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“Why?”
Because I just had false-memory sex with a man who thinks this is what I look like. “Charlotte’s birthday’s tonight.”
“I thought it was just family.”
“It is, mostly.”
“Then why…?”
“You remember Ian?”
“With the overbite?” she asked.
“That’s Liam, and it wasn’t an overbite. It was a gap. A chasm. He could whistle with his mouth closed. Anyone would’ve broken up with him. That wasn’t my fault. If you’re going to—”
“Oh, that Ian. Who you asked to give you a little ba-da-boom at Emily’s book party.”
“Yeah. Him.”
“God, you were so in love.”
“I wasn’t—”
“He’s back in town? Are you gonna ask him again?” In an atrocious English accent, she said, “Fancy a shag, Ian? I may be an old slapper, but—”
“I never asked him—I never used the word ‘shag,’ thank you very much.”
Still Dickensian, she said, “Please, sir, may I have another?”
“Would you stop it?”
She giggled. “Well, you did ask if he wanted to get laid, right?”
“Lei-ed! Like a lei, a Hawaiian—” I said, and Wren snorted. “Hey, at least I do get laid. Don’t make me talk about naked Kevin.”
That sobered her right up. “I still can’t believe you did that.” She meant squirt her with water.
“Has he called yet?”
“If I get pneumonia, it’s your fault.”
“He’ll call,” I reassured her. “You’ll see him Wednesday, anyway. Wet T-shirt night.”
“This, from the girl who wants to use my discount?”
But Wren never could resist dressing me up. I wanted the green Ana Sui dress with red chrysanthemums—because it had the same color combination as Wren’s necklace and shoes—but she insisted on more practical items. Although she did encourage me to splurge on a gorgeous pair of Blumarine shoes guaranteed to make my legs look like Nicole Kidman’s, and my feet feel like victims of Chinese foot-binding.
Still. When we finished shopping, I looked positively almost kinda Charlotte-esque. If you squinted.
Barely made it to work by one o’clock, wearing one of my new outfits. I’d bought three, but only spent $700, which sounds like a lot—sounds like more than my weekly after-tax pay, actually—but is in fact a bargain, as I got maybe $1000 worth of clothes. I could return one or two items, but these were the kind of prices—I mean, pieces—that made me look both curvy and skinny. I was definitely ten pounds lighter than I’d been in the soccer shorts. Maybe fifteen.
“Morning, Polliwog,” Rip said when I knocked on his open door. “Or should I say afternoon? Hey, you know where I can find the Wilkenson file?”
I posed in the doorway instead of answering. He had to have noticed I’d dropped ten pounds.
“Oh, um—how’d the shopping go?” he asked. “What did you get Charlotte?”
I turned sideways to show off my new curves.
“Was forty bucks enough?”
I gave up and tromped into his office. “I got her a plant.” I’d picked up something at Honeysuckle, Charlotte’s favorite florist, after leaving Element. “Forty was fine.”
“A plant?”
“She loves plants. It’ll be great. Oh, and Emily insisted I go in with her on some antique thing, for Charlotte.”
“So you got two gifts? She’s the rich one, you know.”
“Rich, beautiful, perfect. How could I forget?”
“How could anyone forget? You bring it up every ten minutes.” He looked suddenly concerned “Um, listen. I’m showing the Brenners a couple houses at five o’ clock—not sure when we’ll be done….”
“You’re going to miss the party.”
“No, no. I’ll be there.”
“How late?”
He shook his head. “She’s the mildew-sniffer, it’s like showing a house to a bloodhound. I don’t know if we’ll be done by six. Probably not. Probably seven. You want me to cancel? I can put them off a few days.”
“You’d put off clients, for me?” He’d built his company one client at a time, with word-of-mouth and customer service. He babied his clients terribly—and it was nice to hear he’d baby me even more. “What if you lose the sale?”
“You’re worth it.”
I gazed adoringly. “Wren says I don’t deserve you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Of course you don’t.”
I laughed, hoping he was joking. “I promised Charlotte I’d bathe the kids before dinner, so I have to go early. Just come when you’re finished. But thanks.”
“It’ll all be over tomorrow. At least for another year.”
“Yeah.”
Except it wouldn’t. Sure, I hated Charlotte’s birthday. And maybe I was overreacting to Ian’s sudden reappearance. But what really troubled me was the VD. I didn’t dislike my job, but it was going exactly nowhere. Rip was wonderful, but that made things even worse—why wasn’t I head-over-heels?
I had no plan and no passion. I was cast in the shade of my sisters, and though I secretly longed for the sun I was like a…I was a, um…yeesh. I couldn’t even think of a good metaphor. What I was, was a loser.
