by R.S. Grey
She offers up a classic mom glare. “Well it’s not enough.”
“How are Samuel and the kids?”
“Good. They’re planning a barbecue this weekend and I want you to come.”
Barbecue I can get behind. Incessant nagging from every single one of my family members about my life, not so much.
“I’ll have to look at my schedule,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.
I might have lived halfway across the country from her for the last ten years, but she’s still my mom, and she can see right through me.
“Fortunately, your schedule is right up front at reception, and I already looked. You’re free Saturday afternoon.”
“They don’t have my social life penciled in up there,” I point out, though it probably would have been best to keep my mouth shut.
Her green gaze—the one that matches mine to a T—lights up. “So you’ve got social plans this Saturday?”
If by plans she means driving one town over for groceries, then yes, I’m booked.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” I reply, which seems just vague enough. I could be talking about a date; I could be talking about a drug-filled orgy. She can fill in the blanks herself.
She sighs, annoyed with me for not opening up more. That’s what she gets for having two sons though. If she wants to have a heart-to-heart, she has Samuel’s wife. Kathy hasn’t stopped talking since the day she joined the family.
“I just want you to move on and be happy. I know it’s only been a few months but—”
“I am happy,” I insist. “And I have moved on.”
“Oh really? Have you been seeing someone?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, then, what’s her name?”
I forgot that she’s been calling my bluffs since I was in diapers. I need to just make up the first name that comes to mind.
“Madeleine.”
She squeals and I pinch my eyes closed. Giving her a name, even a false one, was a bad idea.
“Perfect, you’ll bring her to the barbecue on Saturday.”
“No can do,” I say, rounding the small exam table and angling toward the exam door. I have other patients to see, a job to do.
“What, is she a convict or something? Y’know Adam, one day you won’t have a mother to nag and pester you.”
“I’m not so sure.” I shake my head, deflecting her mom-guilt with an imaginary force field. “You’re in perfect health. You walk two miles every day and during your last physical, your doctor said you had the heart of a thirty-year-old.”
She waves away my facts. “Yes, but we could all go”—she snaps her fingers for emphasis—“just like that. What about runaway trains or lightning strikes?”
“Oh Jesus—”
“Yes, the good Lord could call me home at any time.”
I massage my temples, trying to quell the impending headache that seems to trail after every one of our conversations. “Let me get this straight: I have to come to the barbecue on Saturday because otherwise you might violently perish?”
She nods, smiling. “Yes, Adam, that is exactly what I’m saying.”
“Wow. That’s fuc—”
“Adam!”
“Messed up,” I correct hastily. “You realize if I don’t come and you do get hit by a train, I’ll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.”
She nods again, so damn pleased with herself.
“So I can expect you for a late lunch on Saturday at Sammy’s?” she asks, standing and straightening her sundress. She just breached my defenses, and she doesn’t even look ruffled.
I blink, completely at a loss. She’s stooped to an all-new low, and at the moment, I can’t think of a single way to get out of going on Saturday.
“I’ll be there,” I say with a dazed tone.
“With Madeleine?”
“We’ll see. She could be busy.”
My mom steps closer and fixes the lapels on my white coat, though they were already laying perfectly. “Sweetie, she won’t be, not if you’re asking her out. If I know women, she’ll rearrange her whole schedule to be there with you.”
I wish that were the case, but with Madeleine, it couldn’t be further from the truth. After last night, there’s no way she’ll accept my invitation.
“It might just be me.”
She flinches and presses her hand over her heart. “Oh, my heart, suddenly it hurts so badly…”
“Are you seriously feigning a heart attack right now? Do you have no morals?”
She steps back, drops her hand, and smiles. “Not when it comes to my children, my dear. I’ll do just about anything for you.”
I shake my head. “You need therapy.”
“And you need to bring Madeleine on Saturday. I cannot wait to meet her!” She heads for the door, her stuffed bird tucked beneath her arm. Just before she leaves, she glances back over her shoulder. “Oh, and she’s not a vegetarian is she?”
“I honestly have no clue.”
She laughs and waves away my answer. “Well you two have probably been too busy doing other things to worry about food.”
I laugh.
Yeah…not exactly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MADELEINE
It’s Thursday morning and I have hope. Even though I had to pull money from my savings account this morning to cover rent. Even though Mouse chewed up another pair of my work shoes. Even though I haven’t gone on a date in two months, and the closest I’ve been to a climax recently is when my beat up car starts vibrating at about 35 miles per hour. But I do have hope—either that, or I’m way over-caffeinated, I don’t know. Does hope make your hands shake?
I’m at work and Lady Helen has invited me into her office for tea this morning. I hate tea and am suffering through an Earl Grey just to please her. I think with another ten tablespoons of sugar and honey, it would taste good, but I’m too nervous to keep adding to my cup. It’s already nearing overflow level because I refuse to take another retched sip.
“So Madeleine, I’m sure you know why I’ve asked you in here this morning.”
“Oh, umm…yes.”
