“Lanie Howard.” She finishes for me. “Well, hot damn. You’re Lanie Howard.” A smile the size of Texas spreads across her lips and she shakes her head, “My, my, my. No wonder my husband adored you. No wonder at all.”
“Thank you.”
“Now wait a minute.” She scans the crowd. “Is your fiancé with you? I’d sure like to meet him.”
“No,” I reply. “Evan and I are no longer together.”
“What? You were engaged to Evan Carter? I had no idea.” She grabs my hand and escorts us to a nearby set of chairs. “What happened?”
“You don’t have time for this right now. Surely there are more important people here.”
She raises her hand to stop me. “Howie, between you and me, I wish all these people would go home. I have cried my eyes out for the past week and I don’t need another goddamn hug. Please take my mind off my troubles and tell me about yours.”
“When you put it like that—”
“I do,” she says, giving my knee a gentle pat.
“Okay, then. Well, apparently our wedding planner offers more than just advice on flowers, cakes, and table settings. She’s full-service.”
“The slut.”
An older couple steps close and offers their condolences to Bevy. She graciously replies, then directs her attention back at me. “You dumped the loser, right?”
“Yes, moved out right away. See, don’t you feel better now? Listening to my sad stories.”
“Much.”
Mrs. Murphy’s youngest son calls her over, waving a leather-bound notebook. She exhales a deep sigh. “God bless that child of mine. He’s in the arts, you know, a dancer for Wicked, off-Broadway. He plays Fiyero. We’re really quite proud of him and how sensitive he is, but if he asks me to journal my feelings in that notebook one more time, I’m going to stab him in the neck.” My eyes must widen like quarters because she adds, “I’m just kidding. I’d only nick him with the serrated edge.”
“Oh, in that case.”
We stand for another hug and after our embrace, she starts to turn away but stops and says, “Now wait a minute. Hollis told me you were the brains and the balls of that real estate firm. Don’t tell me you’re still working with Evan?”
“No, I’m not.” I beam with pride. “I’m opening my own company. Lanie Howard Realty.”
“Lanie Howard Realty,” she repeats. “I like it. Call me when you get settled. We’ll go for lunch.”
“I’d like that.”
“Mom,” her son calls again.
An irritated scowl crosses her face. “Lord, give me strength,” she whispers.
Bevy hurries away, leaving a smile on my face.
While waiting for the elevator doors to open, I notice an earthen jar of candy canes on the foyer table. I reach for one and clutch it close to my heart.
twenty-nine
The next few days are a flurry of activity. I’ve had the carpets cleaned and the phones connected, collected necessary listing and sales forms, bought pens, printer paper, tape, and enough paper clips to form a noose should this business fail.
Kit and Mom have been godsends. Dividing and conquering, they’ve washed the desks, lounge area, and bathroom. They’ve vacuumed, replaced lightbulbs, and stocked my fridge with water and snacks. They get along well and I think it’s because they both appreciate a bargain and like sharing their stories of discounted buys. The only difference is Mom shops at the senior center and Kit at Nordstrom’s.
E’s helped, too. Aside from keeping Dylan entertained with piggyback rides and paper airplanes, she and I framed and hung her “hand” sketch along with a couple other drawings she made for me. She also designed my logo, a simple and elegant calligraphy-swirled L and H, which I’ve printed on letterhead, envelopes, et cetera.
While they’ve all decorated, scoured, and scrubbed, I’ve been on the phone with my web designer, diligently arranging a user-friendly site. I placed ads in the Arizona Republic and Scottsdale Press and e-mailed the nearly seven thousand real estate agents in the Valley, announcing my grand opening.
A young man dressed in a worn T-shirt and jeans with a sparsely grown-in goatee, which makes him look like he’s sixteen, walks in and says, “Hi, I’m looking for Lanie.” He holds a clipboard with a sticker blazed across the back that reads, Decal Guys Do It Better.
“I’m Lanie.”
