by Laura Wolfe
Jacqueline took a deep breath and squared her jaw. “If she goes in by herself and comes out twenty or thirty minutes later by herself, then it’s probably a listing presentation. It’s common sense!”
She was struggling to hold it together, and I decided not to test her. Things were beginning to take off for me just like I’d imagined they would when I’d been rotting away in my cubicle at Averly Consulting. I’d already sold a condo to Grace, and now I had my first listing under contract. On top of that, all the referral fees from Jacqueline’s deals were adding up. Emma’s face illuminated in my mind.
I held up my hands. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“And, Mara,” she said.
“What?”
“Make sure Natalia doesn’t see you.”
23
“To Mara selling her first listing,” Grace shouted as we raised our beers in the air, music thumping in the background. She was back at my condo, this time temporarily and without Astro. She’d brought our friend, Chloe, who we knew from our college days, three guys she worked with, and a couple of loud women who lived across the hall from her new condo.
The deal on Mohawk had closed this morning. My split with Greystone had already increased to sixty percent. After they took their cut, I’d walk away with almost $30,000. There’d never been a better excuse to throw a party.
My body tingled as I gulped down a mouthful of ice-cold beer, the tension in my shoulders easing with my plans for the payout. First, I’d pay back the rest of the draw from Jacqueline, and then I’d take care of my condo’s special assessment. After that, I’d pre-pay my next month’s mortgage. I’d already splurged on some new work clothes now that I couldn’t raid Grace’s closet. Whatever was left would be used to pay down Emma’s medical expenses. We’d keep chipping away at the bills, bit by bit, just like she was doing with the cancer.
Someone banged on my front door, and I went to open it, hoping it wasn’t an angry neighbor.
“Hey, Mara!” Marcus, my former co-worker at Averly and his girlfriend, stood in the doorway, holding a six-pack. “Nice pad! You remember Lilly,” he said, pointing to the petite, red-haired woman next to him.
“Thanks. Yes, of course.” I smiled and waved them inside. “Come on in.”
Marcus and Lilly made their way into the living room and immediately cracked open two beers.
“Congrats for getting out of the rat race.” A jealous haze fogged over his eyes. “How’s real estate treating you?”
“Great. I work with Jacqueline Hendersen. She’s the best.” I glanced at the floor, leaving out the details. I’d spent the majority of the last two weeks following Natalia Romanov around the city, staying two or three car-lengths behind her, my eyes barely peering over the steering wheel. I now knew where she lived, ate lunch, did her banking, worked out, and got her hair cut. I spent almost as much time spying on Natalia’s assistant, a wiry guy who wore skinny jeans and button-down shirts in a variety of pastel colors. The first day, he carried an expensive-looking camera and followed her to a walk-up building in Logan Square. Other days, he met her outside their office to exchange folders and keys. I wondered if Natalia forced him to do crazy stuff, too. From what I’d observed so far, it didn’t seem like it.
There’d been a couple of close calls with my new mission. Natalia had made eye contact with me the second time I’d parked outside her office. My entire body had tensed, my breath strangling my throat before I glanced away. I casually exited my car, keeping my shoulders loose as if I was lost or had just randomly parked in that spot. Then I strolled in the opposite direction to avoid suspicion. The next day, as she pranced down the steps of her multi-million-dollar Lincoln Park single-family home, her head swung toward me again, like she somehow sensed I was watching her. Before our eyes meet, I ducked down, out of sight, and waited. By the time I found the courage to straighten up in my seat, she was gone.
For the city’s number one realtor, Natalia spent a surprisingly little amount of time in her office. As crazy as Jacqueline’s orders had sounded, I’d discovered some inside information on Natalia’s potential listings. Last week, I’d followed her through the pouring rain to a single-family in Wrigleyville. Just as Jacqueline had predicted, Natalia had hurried up the steps shielded by her umbrella, and with a Blue Shore Group folder tucked inside her arm. No buyers in sight. Twenty minutes later, she left, ducking back into her car and out of the rain. My nerves prickled at the realization. She must have been there for a listing presentation. Like Jacqueline said, it was common sense.