I spill a bit of tea on my pencil skirt when I attempt to set it back down on her desk. Fortunately, the hardy cotton-blend material is black and conceals everything—I learned that lesson a week into owning Mouse.
She smiles at me from her throne—a gaudy cheetah print tufted chair that reaches a foot past her head—and then she leans forward to drop her chin on her hands.
“You’ve been on this little probation for a week now and I’d like to hear what changes you’ve implemented.”
“Oh yes. Absolutely.” I scramble through the papers on my lap, as if the answer will be found on one of them. Then I laugh awkwardly and force myself to smile and sit up straight. “Umm, since last week, I’ve gathered a few leads. As you might have heard, Greg Van wants to sell his property and purchase a bit more land. I’ve already gathered up quite a few lots with good acreage, and we have a time set for tomorrow so I can show them to him.”
She nods, seemingly pleased. “Good. What else?”
What else?
“Oh, um, Loretta Rae mentioned to me last week that she’d like to sell her townhouse downtown. She’s owned the property for years and—”
Her smile tightens as she shakes her head. “Loretta won’t sell. Lori was in contact with her earlier this year.”
I glance down at my lap. Sitting right on top of my stack of papers is a list of creative ways to show Loretta’s house when we put it on the market. It’s now obviously worthless. I stuff the paper at the back of the pile and then remember my last potential client.
“Cameron Carr spoke with me last week about purchasing an investment property.”
“Good. Have you had contact with him since?”
“Err, well, he’s been a bit difficult to nail down this week. I’ve left him two voicemails and sent him an email. I could try to call him again today, but I don’t want to spook
him or anything.”
She leans back and steeples her fingers. “You can never be too aggressive. For instance, it’s not out of the question for Lori to create seemingly happenstance moments for her to run into her more stubborn clients.”
I grunt, thinking back to her attendance at the puppy training class. “Yes, I know.”
“I take it you aren’t comfortable with that?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that!” I scurry to cover my tracks. Helen loves Lori. In Helen’s eyes, Lori can do no wrong. Meanwhile, I’m the agent on probation. If Lori stalks her clients until they give in and work with her, then maybe it’s not such a bad idea. It’s clearly working for her—her bell has chimed three times this week while mine has collected another layer of dust, much like my love life.
I open my mouth, prepared to tell Helen I’m fully prepared to go into stalker mode, but right then, my cell phone starts to ring. Unlike most work environments, we’re encouraged to have our phones on us at all times in case a client is calling. Helen wants us available 24/7, and that includes now. She waves for me to answer it and I glance down at the unknown number.
Unknown numbers are good. While 50% of them are scam calls from Nigerian princes or credit card companies, some of them (okay, there’s only been one) are clients trying to get ahold of me. My heart soars with the possibility that it’s the latter. I excuse myself from Helen’s office and swipe my screen to answer the call.
“Hello, Madeleine Thatcher speaking.”
“Madeleine, hey. It’s Adam.”
I rack my brain trying to think of an Adam I’ve been in contact with at the agency lately. I usually only have a handful of clients, but I like to treat each of them as if they’re my only client. I like to be up to date with every email, every phone call. If I’ve been in talks with an Adam lately, it does not ring a bell. Still, I play it cool.
“Mr. Adam! Of course, nice to hear from you.”
It’s a good, neutral greeting.
“Um, right. Can you talk for a second? I’m sure you’re at work.”
I frown, confused.
“Yes, I’m at the agency, but I’m definitely available to chat.”
Then he laughs and I freeze. Have I said something wrong? Usually clients find me courteous and professional.
“You have no clue who this is, do you?”
I laugh, if only to join him and make it less awkward. “Of course I do. It’s Adam!”
Meanwhile, I’m sprinting to my cubicle so I can pull up my recent email history. Adam. Adam. There’s an Adam Keller I tried to work with last year, but that can’t be—
And then it clicks.
“Ohhhhh, the vet! The puppy man!”
He laughs again. “Yeah, most people just call me Adam.”
I blush. “Of course. Sorry. I’m just a little surprised you called. How did you get this number?”
My work phone number is listed on our agency’s website, but he called my cell phone.
“I might have found it on the puppy training waiver.”
I relax in my chair. “Wow.”
“Sorry for the breach in privacy.”
I shake my head, though he can’t see me through the phone. “No, it’s not that. I’m just surprised to hear from you.” He seems remarkably happy to be chatting with me on the phone now considering the last time I was around him he wanted nothing more to do with me, except to maybe—
“Oh god, are you kicking me out of the training class because of what I did last week? I know that was out of line, but I swear I won’t pester you about real estate anymore. You have my word.”
“No, it’s not that. Actually, I’d like to apologize for how I handled that situation. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
My eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Oh. Wow. Okay.” Then I think for a second. “Is that why you’re calling? To…um, apologize?”
There’s a pause, and for a second, I think the call cut off. I move it away from my face and see the call time ticking away. By the time I press it back to my ear, I catch the tail end of a sigh.
“Actually, no. I have a proposition of sorts.”
A proposition?
