by S W Vaughn
But she never seems to get that she’s only winning the game because I’m not playing.
“Good morning, Sabrina,” I say when she stops in front of my desk. “I like your sweater.”
I don’t actually. It’s pink and fuzzy, probably angora, and it reminds me of Dolores Umbridge from the Harry Potter movies. Come to think of it, Sabrina basically is Umbridge — all outward sweetness and light, with a nasty undertone to every word she utters.
I’m waiting for her to say something like ‘oh, this old thing?’, but she doesn’t. She gets right down to business. “Hello, Celine. I hear you found a buyer for the Quintaine place,” she says with a brittle smile. “Congratulations. It must’ve been a fluke, like winning the lottery.”
Maybe it was, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of agreeing. “Did you need something, Sabrina? I have work to do.”
“Do you?” Her smile curls up like the Cheshire cat as she leans back and inspects her blood-red nails. “I thought you’d be at the hospital today. You know … with Brad,” she says. “Weren’t you with him before the accident? I mean, he probably still thinks you’re his girlfriend.”
My jaw clenches hard. “I think Brad has enough problems right now,” I say.
“Really. So you’re a problem?” she says sweetly, blinking innocent eyes at me. “You had him the longest, even though he was probably cheating on you, too. I never understood why you stayed.” She leans forward and stage-whispers, “He’s really not that good in bed. I only had him twice, before I gave up on him.”
“Well, Sabrina, everybody else thought he was a great fuck. So maybe the problem was you,” I fire back before I can think about it. I really shouldn’t be surprised that Brad was with Sabrina. He’d moved to Wolfsbrook during his senior year, when I was a junior, and he’d still managed to screw most of his class and half of mine before he graduated — or at least it seemed that way. The big, handsome football hero. Then he’d moved on to screw his way through college.
And yeah, I was the last one before the accident and the coma. But I’d been with him for a year, and …
I’m not going to think about that.
Sabrina only looks shocked for a second. She straightens and recovers with a sanguine smile. “You poor thing. You must’ve been a virgin before Brad,” she says. “Have you been waiting all this time for him? You really don’t know what you’re missing.”
My phone vibrates, saving me from saying something really nasty. I pull it out and see Hannah Byers’ number on the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I say, giving back all of her saccharine sweetness and then some. “It’s the Quintaine buyer. You know, the fluke?”
Thunderheads form in her eyes, and she pivots on a heel and stalks across the room to her desk.
I have to resist an overwhelming urge to stick my tongue out at her as I answer the call. “Good morning, this is Celine.”
“Hi, it’s Hannah. I’m buying a house from you?” she says uncertainly.
A smile twitches across my mouth. This is like calling Domino’s and saying ‘I’m the one who ordered a pizza.’ “Yes, Hannah, hello,” I say. “I remember you. Can I help you with something?”
She pauses, and I hear a quick intake of breath. “I was just wondering if I’d be able to move in soon,” she says. “I know there’s more paperwork, but can we do that today? I’d love to move tomorrow.”
Oh, my stars and garters. It’s another of my mom’s favorite sayings, and it’s all I can think to describe my reaction. She really is completely clueless. “Well,” I say slowly, “closing on a house usually takes four to six weeks. But since this is a cash sale, it shouldn’t take that long. I’d plan on about two weeks, total.”
“Two weeks?” she says with real dismay. “Oh, no, that’s far too long. Can’t we do it faster?”
I frown and notice Sabrina smirking at me from across the room, like a lion catching the scent of a wounded gazelle, so I force a smile. Apparently this property is going to give me trouble right through the bitter end. “Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll make some calls, and I might be able to push things up to first thing next week.”
Hannah gusts a relieved breath. “Really? That would be so much better. Will Monday work, do you think?”
