubborn cockatoo, and a rugged landscaper with an irresistible grin. Piece by piece, the house is pushing Lisa beyond her old limits, daring her to embrace something bigger, braver, and more rewarding than she ever dreamed. Praise for Helen Brown and Her Books "A buoyant tale, heartfelt and open." -- Booklist on Cleo "Brown writes eloquently about the bonds between women … a moving story of love and identity." -- Kirkus Reviews on Cats & Daughters

Release date: April 26, 2016

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 306

Sample

A birthday ending in a zero was nothing to make a fuss about. There was enough to be grateful for—her health, a solid marriage, kids old enough to be off their hands (technically), a passable writing career. Why anyone would want to celebrate being another decade closer to filling a funeral urn was beyond Lisa Katz.

Nevertheless, she felt a prick of disappointment when, over breakfast at a diner near their apartment, she realized Jake had forgotten. But no wonder. Poor Jake was working crazy hours at the bank. His once lustrous tide of curls had receded to a charcoal reef, and the dark circles under his eyes had puffed out into pouches.

“You’re still my best girl,” he said, before draining his coffee and dabbing his lips with a paper napkin.

Standing, he bent over the table and brushed his lips against hers. It was one of their less awkward kissing positions, apart from when they were in bed together lying side by side.

As a teenager sprouting depressingly close to six feet, Lisa had imagined marrying someone as tall as—if not taller than—herself. But while she was getting her head around the idea of wearing flats for the rest of her life, she began to notice that most tall men were obsessed with women the size of dolls. Lisa, on the other hand, was a magnet to pint-sized Napoleons.

Still, what Jake lacked in stature he made up for with vigor. The height difference had only increased the inventiveness of their sex life in the early days. Back then, he’d stroked her large buttocks as if they were the foothills of heaven.

Now, Lisa felt a ripple of fondness combined with relief as Jake slid into his overcoat and disappeared into the gray fall morning. Pulling on her hat, cape, and fingerless gloves, she stepped outside into her own private birthday, a day of doing just what she wanted for a change.

After a couple of hours at MoMA, Lisa had a session of guilty gratification with Mark. It seemed vaguely immoral to pay for a stranger to rub oil into her back like that, but Jake was too tired these days—and Mark’s hands never wandered.

Then, flushed and gleaming with oil, she headed home to their apartment building on the Upper East Side. Set several blocks back from the park and surely the ugliest building in the entire neighborhood, it frowned down on a narrow, shaded street.

At the door, Pedro greeted her with his eternal smile—a miracle, considering he held down three jobs to keep himself and his family alive. “Lucky you missed the rain, Mrs. Trumperton.” He beamed.

She’d stopped asking him to call her Lisa. It was typical Pedro to use her professional name. To most people she was just Mrs. Katz, Jake’s gangly appendage.

As she opened the door to their apartment, Lisa stumbled backwards.

“Surprise!”

Jake stepped toward her, his dark eyes glowing in triumph. What was he doing home this early? He took her hand and guided her to the living room.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” Ted encircled her in his arms, sending her hat tumbling to the floor.

“Ted? You came all the way from Australia?” Lisa was suddenly aware that she was shaking. “When did you get here?”

“This morning.” Her son picked up her hat and dusted it off.

“How did you get time off?” She scraped her hands through her hair, hoping he wouldn’t notice how oily it was from the massage.

“I’ve got a week before my next exam,” he said.

The genetic slot machine had been kind to Ted. Not only had he inherited his father’s Mediterranean coloring rather than her bloodshot, watery-eyed Nordic genes, but he was tall and well built. The shadow of a beard made his chin more pronounced and highlighted his eyes. Whatever he was up to besides architecture studies was doing him good.

Lisa was about to tease him about his Australian accent when the pantry door burst open. “Surprise!” Portia teetered toward Lisa in shoes that would qualify as stilts.

As her daughter bent to kiss her in a flurry of blond hair and blue fingernails, Lisa noticed a new Care Bear tattoo on Portia’s neck. Had she lost weight? Either way, this wasn’t the time to cause friction. Not when Portia had sacrificed hours of her glamorous Venice Beach lifestyle to show up.

Lisa’s heart pounded in her ears. “How lovely,” she quavered, wondering if they were expecting her to cook and, if so, what she could possibly feed them. Following her latest diet book’s instructions, she’d gutted the fridge. From memory, the only thing in there was a half-dead bottle of Coke Zero. “I really had no idea. . . .”