So I brought Rip the Wilkenson project. I updated the Web site with new listings, and returned a few phone calls. Then I fired up my properties database and stared at the wall. Ten minutes later, I grabbed my Recent Developments file. I had a new entry: The Cypress Property, where I walked Ny. I called Villa Realty, and the receptionist put me through to the listing agent, a woman named Melissa Kent.
“Hi, I’m calling about the property for sale on Cypress Road.”
“Have you driven by?” Melissa Kent said warmly. “It’s a beautiful piece of land.”
“Oh, I walk my dog there all the time,” I blurted. “I love it. I was wondering who the owner is.”
Her voice grew twenty degrees colder. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Well…what?”
“I’m not at lib—”
“No. I mean why?”
“The owner would like to remain anonymous.”
“How’s he gonna sell it if he’s hiding behind— What is he, the Wizard of Oz? I’m interested in information. Lot size, asking price, zoning and easements. I promise not to bother him. Or her. Them. Whatever.”
“You walk your dog there?” she asked.
“That’s how I saw the sign.”
“I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”
“Well, you could—by telling me what I want to know.”
“The thing is, the issue is that the owner got some unpleasant phone calls from dog-walkers who felt he shouldn’t sell ‘their’ land.”
“Oh, this isn’t like that. I’m in the business. I’m calling for an agent. All I need is a little information.”
She said nothing, and her silence managed to convey deep suspicion.
“Honest,” I said, and started lying. “The broker actually has a client already.” More silence, so I got desperate. “A very eager client. Very wealthy. A sheik. From Kuwait.”
“I see. And what was your name again?”
I lost my nerve, blurted “Paloma,” and hung up. Dammit.
I tried to focus on work, but couldn’t. Finally gave up and barged into Rip’s office. “Would you call that sea hag at Villa Realty?”
Rip looked startled. “Um, Anne…”
One of the other agents sat across from him at the desk. Mike Malley. Mike was a straight-shooting, foul-mouthed man of about forty. Santa Barbara born and bred, his father had been a fisherman and Mike looked like that’s where he belonged: on some boat slippery with fish guts, drinking beer with other burly men. He mostly sold commercial space and had one great advantage as a salesman—nothing ever entered his brain that didn’t escape through his mouth, so you had to trust him.
“Sorry, Mike,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Not a problem,” Mike said, standing. “Sea hags wait for no man. I know, I married and divorced one.”
“No, no—stay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“We’re done.” Mike motioned closing the door behind him. “You want privacy?”
“Please,” I said.
“You two keep it up,” he said. “And we’ll have to get a new cleaning company.”
He closed the door, and Rip and I looked at each other—then, by common consent, decided to let Mike’s last statement go unanswered.
“Which sea hag?” Rip said. “You really shouldn’t barge in when I’ve got—”
“Melissa Kent,” I said. “At Villa. She won’t tell me who owns the property on Cypress—where Ny and I walk.” I picked up his phone and started dialing.
“Wait,” he said. “Anne. No.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to get between you and— I don’t care if you— I think it’s great that you have your ideas for development. You could get your license and really make them happen. I know you could. But—”
“It’s ringing,” I said, and handed him the phone. “Ask for Melissa.”
He glared at me, but asked the receptionist for Melissa. They chattered happily for a minute—apparently they’d done some business together. Then they chattered happily for another minute. For a third. A fourth.
I poked Rip and whispered. “Ask her!”
He said, “Listen, Melissa, I’ve got a question for you.” But before he could ask, she apparently started spilling the goods. He said, “Uh-huh? Interesting. Great. When?”
I handed him a pen and mimed that he should be writing this down. So he wrote. I flopped down in the other chair and waited. What I needed was a vision for the property. Maybe a long, winding drive which followed the existing trail, with just a few houses, Montecito cottages really—at two million a pop—hidden among the trees and meadows. Or possibly just one hilltop mansion, a sprawling property with an Olympic pool and more lawn than Versailles.
“Uh-huh,” Rip said. “Right.” More from Melissa. “Okay. Great, thanks.” He made a final notation. “See you then. Bye.”
“So?” I said, as he hung up. “What? What did she say?”
“She asked me to lunch.” He showed me the paper. It said Tuesday, 1:30, Village Grill. “Wants some advice about a house in Summerland I sold a couple years ago.”
“What about the Cypress property?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Rip!”
“Polliwog, I’m not getting involved in your…whatever. Especially not after Melissa tells me this funny story about a crazy woman who just called, raving about sheiks.”
“You could have pretended you had clients,” I said. “All I wanted was the information.”
“That’s so unprofessional, I can’t even tell you. Did you check MLS?” The multiple listing service.
“It’s not in MLS yet.”