“That’s what I’ll aim for,” I tell her. Today is Tuesday. The longest part of the process, other than mortgage processing which Hannah doesn’t need, is usually waiting on the lawyers — but Jill is a paralegal at the firm we normally work with, and hopefully she’ll help me fast-track this one. “I’m sorry it can’t be sooner, but —”
“Monday is fine,” she says brusquely, as if she hadn’t just been panic-stricken when I told her she couldn’t move in tomorrow. “Thank you so much, Celine. You’ll keep me updated, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
I manage to get in a goodbye before she hangs up, and I stare at the phone for a moment, shaking my head. Hannah seems … a bit eccentric. But maybe this is normal for her. I’ve never met an actual rich person before, so who knew. They might all be like this.
“Is something wrong, Celine?” Sabrina calls out, looking terribly concerned.
“Not a thing,” I say as I swipe to my address book and pull up Jill’s office number. I find myself wondering if this sale will put me ahead of Sabrina in commissions, if that’s why she’s coming at me so hard, and smile at the idea. Serves her right if it does.
Tuning out the woman who would be queen of real estate, I dial Jill and open my email on the computer, so I can forward her the contract. She answers on the second ring with, “Jeff Lindstrom’s office, can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s me,” I say.
“Morning, hon. Wait a second,” she says. “You’re not calling to cancel drinks tonight, are you? Because I already need one.”
I laugh. “That kind of day, huh? No, I’m not cancelling.”
“Good. I’ve got the biggest rant ever for you later,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Actually, I need a favor if you have time,” I say as I start scrolling through my inbox for the contract. “On the Quintaine sale, the one we’re celebrating. The buyer is — oh, what the hell is this?” I break off as I see an email from the New Hampshire Real Estate Commission about renewing my license. The bar is shaded like it’s already been clicked on and read, but I don’t remember reading it.
“What happened?” Jill says. “Don’t tell me something went wrong already.”
“No, it’s not that,” I mutter as I click on the email, which informs me that my license is going to expire in seven days. But the message is dated last Friday, so it’s actually expiring in three days. How could I have missed this? I’ll have to take care of it right away. “Apparently my license is expiring,” I say.
“Your driver’s license?”
“My real estate license. I thought it was … well, whatever. I’ll just do it,” I say, opening the renewal link in a new tab and then going back to my inbox. “Anyway, I was wondering if you could get this contract reviewed fast. Like, maybe today? The buyer is highly motivated.”
Jill snorts a laugh. “I thought that’s what you’re supposed to say about sellers,” she says, typing rapidly in the background. “Sure, no problem. Send it through and I’ll make sure you have it by this afternoon.”
“You’re amazing. Thank you.”
“Hey, I’m super-paralegal. Able to leap tall filing deadlines in a single bound, no matter how many weeks certain people who aren’t even my boss have failed to tell me about the aforementioned deadlines,” she says with cutting sarcasm. Now I know exactly what she’s going to rant about tonight: Danny Voltaire, the firm’s newest junior partner, who’s been a six-month thorn in Jill’s side. The kind of guy who’d forget his own head if it wasn’t attached. I don’t imagine that extreme forgetfulness is a good quality for a lawyer to have.
“Can’t wait to hear this one,” I say with a smirk. “Thanks again, Jill. I’m sending the contract now.
”
After a few seconds, she says, “Okay, got it. Talk to you later — I have to run over to the courthouse for some mysteriously immediate reason.”
“Yeah, I wonder what that is?”
That gets her laughing. We say goodbye and hang up, and I see Lucas Turow coming in from the back, burdened with a shoulder bag, a briefcase, and a bunch of signs under one arm. Speaking of people who aren’t exactly organized. But Lucas is a decent guy — and with another agent around, Sabrina will cool her heels. She saves her worst snark for one-on-one sessions with whoever’s lucky enough to be alone with her.
I wave good morning to Lucas and go back to my computer, tabbing over from my email to the license renewal form. I should’ve had another full year before I needed to renew, but with the closing on the Quintaine property coming up so fast, I don’t want to bother arguing with the real estate commission. I’ll just fill this out and pay the eighty bucks, and then worry about disputing it next week. They take forever to do anything.