“Surprise!”

A fresh surge of dread ran through Lisa. Kerry, her weekly lunch buddy, emerged from the hallway. Lisa relaxed a little. Armed with a potted peace lily, he was closely followed by Vanessa from the publishing house. Jake had chosen well. If he was going to startle her with anyone, these were the best possible . . .

“Surprise!”

Not another. Her system could take only so much. Lisa’s blood drained to her feet as her older sister, Maxine, emerged from the bedroom with husband Gordon in her wake.

“We took the same flight as Ted,” Maxine gushed, floating toward Lisa in a lurid caftan that made her resemble a psychedelic emu.

Most women of a certain age fade into blond. Maxine had opted for ginger, which had deepened to fiery purple. It was a shade that shouldn’t have suited anyone, but it glowed against Maxine’s pearly skin in a way that was strangely compelling. With intense emerald eyes beaming out from her round, freckled face, Maxine could’ve passed as an extra from Lord of the Rings. Smiling shyly over Maxine’s shoulder was Gordon, his broom of white hair and podgy pink face resembling the features of a man-sized koala.

“But it’s such a long way to come just for me,” Lisa said.

“You always were the spoiled one,” crooned Maxine, brushing Lisa’s cheek with a kiss. “Just kidding.” Maxine’s smile flickered with complication, and Lisa wondered if her sister would ever let go of the endless list of evidence that proved Lisa was their father’s favorite. High on the list, for example, was the time Lisa had allegedly tricked him into believing she needed to stay home from school because of a “tummy ache,” while Maxine, who was the one coming down with authentic measles, was forced to go. Maxine needed therapy. She had nothing to complain about, not when she’d clearly been the center of their mother’s universe. The moment Maxine drew her first breath, their mother, Ruby, had recognized a mini replica of herself. Everything about Maxine—from the red hair and compact build to the terrifying presence on any sports field—screamed MacNally.

In contrast, their father, William Trumperton, had been a sensitive man who avoided conflict. Lisa still clung to what he’d told her in a rare moment of unguardedness—that he found it hard to believe she and Maxine were from the same stable. Once or twice, she’d wondered if he’d been speaking literally and they had different fathers. She wouldn’t have put anything past Ruby.

Now Maxine stood on tiptoe to help Lisa shed her cape. “Begging on the streets again, are we?” she said, casting an eye over Lisa’s fingerless gloves.

Under normal circumstances, Lisa would’ve cracked back about purple hair and caftans covered in hideous fake rubies. Maxine had been born with appalling taste that no amount of private schooling could cure. But the ambush of family affection had thrown Lisa.

Maxine wandered over to the kitchen area, pulled a bottle out of the fridge and inspected the label. Her eyes narrowed. “You know it has to come from a special part of France to be the real thing.”

Lisa assured her she was perfectly happy with sparkling wine from California. Jake had introduced it as part of their “post-global-financial-crisis” economy drive. It wasn’t too sweet and had the same effect, more or less.

Corks popped. Glasses foamed and were passed around. As Jake lifted a mosaic of hors d’oeuvres from the fridge, Lisa was reminded why she’d fallen in love with him. Jake Katz the romantic, the magician... “You are organized!” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. She was amazed he even knew how to find a caterer.

“Well, my dear. It’s not every day you turn f—”

“Hush!” She gently covered his mouth. “But darling, it’s so thoughtful of you.”

Jake cleared his throat and puffed his chest out, which was his way of making himself taller. The room settled expectantly. Poor darling—what hair he had left was graying at the temples. But he was aging well. Not just in looks. Even though their sex life was intermittent these days, Lisa took silent pride in the fact he took no interest in advertisements for Viagra.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming here today, some of you from a very long way,” he said, raising a glass to Maxine and Gordon.

“Well, it was a convenient stop-off before our Alaskan cruise,” Maxine chimed in—unnecessarily, Lisa thought.

“Those polar bears will be counting the days till they see you.” Jake chortled.

Lisa’s smile froze. Jake and Maxine were too alike. Neither could stand the other’s hogging the limelight. To Lisa’s relief, Maxine lowered her eyes and took a swig from her glass.

“And we mustn’t forget Ted,” Jake continued.