“I’m Eric, from Decal City.”
“Oh, yes, Eric.” I shake hands with the young man Chett referred to as a “kick-ass decal guy.” By the glaze in his eyes, I’m pretty sure he’s stoned. “Pleased to meet you.”
He nods. “So, want to show me where I can stick it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, where do you want it?”
Okay, apparently this half-man doesn’t know how to talk with a woman respectfully and I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when he shows me the rolled-up decal.
“Here’s the decal. Where do you want it?”
“Oh, yes, of course. The decal.” I gush, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “I’ll show you.”
After Eric gets started, I dash inside, grab Mom and Kit. E follows behind, holding Dylan’s hand. With joined hands, we watch through the window as Eric unrolls the decal. He smooths it with a roller thingy, sprays some sort of cleaner on the window, and polishes with a cloth before I pay him and he leaves.
We hurry outside and I stand there amazed. Totally amazed. No matter how many times I blink to clear my eyes, I see the same thing and yet it doesn’t seem real. It’s surreal. Without touching the fresh decal, I trace in the air along the curve of my name, Lanie Howard Realty, scribed in an ivory—not ecru or eggshell—straight-letter font with a big loopy “L.” I really did it.
“Oh, Lanie,” Mom gushes. “I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes me hard.
“Really cool, Howie,” E says. She calls me this ever since she went to a couple of kickboxing classes with me. Rudy didn’t give her a nickname, said “E” was cool enough.
Kit hasn’t let go of my hand. She inhales and stares at my name as if it’s the code to eternal youth. “It’s wonderful, just wonderful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” I know I shouldn’t brag—well, that’s just what people say—I should totally brag. Dammit, I worked hard to get here. Though my bank account has dipped to a shockingly low level and I’ve triggered my low savings account balance fee—thank you, Bank of America, for pointing out my independence—I’m proud of it.
Not to mention, I completed the jar.
Three days later, I sit in the office perusing the day’s list of expired listings. My phone has rung exactly six times since I opened the doors. Three times it was Mom, the newspaper called once to see if I wanted to renew the ad, one was a wrong number, and Dylan called after school on Tuesday asking if I wanted an ice cream cone. Which, of course, I did.
Though I’m off to a slow start, I’m not going to lose hope. It’s early yet. I’m just getting going. It’ll take off. My business will grow. It has to.
With a red pen, I circle the expired listings I’m interested in pursuing and chew on a candy cane. I have a filled jar on my desk. A couple of the vacant land listings look promising, and there’s a condo that’s slightly overpriced. I know the area well and reach for the phone, while mentally composing a list of comparable properties, aimed at talking them into lowering their price and listing with me.
I start to dial when I remember Bevy. She asked me to call when I was settled. I bite off a chunk of peppermint and wonder if she really meant it. Is it too early to call and see how she’s doing? I haven’t seen her at Rudy’s and I miss that firecracker personality. I’m sure she’s grieving, will be for a long time, and I hate to bother her, but I’d love to hear her voice. Well, one thing’s for sure, if she doesn’t want to talk with me, she’ll say so.
“Lanie, I hoped you’d call. I haven’t been at class, just can’t seem to get my butt there.”
“It’s understandable, though we’ve missed you.”
“I’ve been telling that to my thighs, but they don’t give a damn.” She sighs. “Seriously, the past week I’ve had plenty of time to think.”
“Yes, I can imagine. You doing okay?”
“Not really,” she replies with a longing I’ve never heard in a voice. “I’m miserable as hell. I sure miss that old man.”
“Me, too,” I whisper.
“But I know he wouldn’t want me wallowing in self-pity. Hell, he probably has a girlfriend already.”
“No one that holds a candle to you. Can I take you to lunch? Maybe tomorrow or the next day?”
“That would be lovely. First, I’d like you to do something else.
“Name it.”
“List my house.”
What? Did she say list her house? The house?