For some reason my auto-fill isn’t working, and I have to type in all my information separately. But my computer is dragging, the cursor blinking too fast and the letters lagging behind my keystrokes. It’s not a big deal, just annoying. I chalk it up to everything about this property being a huge pain in the ass.
I can’t wait to close and get it out of my life.
Chapter 6
Alyssa’s second day of school was apparently even more exciting than the first, now that she’s had pizza for lunch two days in a row with Izzy. From the way my daughter talks about her new friend, Izzy might be the second coming of Christ. But I’m glad she’s happy.
I have her in bed by eight, and she’s sound asleep before the sitter gets there at nine. I’m glad Tabitha Foster is available tonight. She’s been Alyssa’s regular sitter since my daughter was a baby, and I thought she’d left for college a few weeks ago, but it turns out she’s not starting until the winter semester. Tabitha knows my numbers and where everything is in the house, so it’s just a matter of saying hello and thanking her before I head out.
It’s almost nine-thirty when I get to Old City, the most popular of the three bars in Wolfsbrook. The place is the last building on a dead-end street at the ‘waterfront’ of Saginaw Creek, a fat ribbon of dark green water that no one would dare swim in but everyone loves to look at. There’s plenty of parking available tonight, since it’s the middle of the week, so I grab a spot and head inside.
Jill is already at the bar. She stands and waves when I come in, like I don’t see her in the bright green top and white yoga pants she’s wearing. I can’t get away with outfits like that anymore, but she looks amazing as always.
The bartender she was talking to walks off, and Jill squeals a little as she hugs me. “Oh my God, you’re gonna be rich!” she says. “How does it feel?”
“Unbelievable.” I laugh and take the stool next to her. I’ve been spending too much time figuring out how much I’ll actually get — about fifteen thousand, after taxes and agency fees — and what I’ll do when I get it. So far all I know for sure is that I’m finally getting a remote starter installed in my car for winter, and Alyssa is going to have the most amazing fifth birthday ever. “I tell you, though. After two years, I feel like I made about three bucks an hour on this.”
“You think way too much, do you know that?”
Jill smiles and elbows me, grabbing my hand as I start to wave for the bartender. “I already ordered you a Tom Collins,” she says as she wiggles the nearly full glass on the counter in front of her. “Got mine right here, all ready for a toast.”
“Perfect.”
It’s not long before the bartender brings my drink, and as I take it with a nod of thanks, Jill lifts her glass. “Let’s see,” she says, striking an exaggerated thinking pose. “Here’s to Celine, she’s a good old bean.”
“Old bean?” I arch an eyebrow. “Here’s to Jill, she’s quite a thrill.”
Jill’s lips twitch. “Here’s to Celine, she’s rich but not mean.”
“Here’s to Jill not falling down a hill.”
We both dissolve into laughter and clink our glasses together. I still feel a little guilty leaving Alyssa, like I always do, but it’s good to be here. To be me for a while, and not just Alyssa’s mom.
Jill launches into her latest story about Danny Voltaire and his incompetence, and I listen and laugh and drink until I’m pleasantly buzzed. Eventually we order cheese sticks and move to a side table. I find myself thinking about the past, about college and all those nights like this — only much later and with more people — and Brad’s face fills my mind like an accusation.
“Jill,” I say into a moment of comfortable silence. “I’ve got to do something about Brad.”
Concern fills her face, and she sighs as she toys with a half-eaten cheese stick. “I can’t believe he’s awake,” she says. “I mean, five years. That has to be some kind of record.”
I swallow back unpleasant laughter. Brad Dowling probably broke a lot of records, on the football field and in the bedroom. He also broke a lot of hearts, including mine. As the absolutely gorgeous, only son of incredibly wealthy parents, everyone wanted him — and he often wanted everyone right back. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me if he’d cheated on me during the year we’d been together.
But I still love him. God help me, after all this time and all the energy I’ve spent actively not thinking about him, I still love him.
And there’s something he has to know.
“I have to tell him,” I say aloud, mostly to convince myself. “Don’t I?”