As the Jaguar zoomed away, I grabbed one of Jacqueline’s fliers and emerged from the car. Tossing aside my umbrella when it only opened on one side, I slunk down, scanning the area to see if anyone was watching. The rain pelted around me as I darted up the steps, struggling not to slip or twist my ankle, and stuffed the brochure into the mailbox next to the front door. Then I hurried back to the safety of my car, my heart pounding as if I were robbing a bank. I wrote down the address and delivered it to Jacqueline as soon as I returned to Greystone. Somehow, she’d known what to do with the information. The next day the owner listed the property with her instead of Natalia.
“Great work, Mara,” Jacqueline said. “You’ll get your twenty percent.”
“Well, you aren’t missing anything at Averly, that’s for sure.” Marcus’ voice brought me back to my party, to the cold beer in my hand.
I laughed, remembering those depressing cubicles, the flickering fluorescent lights, and the giant sticker in the shape of a window affixed to the side of Marcus’ wall. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The party continued late into the night with conversation and music and pizza and numerous rounds of beer pong.
“Your condo’s awesome.” Chloe had abandoned the loud conversation in the kitchen and gazed out at the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Her platinum blonde hair was parted in the middle and braided into matching twists on either side of her head. A wrap skirt hugged her narrow waist. Glittery fringe hung off the sleeves of her shirt and glistened next to her bronzed skin.
I stumbled next to her, feeling slightly frumpy in my jeans and black T-shirt. The alcohol made my arms and legs feel as if they were floating.
“I’ve been looking for a place like this,” she said.
“You’re looking for a condo?” I stopped breathing. Even through the haze of too many beers, my realtor alarm bell rang clearly. I reached into my pocket, fumbling for a card. “I can set up a search for you.”
Chloe shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m already working with someone else. She’s from my networking group.”
“What? Who?” The blood drained from my face, sliding through my body like wet paint, my hands and feet suddenly heavy.
“Her name’s Katie Walsh. She’s with Keller Williams. She’s really on top of the market.” Chloe took a swig of her beer as if she hadn’t just stabbed me in the heart.
“Never heard of her,” I said, biting back my anger.
“What’s up, ladies?” Grace leaped over the couch, a lock of her dark hair falling into her face.
I nodded toward the traitor. “Chloe’s buying a condo. She’s using some lady from her networking group as her realtor.” I crossed my arms in front of me, my heart pounding louder with each beat.
“Seriously! What?” Grace threw her head back and then elbowed me. “Why not use Mara? She found my place for me. She was great!”
Chloe squared her shoulders. “I’m already working with someone.”
Grace stared down Chloe, her green eyes brewing with disbelief. “You can switch.”
“I don’t want to switch.”
“Why not?” Grace shook her head, the smile on her face fading. “Why not help a friend out?”
Chloe sneered at me, her fingernails brushing at the stupid fringe dangling from her shirt. “I’d rather use someone more experienced. I mean, Mara just got fired from her consulting job and decided she was going to be a realtor. C
ome on.”
I bit my lip hard, the tinny taste of blood dripping near my tongue. Chloe was talking about me like I wasn’t even standing there. Like she hadn’t betrayed me. Like she wasn’t a guest at my party at my condo.
Chloe chuckled. “She doesn’t even drive a nice car.”
A pulse of heat surged from my feet and collected in my face, my skin burning. This bitch didn’t know anything about me, about what I’d been through. She didn’t know what it had taken for me to get where I was. She was wrong. I knew plenty about real estate. I was learning from the best. I didn’t drive a nice car because I was donating every extra penny I earned to pay for my sister’s cancer treatment. My hand squeezed the glass bottle so hard I thought it might crack. I set my beer on the windowsill, steadying myself.
Chloe smirked. “I can’t believe you’re Hyundai is still running. Do you drive people around in that?”
The alcohol blurred my mind, but my body was clear. Blood raced through my veins, and my muscles tensed. Something inside me snapped.