Perched on the arm of the black leather sofa, Ted was engrossed in his phone. Hearing his name, he flipped out of whatever conversation he was having and aimed the gadget at his parents. Lisa hastily bent her knees so Jake could drape his arm over her shoulder and smile foolishly at the lens.

Portia stood cross-armed in a corner. She rolled her eyes as Jake asked to see the photo. “And you too, of course, Portia,” he said, nodding approval and handing the phone back to Ted. “Venice Beach isn’t exactly in the neighborhood. Anyway, I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank my wonderful wife of twenty-four years.”

“Twenty-three!” Maxine corrected.

“Oh, is that right?” Jake said, looking to Lisa for rescue.

Lisa was hopeless at maths. She had no idea.

“Yes,” Maxine said, pointing a glittering talon at him. “You two were married exactly two years after Gordon and me. Of course we had a church wedding. . . .”

As if nobody knew Maxine and Gordon Frogget’s union had been sanctified by God and half the stockbrokers of Camberwell.

With rare composure, Jake loosened his tie and slid some notes from his breast pocket. “When we first met in Fiji all those years ago, I had no idea how deeply I was going to fall for this Aussie girl,” he read.

“Oh, Jake,” Lisa said, her eyes moistening.

“Lisa, I can’t thank you enough for moving across oceans to make a life with me and raise our two kids here. You’re my rock, my inspiration. . . .”

Lisa felt guilty for all the times she’d yelled at him for coming home late and going to those interminable conferences.

“You’re the artist to my knuckleheaded bean counting,” he went on. “The sunflower-covered straw hat to my suit. You remind me of what really matters in life. You’re the—”

“Wind beneath your wings?” Portia said archly.

Honestly, there were times Lisa could have throttled her offspring. Temporarily, of course.

Jake composed himself and glanced down at his notes. He always liked his speeches to have a serious core. Lisa could tell he was building up to a crescendo.

“When you were struck with breast cancer last year we all faced the terrible prospect of losing you. . . .”

Oh God. She’d packed all that away in a mental filing box labeled Forget About It. She was fine now, just fine.

There was a tap at the door. Ted moved silently across the room to open it while Jake continued. “And now, knowing you have the all-clear, we treasure you even more. . . .”

The room glowed with admiration as Ted reappeared with an enormous basket of red roses. Lisa had never seen anything like it. The arrangement was so huge it dwarfed her son.

“Oh Lord, Jake!” She reached for the small white envelope dangling from one of the stalks.

Jake suddenly turned pale. He lunged in front of her and tried to snatch the envelope. Smiling, she nudged him away.

Lisa could feel her cheeks reddening as she tore open the envelope and pulled out a heart-shaped card. Jake could be such a romantic devil. She blew him a kiss, but his eyes were blank, his mouth slightly open.

“To my darling . . . Belle,” she read aloud.

There had to be a mistake. The handwriting was Jake’s. Lisa’s throat tightened. She tried to stop, but her voice kept reading the words aloud. “I cannot wait until we are together forever.”

Lisa’s body slowly turned to stone. She knew Belle, the blonde from HR at the bank. Belle of the enormous boobs and pipe-cleaner legs, who said she’d read every book Lisa had ever written and was her biggest fan.

“So I can bury my head in your thighs every night . . . All my love, Jake.”

Silence.

Jake’s face flushed with panic as the room’s gaze swiveled from Lisa to him. “This is outrageous!” he declared, grappling for the phone in his suit pocket. Temples gleaming, he stabbed the numbers for Eva the florist.

Usually when Jake turned purple, Lisa tried to calm him down, because he loved cheese and didn’t exercise enough. But the normal Lisa had vanished and been replaced by a hate-filled clone who was willing the arteries around his heart to explode.

“What do you mean you sent them to the usual address?!” Jake shouted at the plastic rectangle in his hand.

He should’ve known not to trust Eva. Ever since her mother had died, she’d started talking to her carnations. Now Eva had sent the ridiculous arrangement to the usual address without thinking.

Lisa watched as a crazed woman roared across the room and walloped Jake across the face. Who was she? Oh, that’s right. It was the other Lisa, the one so outraged and wounded she was about to commit murder. Or, on second thought, serious injury. Jake would be on life support for weeks. She’d enjoy the luxury of watching him suffer with tubes and probes sprouting from every orifice until she had the pleasure of switching off the machine.