Why does that sound like the start of a sex contract or something? Oh god, it’s not that. My mind is jumping to conclusions because I wish it were a sex contract. Hell, at this point, any contract might get Helen off my back.
“Oh?” I ask, hoping to sound only mildly curious.
“Yeah. I’ll just cut to the chase. Basically, I’ll let you sell me a house, but you have to do something for me first.”
Sex.
He wants lots and lots of blowjobs. Oh god, I’m starring in a low-rent porno.
Or worse…
He wants my organs.
That’s fine. He can harvest all of them if he’ll let me sell him a house. I imagine it now: in a week I’ll stroll into Helen’s office and announce I’ve sold a huge house. She’ll beam and ask me how I did it, and I’ll lift up my shirt and show her the scar from which they took my kidney.
“Madeleine?” Adam asks. “Did I lose you?”
I laugh because he’s done the exact opposite.
Without hesitation, I reply in earnest, “Adam Foxe, whatever you want, you have yourself a deal.”
CHAPTER NINE
MADELEINE
I forgot to ask Adam what he needs me to do for him. I just accepted his proposal and hung up before he could go into details. Armed robbery, midnight séances, free tax preparation—I’m prepared for anything. I even consider for a moment that he might be asking for help at the veterinary practice, so I watched a cow birthing video on YouTube and only threw up in my mouth once. That’s how badly I want to sell him a house.
Friday night, I’m sitting at Daisy’s house with Mouse, watching old movies and scrolling through Tinder profiles. Daisy likes doing it with me since she never used dating apps herself.
“Oh, God no!” she says, swiping past yet another prospective mate.
“He wasn’t half bad!” I snap, trying desperately to claw the phone out of her hand.
“He was posing in front of a cherry red Corvette in his profile picture. What kind of guy does that?”
Sure, his picture screamed insecure douchebag, but if I swiped past every guy who didn’t perfectly meet my specifications, it would just be me and Mouse growing old together.
Daisy doesn’t believe me.
“There are going to be better prospects, you just wait.”
My phone buzzes in her hand with an incoming text and from the look on her face, I know it’s not from my mom. Since I’m currently with her, I know it’s not from Daisy, and that rules out the only two people who text me on a regular basis.
“One new text from Adam Foxe?!” she exclaims.
I try, yet again, to snatch the phone away from her, but she holds it over her head. Mouse leaps to his feet and starts to bark, assuming this is all some spontaneous game.
“Hand over the phone, Daisy,” I snap in a very authoritative, very no-nonsense tone.
It only makes her laugh as she starts to read the text aloud.
“Hey Madeleine, it’s Adam. I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow around 11:30 AM.”
I pretend not to care, sitting very still with my arms crossed on the other end of the couch. She can read all the text messages she wants; she’s not going to get any information out of me.
“Adam is texting you.”
“Yes.”
“Adam the vet?”
I shrug.
“Why is he texting you? And why is he picking you up tomorrow?”
I’m very good at the silent game—being the younger sister to a brother as annoying as mine meant it was an absolute necessity as a child.
“And why did he put a kissy-face and heart-eyes emoji?”
“Really?”
“Ha! That was a trick. So is he taking you out on a date or what?”
I pretend to pick dirt out from beneath my nails. Then I shi
ne them on my shoulder.
“You’re not being funny,” she says, finally tossing my phone back to me.
“Ha!” I snap as I open the text again and read it for myself. It reads exactly as she’d recited, sans kissy-faces. I’m slightly disappointed that he isn’t revealing more information.
I decide to push my luck and text him back.
Madeleine: What if I’m busy tomorrow afternoon?
Daisy leaps off the couch and leans over my shoulder so she can try to read what I’m typing. I block her view just as my phone vibrates again. He replied quickly, faster than most guys usually do. Normally I have to sit and stare at my phone for at least thirty minutes before guys get around to texting me back, usually more. It’s torture, and I’m glad Adam doesn’t try to play those stupid games. Then it hits me that maybe he does play those games with girls he’s actually interested in. It’s not like we’re texting about an actual date after all.
Adam: Then unfortunately, there’s no deal.
Madeleine: Wow. Is this like a Chicago mobster thing? Are we sinking a body into Lake Michigan?
Adam: No. Sorry, I just really need your help.
Madeleine: Care to elaborate on it then?
Daisy shakes my shoulders, trying to get me to show her what we’re saying. Naturally, she makes me send Adam a string of gibberish by accident.
Madeleine: weoy9873568hekrthJEHW@#
Adam: What?
Madeleine: Ignore that.
Adam: I can’t go into much detail. It might scare you away.
The cow birth video plays through my mind again and my stomach turns over. It’s definitely that. I’m going to have to put my arms up a cow’s vagina tomorrow just so I can sell him a house. Do other agents have to go to these same lengths to earn a commission?
Madeleine: Okay fine. I’ll send over my address.
Adam: Great, see you then.
Madeleine: WAIT. What should I wear? A dress? Jeans? Hazmat suit?
Adam: Just something casual that you wouldn’t mind getting a little dirty.
