Two days later the message light was flashing on my phone when I got to work.
It was Jane.
“Call me as soon as you can,” the message said, her voice uncharacteristically strained.
I dialed her number with a sense of dread. “Is everything okay?”
“Well,” she said, laughing nervously. “Not so much.”
“The toilet leaked. For at least a day…”
“…and when Lydia went in yesterday afternoon there was an inch of standing water everywhere.”
My stomach grabbed. “Oh Jane.”
“Clean water, mind you. The toilet didn’t overflow. It leaked.”
My mind raced, picturing the scene.
“Still, not a pretty sight.”
I sighed, remembering our perfect little haven of two days before. I dreaded telling Michael, who was even more proud of what we’d accomplished than I was.
From deep down I dredged up the question I knew I’d have to ask sooner or later. “Is everything ruined?’
A long, pregnant pause.
“Hell no!” she cackled. “We bought some big brooms and swept the water out and put the seagrass rugs on the balcony to dry and now it all looks as good as new.”
I swallowed hard. “Really?”
She laughed happily.
“Yep. The bathroom door’s a little warped at the bottom and your TV cabinet lost its top layer of skin but otherwise everything’s perfect.”
Finally I let myself exhale. “Jane, you’re a gem.”
“Just put one in my Christmas stocking.”