Where Has Your Lover Gone?

St. Patrick’s day, we were circling the square downtown, speeding past historical buildings, slowing only for turns. My head was spinning as you told me we were nuts, wacky, sicko and that this business was for the stars, the fallen stars. Then you laughed, leaned forward, kissed me, said you were the luckiest son of a bitch in Texas, and we both said, Yee-haw, just about the time we passed the First State Bank as we rounded a corner.

We stopped at a bar and drank a few Bud Lights, and you mumbled something to the bartender about Parnell, and I wondered who he was and why I’d never heard of him. I made a note to mention Parnell when we got back in the car. I knew while we drove around, trying to find something to talk about besides the house we were buying, I’d remind you that history was my weakness, and you’d tell me I should know my heritage, celebrate my culture.

We left the bar, drove back to the square, cruised again, kept our eyes on First State Bank, in the building that was once Stewart Title Company. I mentioned Irish eyes watching, and you said, Smiling, and I said, I think I see, through the big glass window at the front of the bank, William Stewart, standing there, hands in pockets, talking to someone, so I rolled my window down real quick, stuck my arm out toward the bank, and flipped him off.

We circled around again, and I told you to put our buggy in reverse. What the hell, you said, and you drove backwards to the bank and stopped. I peeped real close through the window, and there he was, now with his sister Susan standing beside him, both of them looking down at a stack of papers. I glared at the two—William and Susan Stewart—the family we’d sued. The only ones we’d ever sued. We called it practice suing, joked that we’d sue the whole city if we had to. You said, By God, I want justice.

I started to chant, resorted to prayer, told you we gotta win this one, so we cruised around some more, wondered if William and his sister were signing those goddamn papers, or if they were standing around plotting how they’d take another bite of us or how they’d bust through those wide doors, catch us stalking them, and tell us, using their southern genteel manners, please do not attempt to communicate because this situation is in court litigation, and we could tell them to kiss our asses now or later, makes us no difference.

We’d contracted to buy the old Stewart estate, a two-story Victorian house surrounded by oak trees on three acres in the historical silk-stocking district of Denton, Texas. A big wrap-around porch, with hand-carved banisters, floor-length windows, and woodwork to die for. Original woodwork, wainscoting, you said.

You’d driven by and noticed a for sale sign, one of the first people in town to have discovered that the old Stewart homestead was indeed for sale. You picked me up from work, pulled in the long driveway, led me to the porch, and said, Guess what? I said, What? And you said, This will be our home, and I asked if you’d robbed a bank. I couldn’t believe the carved staircase, the trim around the high ceilings, the oak floors, tiled fireplaces, and stained-glass windows. You called the realtor, and we signed a contract that very night. When we left the realtor’s office, he didn’t see us get in your truck, didn’t see you pull me next to you, stroke my hair, didn’t hear you say, Well, that’s that. A deal’s a deal.

So when the realtor was offered more money for the house, he thought he’d pull one over on us. He claimed the Stewarts decided they were too emotionally attached to the property, land that’s belonged to their family for...