Then she noticed Portia and Ted clinging to each other in the corner, as if they were watching a 3D version of The Evil Dead. Nice Lisa, their mother, wanted to protect them from the ugliness of this scene. But evil Lisa required them to witness the rawness of her pain, to know who the victim was.

She grabbed Jake by the shoulders and shook him savagely. Somewhere in the background, a door clicked. Vanessa and Kerry had made a discreet exit, leaving the peace lily as sole evidence of their presence.

Gordon lumbered over to the kitchen and stooped over the sink. He unraveled the rinse hose and studied it as if it might contain the solution to global warming.

Lisa the lunatic pummeled Jake’s chest with her fists. Then a giant emu wafted over and peeled her off Jake and enveloped her in its wings.

Maxine’s muscles were strong and tense as Lisa sobbed into her neck. Her earrings jangled. Lisa smelled Dior’s Poison on Maxine’s neck and champagne on her breath.

“Get out, you bastard!” Maxine yelled.

Lisa was suddenly six years old again, in the schoolyard. Big sister Maxine was shielding her, throwing sticks at Colin the bully from the butcher shop until he slunk around the corner of the bike sheds.

Jake stood frozen, wild-eyed, like a mouse about to be devoured by a snake.

“And take your lousy flowers with you!” screeched the crazed woman Lisa now recognized as herself as she tore roses out of the basket and hurled them in Jake’s face. A sane part of her was grateful the roses were thornless—not that she would have minded making him bleed.

Jake scuttled into the bedroom.

“Liar!” she bellowed, clawing his back as he passed. “I hate you!”

Jake dragged a weekend bag from the closet and stuffed it frantically with socks and underpants.

“When did it start?” Lisa spat at his bald patch.

Jake pretended not to hear.

“When?”

“Dunno . . .” he mumbled. “Nine months ago or so.”

She did the calculation. That would’ve been three months after her surgery, around the time of her last book launch. Belle had been all smiles as she waited in line for Lisa to sign a copy of Charlotte, the first in her trilogy called Three Sisters. “Such a brilliant idea to write historical romances based on the Brontë sisters,” Belle had sniveled, all teeth and fake diamond earrings.

Hang on a minute. What if they weren’t fake? Maybe Belle’s earrings were the cause of Jake’s latest economy drive restricting them each to one latte a day. Anyway, Cow Belle (that’s what Lisa was going to call her from now on) had sworn she couldn’t wait to read about Emily Brontë in Lisa’s next book, Three Sisters: Emily. Belle had then scurried off to screw the author’s husband. Nice work, Cow Belle.

“Do you love her?” Lisa asked, her voice steeped in ice.

Jake stopped and stared at the carpet.

Soon after the book launch, Jake had gone away for a two-week conference, which, come to think of it, was suspiciously long. Now Lisa scoffed at her own stupidity. She should’ve been savvy enough to check his e-mails. But she’d trusted him so naïvely, she hadn’t even bothered to memorize his password.

Then there was the condom-packet-in-the-toiletry-bag incident. She’d been rummaging for dental floss one morning when the silvery little sachet had brushed her fingers. It was strange, because she hadn’t had a period for months. When she had showed it to him, he had blushed before swearing it was leftover from ages ago and tossing it in the bin.

Why did she always believe him?

“I said, do you love her?” Her tone was dangerous now.

“I don’t know,” he replied quietly.

“You don’t know?!”

“There are two sorts of loving,” he said after a long silence. “Having and desiring. I have you . . . but . . .”

“You desire her!”

Lisa galloped to the living room, and grabbed what was left of the flower basket. Back in the bedroom, Jake was on his knees jamming T-shirts into his bag. With a rush of satisfaction, she emptied the remaining roses and the contents of the well-filled vase over his head.

Jake stood up and brushed the water off his suit. Then he picked up his bag, rearranged his hair, and ran. Lisa chased him as far as the living room, but he was too nimble on his feet. He slid out the door toward the elevator and was gone.

As she stood panting, gazing at her open-mouthed guests, Lisa understood exactly what she was having—a birthday ending with a zero.

Lisa woke safe and warm inside a cocoon of sheets. Judging by the gray frame of light around the curtains, the sun—or what there was of it—had already dragged itself out of bed. Her tongue slid around the comforting shape of her mouth guard. According to the dentist, she’d been grinding her teeth at night. Lisa was pretty sure his insistence that she be fitted with a mouth guard had more to do with upgrading his Audi than her pummeling her teeth to powder. Lisa “teamed” the mouth guard with a pair of ear plugs—Jake’s snoring wasn’t getting any quieter. She’d put them in the night before out of habit—and to assure herself nothing was going to change.