“Get out of my house!” I grabbed the beer bottle and lunged toward Chloe, the lukewarm liquid splashing across her spiral braids and smug face and streaming down the front of her designer shirt. Arms shaking, I slammed the bottle down on the stone ledge behind me, the glass shattering and a shard cutting into my hand.
Someone screamed. Chloe’s shocked eyes peered through her fingers at me, her jaw hanging open. Liquid dripped from the tip of her nose. I gripped the broken bottle inside my hand, and blood oozed from a cut on my finger. By the time I realized what I’d done, Chloe was lunging toward me, the whites of her eyes showing. Grace stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Others ran toward us.
“Are you crazy?” Chloe yelled. A splatter of beer covered her head and face, smearing her mascara under her eyes like war paint.
“Leave,” I said, my breath jagged and blood leaking from my hand.
Marcus stepped between us, holding out his arms. “What the hell happened?”
“You need to leave.” Grace squared her shoulders and corralled Chloe toward the door.
Lilly jogged after Chloe with a wad of paper towels. Someone else turned off the music.
Chloe reached the hallway, hatred burning in her eyes. “Screw y…,” she started to say, but Grace slammed the door.
My guests stood in the living room, raising eyebrows and opening mouths at each other. Pain throbbed from my finger. A soup of alcohol, pizza, and bile swirled in my stomach. I’d released the broken bottle from my grip but couldn’t unclench my fist.
“What was her deal?” someone whispered.
“You should sit down.” Grace rushed over, pointing at my hand and holding out a napkin. She cleared her throat, a smile creeping onto her face. “Just so everyone knows… that’s what happens if you don’t use Mara as your realtor.”
Nervous laughter rippled through the room. My body sank into the couch, my good hand pressing a wad of napkins against the cut as I closed my eyes, simultaneously ashamed and proud of myself. I’d overreacted, but I’d had no choice but to defend myself. Chloe had backed me into a corner and insulted me.
Grace knelt, collecting pieces of glass from the floor.
Marcus teetered nearby, raising his arm in a wave. “We’re taking off.” Lilly hovered next to him, her face pale.
“Thanks for coming.”
Lilly’s eyes swerved away from me. They hurried toward the door with the rest of Grace’s friends following close behind.
The party was over.
24
“What happened to your hand?” Jacqueline eyed the bandage wrapped around my finger, her lips pulling back. We stood in front of a red brick single-family home on Addison, two blocks from Wrigley Field. It was Jacqueline’s new listing, the one I’d helped steal from Natalia.
“Oh.” I hid my arms behind my back. My stomach lurched, a result of too much beer the night before. “Just a cooking injury. My knife slipped. It’s no big deal.”
Jacqueline strummed her fingers on her thigh, considering my story. “Hopefully, you can still open a door. I’m going to add this listing to the properties you’re in charge of showing.”
My body sunk, as any hope of taking a day or two off over the upcoming Fourth of July weekend vanished. Before I could protest about my increasing workload, she added, “You’ll be compensated.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, grateful for the comfortable flat shoes I’d decided on this morning and the bottle of Gatorade I’d downed on the way over. “Yeah. I can handle it.”
“Good. I’ll give you a tour.” I followed her up the front steps, gawking at the way her pressed linen pants hung perfectly over her fat-free hips. I yanked down at my shirt, making sure it wasn’t stained.
Jacqueline turned toward me and whispered. “Here’s the deal. After you gave me the address, I looked up the tax records and called the owner, Bill Miles. Thanks to your detective work, I knew Natalia had already been to see him and had given him her sales pitch. She’s good, so I half-expected Bill to tell me he’d already signed with her. Instead, he said Natalia tried to undervalue his property. He hadn’t signed anything.” Jacqueline stopped talking and grinned at me, her metallic eyes gleaming.