Jill gives me a sympathetic smile. “Maybe not yet,” she says. “He’s probably really weak and he’s going to need a lot of physical therapy, after five years in bed. He’ll be confused about everything. Plus, he might have brain damage.”
“Brain damage?” I echo. “Wait, how do you know all this stuff?”
She smirks. “I did a little research on coma patients. Morbid curiosity.”
“Oh, God. What if he does have brain damage?” I say in a cracked whisper. “What if he’s awake, and I still can’t tell him about …”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Jill reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I jump a little, startling a tear down my cheek. “It’s only been a few days,” she says gently. “Give it time. He probably has a lot of people throwing a lot of things at him right now, especially his parents.”
The thought of Willa and Bennett Dowling leaves me cold. They’re the reason I stopped visiting Brad a few weeks after the accident, and eventually stopped believing he’d wake up. I have no idea how they found out about the argument we had that night, since I’d never told anyone and Brad couldn’t. They must’ve known someone at the restaurant.
However it happened, Willa Dowling had made her feelings about me crystal clear to the entire fourth floor of Hayhurst Memorial Hospital.
“Celine?” a somewhat familiar voice says, dragging me from the memory of Willa’s red, contorted face and shrill screams. “That is you, isn’t it?”
I blink and find myself looking at Hannah Byers, who’s standing next to our table with a full wine glass in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. She’s wearing a glittering gold cocktail dress and a white sash that says Bead Babe, and there are feathers stuck in her hair. I’m not sure what look she’s going for, but I’m pretty sure she hasn’t achieved it. I guess she’s so gorgeous that it doesn’t really matter.
She’s also out at a bar, alone, on a school night. Interesting.
“Hi, Hannah,” I finally say, flashing an apologetic smile at Jill. “Uh, this is my friend Jill. Jill, this is Hannah Byers. She’s buying the Quintaine house.”
“Well, it’s the Byers house now, isn’t it?” Hannah says with a slightly brittle smile, but her expression smoothes as she nods in greeting. She doesn’t offer a hand, though — they’re both full. “Nice to meet you, Jill.”
“You too,” Jill says, look
ing bemused as her gaze travels Hannah’s outfit. “I hear you’re getting a lot of house.”
“The most my money can buy here,” Hannah agrees cheerfully. “I think I’m going to like Wolfsbrook. This is only the second bar I’ve been in tonight, and I’ve already found someone I know. It’s what happens in small towns, right?” She drops me a conspiratorial wink, as if we’re suddenly best friends sharing a secret. “How long have you two lived here?”
Jill and I exchange a glance. Only the second bar? If she’s expecting to find a lot of thriving night life in Wolfsbrook to choose from, she’s going to be disappointed. “I grew up here,” I say. “And Jill’s been here since college. She’s from Oslow.”
“Really? I’m from Oslow too. Well … sort of,” Hannah says with the same strange, distant look that came over her when she talked about her daughter. She shakes herself and smiles again. “I’m going outside to smoke. The bartender says there’s a great view of the river from the back. See you later, ladies.”
She walks off, weaving a little as she heads for the back door that leads to the patio. I stare after her until she’s outside, and then I clap a hand over my mouth to keep a laugh from escaping.
Jill doesn’t bother holding back, and soon I’m laughing right along with her. I’m not usually the type to make fun of people — but I’ve never met anyone like Hannah.
“I think there’s something wrong with her,” Jill says. “You know, like …” She trails off and twirls a finger around her ear.
“Yeah, maybe.” I calm down and sip at my drink. “But she’s also insanely rich, so I guess she’s allowed to be a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” That sets Jill off again, and I laugh with her for a minute. “Seriously, though? I think she has a pretend daughter.”
Jill frowns. “What do you mean?”
I tell her about seeing Hannah at the school that morning and point out that she’s here alone on a school night. At least I have the excuse of being out with a friend. And I explain the little Hannah’s told me — that her daughter is four, turning five in October, and her name is Alice. I even say that Alyssa doesn’t have an Alice in her class and hasn’t met any kindergartners named Alice.