She quietly fished out the mouth guard and earplugs and slid them into their boxes. Then she rolled over and reached for the familiar shape of Jake’s head. But his pillow was as vacant as the wastelands of Antarctica. Lisa curled up in the fetal position and sobbed into her pillow—quietly, so as not to disturb Maxine and Gordon or the kids. It was her favorite pillow, so old it probably harbored superbugs. She’d tried to throw it out, but always stopped at the garbage chute and carried it back to bed. Stuffed with meager lumps of feathers and down, it was anorexic compared to Jake’s anti-snoring plank. But it was a forgiving object, snuggling into the folds of her face without any attempt to improve her posture. Now tears drained into the feathers, reducing them to a soggy swamp.

When she could cry no more, she rolled on her back and ran her hand over the chasm her left breast had once inhabited. The surgeon had offered her reconstruction at the same time as the mastectomy. He said the mastectomy itself would take only forty minutes to perform, while the reconstruction would drag on for seven hours or more. After hours trawling the Internet and talking with friends who knew people who’d had reconstructions and those who hadn’t, she’d decided to bide her time. It wouldn’t be long before you could take a pill to grow a new breast.

Giving an excellent impersonation of a supportive husband, Jake had said he was happy to go along with whatever she wanted. She’d felt a surge of affection when he said appearances made no difference to him. And anyway, the surgeon had assured them she could have the reconstruction further down the track. She’d still not gotten around to it and now doubted she ever would. After all, Lisa had never been burdened with vanity. Her mother, Ruby, had made sure of that. (“Tidy yourself up, Lisa. . . . Cut back on the pastries, girl. They’ll be calling you thunder thighs.... Run a comb through your hair!”) The scar ran in a horizontal line across her torso like a ruler marking the end of a school essay.

Though Jake had claimed it didn’t worry him, he’d never expressed interest in or even curiosity about her wound. During lovemaking, he’d lavished attention on her right breast, stroking and kissing (never sucking, because that would set her on a post-coital jag about the pathetic idea of grown men sucking breasts). He’d avoided her left side as if it were an abandoned neighborhood turned dangerous.

She couldn’t believe how he’d lulled her into thinking their marriage was fine. For all his talk, he was just another primitively wired male who wanted a woman with two C cups. Clearly Jake was going through some kind of man-opause. Surely it would just be a matter of time before he’d come to his senses and beg to come back.

A vacuum cleaner hummed on the other side of Lisa’s bedroom door. The thought of facing up to her guests was almost unbearable. Still, how often did she get the chance to see her kids? So after showering and dressing, she padded out into the living room.

Maxine was hoovering up the previous night’s wreckage. Ted was in the kitchen, wrangling a garbage bag. They both stopped and looked up at her as if she were a piece of crystal that might shatter at the slightest movement.

Gordon emerged from the guest room to fiddle with the coffee machine while Maxine assailed her bedroom with the vacuum cleaner. Lisa offered to help, but Maxine insisted she sit down and relax.

The black leather sofa squeaked as Lisa flopped onto it. The buttons dug into her backside. Everything about the apartment reeked of Jake. He used to go along with her love of what she called “soul objects.” New Guinea masks and paint-peeled Buddhas took her back to the freedom of her traveling days. All that had changed when he started taking banking seriously and Jake readjusted his tastes. In the end it had been simpler to let him move “her stuff” into her study and succumb to his obsession with “clean lines.” Now glass tabletops and piles of yachting magazines lent the apartment the air of a medical waiting room.

Lisa ran her eye over Jake’s collection of second-tier Fauvists. Given the choice, she’d have preferred Ted and Portia’s kindergarten daubs. Life-sized stainless-steel nudes stood in a corner, entwined in an outlandish position the sculptor had called the Lustful Leg. She’d tried to replicate the posture for Jake’s pleasure a couple of times. Flinging her leg back over her shoulder had, however, made something in her hip lock in a sharp spasm of agony. As for the white baby grand piano that only Ted knew how to play, she pretended it wasn’t there.

She wondered how she’d let herself slide into such an unlikely setting. Had she b. . .