“I can’t be here without him,” she continues. “The nothingness I feel in this big old place is killing me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, no.” She breathes heavily into the phone. “I don’t want your pity. I just want you to sell this house. I’ve decided to move near my son. Both Hollis and I were impressed by your analysis and marketing ideas. I know he wouldn’t want it any other way. Draw up the papers. I’ll come by tomorrow and sign.”
“Are you certain about this? It’s a big decision.”
“Hollis and I talked about this before he . . .” Her voice trails off. “I’m certain.”
“Thank you for your faith in me, Bevy. I won’t let you down.”
“I have no doubt. I’ll come by around nine.”
We hang up and I simply can’t resist. I climb on top of the table and dance.
I’ve arranged bagels, coffee, tea, juice (orange and guava), water, and hot chocolate. On the way into the office, I bought a huge bouquet of lilies and set the vase in the center of the polished coffee table. Even with my limited budget, I have to admit, the place looks good.
Before Bevy arrives, I scan my notes just to be sure I’m on top of all the important parts.
She walks in at the stroke of nine, seemingly in lighter spirits than a couple of days ago, as if a weight has been lifted. She tells me she knows listing the house is the right decision. After a bagel and a bit of negotiating the details, Mrs. Murphy signs the six-month listing agreement with a reasonable asking price. We hug and talk for a moment about the man we both adored.
As soon as she leaves, I input the listing into the MLS. It feels incredibly gratifying to add my name beside the listing. Hello, real estate world, my name is Lanie Howard. And I’m a broker.
For the next hour, I finish the necessary paperwork and fiddle with a trifold brochure. Working on the presentation, I receive a flash of genius. “Why didn’t I think of this before?” I shake my head at my own ignorance and scroll through my phone to find the number. I press Call just as my door swings open.
“What the hell is this?” Evan stomps toward me. His eyes are dark and his face is blotchy with anger. He holds a printout of the Murphy listing.
That didn’t take long.
Calmly, I press End and set my phone on the desk. “It’s a listing, Evan. I’m sure you’re familiar with them. Oh wait, maybe you aren’t. I did most of the work around there.”
“Don’t get cute with me. How dare you undermine my efforts. I’ve been working this listing for years.”
“No, Evan.” I rise from my seat. “I’ve been working the listing. And you don’t get it. It’s not working the listing,” I say with air quotes. “It’s assisting some really great people.”
“You don’t want to mess with me. Hollis is mine.”
“Apparently you haven’t removed your dick from Stacee”—cheap shot, I know—“long enough to discover that that sweet old man has passed away and his wife listed the property with me.”
He curls his lip into a cruel smile. “What do you know about real estate?”
“Plenty.”
“You’re a fool to think you can get away with this.” His smile shifts into a scowl—still hasn’t gotten that wax—and he waves the listing in the air. “I’ll take this up with the Department of Real Estate. I’m the procuring cause.”
“Good luck. We both know you have no agreement with the Murphys establishing a binding relationship. You have nothing. ‘Procuring cause’? Please. The only reason you know Hollis is because of me.”
My mind lingers on the last word. Me.
Oh my God. The only reason Hollis knows Evan is because of me. He stepped foot in Evan’s office because of me. Me. I was Evan’s connection to this man. I was Evan’s connection to a multimillion-dollar real estate collection. Me.
Clarity slams into my head like a freight train. Evan approached me in the coffee shop three years ago and later proposed because of my friendship with Hollis. Evan’s and my relationship was a business deal, a sham, nothing more. How did I not see this? To think, I almost married this asshole.
But I no longer give a damn about him or what he did. I have a house to sell. “Evan, I’m busy, so—”
“I screwed up.”
“What?”
Evan braces his hands on my desk and drops his head like a flower too heavy to hold its weight. With a whisper he says, “I screwed up.” Slowly, and with his check-me-out-I’m-trying-to-be-adorable look, he lifts his gaze toward mine and repeats, “Lanie, I can’t believe I let you get away from me.” Tears glisten his eyes.