“I met him here yesterday morning before he left for work, property analysis and listing agreement in hand. The place is a real shithole. Of course, Bill thinks it’s worth as much the new construction a block over. I explained how overpriced listings run the risk of sitting on the market and devaluing themselves. He said he didn’t mind if it sat.” Jacqueline shrugged. “So, we’re going to humor him. We’re listing at $1,900,000. In a couple of months, when it doesn’t sell, we’ll lower the price.”
“What’s the right price?”
“Something closer to $1,200,000.” Jacqueline unlocked the door. “But at least Natalia won’t get the sale.”
We entered the foyer. The lighting was dark. The hodgepodge of ’80s and ‘90s finishes were outdated and tired with beige Formica counters in the kitchen, mismatched appliances, and carpeting so dingy and stained I couldn’t even guess at the original color. Bill’s belongings cluttered the hallways. The property would be a tough sell until it was priced right. I hoped it wouldn’t suck up too much of my time.
After completing the underwhelming tour, Jacqueline turned toward me. “Hey. Do you still have the key to my townhome?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. I need you to let my designer, Anastasia, into my place tomorrow. I’m going to be out with a buyer all day. I’ll get back to you with the time.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve got to go meet Haley now.”
I thought of Jacqueline’s friend from law school and how stressful it must have been for her to learn she was pregnant and then to have to sell her one-room condo because of it.
“How’s she doing?”
Jacqueline fluttered her eyelashes and sighed. “A little high-maintenance, to be honest. You’d think she was the first person to ever deal with a surprise pregnancy. Everyone knows the pill isn’t a hundred percent effective.”
“I guess,” I said, although I remembered my doctor telling me the pill was nearly a hundred percent effective as long as it was taken daily.
Perspiration prickled on my forehead. I stepped back, Haley’s remarks from a few weeks earlier replaying in my ears. I have no idea how it happened because I was on the pill. I swear I never forgot to take it. All at once, another vision emerged from the dark corners of my mind, the bottle of St. John’s Wort spilling from Jacqueline’s purse the night she’d invited me over for pizza. I remembered the reason I’d stopped taking the herb. The decision had come at the advice of my doctor after she’d learned I used the pill for contraception. St. John’s Wort was known to interfere with birth control pills, rendering them virtually ineffective. Leaning back, I steadied myself against the wall. Now it was Peter’s harrowing words that echoed through me. The more I tried to silence them, th
e louder they spoke. Think about it, Mara. The reasons people sell their properties. It’s because bad things happened to them…She’s behind it all. I sucked in a breath, a horrible thought leeching into my brain.
How low would Jacqueline stoop to get a listing? She met Haley every week for lunch. What if she’d slipped the St. John’s Wort into her friend’s food or drink? Haley would never have known her birth control pills were useless.
“See you at the office.” Jacqueline’s chipper voice yanked me away from my spiraling thoughts and back to Bill’s foyer. She placed the keys to the overpriced listing in my uninjured hand and headed toward her car. I watched her leave, reining in my imagination. I’d been hearing too many news stories about men slipping drugs into women’s drinks, and now I was projecting their actions onto Jacqueline. There was no proof she had done anything to her friend. Jacqueline had probably bought the herb to manage the anxiety caused by her stressful career. Haley had most likely forgotten to take her pills once or twice without realizing it. My back pressed against the brick wall as I exhaled. Still, I couldn’t ignore the rock turning over in my gut.
◆◆◆
A woman with papery skin and a bouffant hairstyle straight out of the 1950s meandered toward the steps of Jacqueline’s townhome, a leather tote pinned under one arm. Her clashing purple pants and yellow-and-grey plaid shirt seemed to have been paired together on purpose. She paused in front of the steps, lowering her tortoise-shell glasses at me.
“Mara?”
“Yes. Are you Anastasia?”
“That’s me.” She made her way up the steps. “Thanks for letting me in. I know Jacqueline is extremely busy.”
“Sure.” I unlocked her door and waved the designer in front of me. Ever since Jacqueline had decided to move forward with her plan to add another bathroom to her lower level, I’d gotten used to my post on the front step, letting construction crews and handymen into her townhome. “Jacqueline said you can turn the bottom lock when you leave.”