Please.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I had perfection right in my grasp, this beautiful little bird, and I let it slip away.” He demonstrates my flight by fluttering his fingers in the air.
It’s all I can do not to throw up.
He shakes his head. “God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t appreciate what I had until I lost it. You, Lanie Howard. I lost you and everything that’s ever mattered in my life.”
I’m afraid to move for fear of the shit I might step in. There’s a lot of it spewing from his lips.
“Please come back to me. Say you’ll forgive me. I’ll make you partner right away.” His eyes widen. “We’ll go to the Department of Real Estate, right now. C’mon, Lanie. What do you say?”
“Hmm.” I lean back in my chair, fold my hands across my chest, and tap my foot on the floor. “What do I say? It’s a good offer. Enticing. Really enticing.”
His face lights up. “I love you. Please. Let’s go.”
“You know what I say?” I reply, sweetly.
“What?” He steps toward my side of the desk and grasps my hands. “Tell me, love.”
I rip my hands from his and snap, “I say no. You don’t love me. You love my connection to Hollis and I can’t believe it took me so long to realize it. I say, get the hell out of my office!”
He steps back and looks stunned, stupefied as if he just woke up from a ten-year coma and his VHS tape won’t work. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’ll be nothing without me,” he snarls. “Do you hear me? Nothing.”
I hear him all right, but I’m not listening. And at the same time, my cell phone rings. I hold up my finger and silence Evan. “Hi, Larson,” I say into the phone.
“I’m talking to you!” Evan shouts.
“Can you hold on just a moment, please? Thanks.” I cup my hand over my phone and whisper to Evan, “I need to take this call, so take your temper tantrum somewhere else. Besides, you’re getting my carpet dirty with all the crap spewing from your mouth.”
“After all I’ve done for you? Signing your paycheck all these years. The fancy dinners. The goddamn house on Orchid Lane.”
“Orchid Lane? That’s just lumber and tile.”
“Oh,
really? You’re so high and mighty now that a little indiscretion on my part justifies your disloyalty? Always thinking about yourself, aren’t you?”
Wes’s face comes to mind. Not always.
“You ungrateful bitch.”
Now he’s gone too far.
“One tiny second more, Larson. Okay? Thanks.” I set the phone down, recoil my right arm and with the strength of my kiai, punch my ex-fiancé square in the jaw. “Get out of my office.”
He clutches his chin with his hand and whimpers, “Ouch! What the—”
“Want some more?”
Shock is frozen on his face.
Evan turns on his heel and yells before he slams the door. “You’ll regret this. You will definitely regret this.”
I doubt it.
Returning to my phone, I cradle it beside my ear and say, “Larson, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It sounded like you just punched someone.”
“Really?”
“Ha.” He laughs. “Please tell me it was Evan.”
“The very same.”
“Good for you. He deserves it.”
“Thanks, Larson.”
“Hey, I think you just tried to call me.”
“Yes, I have something even more amazing than my fighting skills for you.”
“What’s that?”
“The perfect house.”
Six days later, I stare at a signed contract for the Murphy mansion. Larson made a solid offer and Bevy accepted. It’s a quick close, three weeks, no contingencies. Bevy has already flown to California to look for a new place and, by the sound of her voice, she enjoys giving her son a hard time. Hollis’s parents are buried outside La Jolla, as will Hollis be, so it’s fitting she’s near them.
I’m exhausted and plop into my office chair. It’s been a whirlwind. Once word spread that I listed and sold the Murphy mansion in a matter of days, my phone has rung nonstop. Mom signed on to work four days a week answering phones. She agreed once I promised good health insurance.
When Dylan is at school, Kit hangs out from time to time and helps me with odd jobs and difficult decisions, like where to order lunch. Even E stops after school a couple of days a week to do her homework or teach Mom computer tips.
The Someday Jar Page 26
