by Jo Noelle
He opens the garage door and steps aside for me to enter a hallway beside the kitchen, where the warm scent of rich Italian seasonings coming from the oven. So far, all’s clear. Antipasto salads are already on the breakfast bar.
“Is it okay if we eat in the kitchen? I really don’t use the dining room—feels weird to be so formal.”
I’m looking around like there’s going to be an ambush. “Sure. It smells delicious. What is it?” I ask as he seats me on a barstool. There are only two plates. So they’ve already gone, good. Definitely good.
“Rigatoni. I hope you like shrimp.”
“Yes, I do.” Even more, I like thinking about you cooking for me. This really increases your stock. “Did you make this?”
Liam nods and smiles.
I smile back. You are very sexy. “Thank you.”
“Bon appetito.”
While we eat, I mentally run down a list of what I’ve learned about Liam. He’s gorgeous. He loves children. He’s chiseled. He’s fun. He can cook. None of these qualities were rare, but taken together in the mix that is Liam, they warm me, increasing my interest in getting to know him more. And with a little more time, what else will I add to the list?
After dinner, we move into the living room. There is a large flat screen on the wall and an oversized, overstuffed sofa and love seat facing it. “What’s your choice?” he asks, holding three DVDs. “Corny, funny, or classic?”
“Frankenstein.”
He starts the movie and joins me on the couch. I scoot under his arm and lay my head across his chest and shoulder, our left hands clasped. Every now and again, we hit pause to give out treats. Later, we don’t bother turning it back on—we aren’t watching the movie anyway. Liam’s lips and arms and chest almost make me forget that his parents could walk in any minute. I feel a little like I’m in high school, sneaking around, kissing a boy. It’s kind of awkward, but not enough to stop. We sink into the couch and I close my eyes, kissing Liam again.
When I open my eyes and look at the television, the news is on. “Did I fall asleep?” I’m lying next to Liam with my head resting on a pillow at the end of the couch.
“Yes. I’m a little offended,” he says, kissing me. “Shall I take you home now? It’s a school night, you know.”
“I’m not looking forward to school. I hear the real zombies show up tomorrow, results of the sugar crash. Well, and me along with them. I’m dead. It’s going to be a long week. Are your parents home?”
“Probably.” he says, looking confused.
“Should I meet them before I go?”
“That would be kind of hard. They live in California.”
“They don’t live here?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.” My real estate brain kicks in and I quickly tally the property: east side of town, gated neighborhood, formal entry and dining, third-car garage, kitchen a chef would kill for, about 4000 square feet on a large lot—easily over $500,000. “You work at a school. How can you live here?”
“Do you remember me telling you I had worked for the family business?”
I nod, but I’m not sure I remember. If it gets you a home like this why would you quit?
“Well, I was kind of born into it.”
Now I’m shaking my head. Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.
“There are trust funds involved. I need investments, and my home is one of them.”
“The Jaguar?”
“It’s not something I drive much, except it’s wicked fast. It was a college graduation present from my grandparents, so you can see why I can’t get rid of it.”
I nod again, but the thought passes through my brain this is probably still a dream because this isn’t fitting together yet. That’s confirmed as I stand and realize I don’t have balance. Liam steadies me in a tight hug.
“You thought I lived with my parents?”
“Yes.”
“And you still came in?” Liam’s voice sounds like he’s restraining a chuckle.
I tiptoe up to kiss him. “Yes.”
My head is still a little groggy on the ride home. I’m sure there’s something I don’t understand here.
I lie in my bed and try to unravel the snippets of conversation at Liam’s house. Start with the facts. Gated community. Beautiful home. Trust funds. Family business. Born into it. He avoids the conversation because he doesn’t want to say it. He can work at a school for next to nothing because he’s independently wealthy.
More facts. Lost my career. Spent my savings. Car repossessed. Basically dead-beat broke. We aren’t in the same league. What could Liam see in me? Does he know all this about me? Maybe some of it. Embarrassment tickles the edges of my thoughts. Probably the car. Well, we can still be friends. Kissing friends. My heart doesn’t know if it should flip or be crushed.
After school the next day, Liam steps through my door. “Can I give you a ride home?”
“I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m visiting a friend tonight.” Liam nods his head slowly. He looks disappointed. “Would you like to come with me? It’ll be about half an hour. I think you’d like her.”
“She wouldn’t mind?”
I slip on my coat and purse. “No, she would love it.” I grab the DVD Hunter brought me from his mom before we head out the door.
It snowed last night, and it’s surprising how much colder it is now. As we walk down the sidewalk, I put my left hand in my coat pocket, but I’m not willing to drop Liam’s hand to put my other hand in my pocket too. Liam puts both of his hands in his pocket, even the one holding mine. That works. He starts to turn toward the parking lot, but I tug on his hand. “She lives at White Hall,” I say, ticking my head toward the retirement home.
“Ruby, it’s Sophie. May I come in?”
“Oh yes. Who is this with you?”
“Ruby, this is Liam. Liam, Ruby.”
He reaches out and takes her hand.
“Welcome. It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Liam gives her a surprised look.
“Oh, nothing embarrassing. Sophie is not one to kiss and tell, but she said enough for me to know she’s quite taken with you. I’m glad you came with her.”
Well, that was mildly awkward. This must be what living by your grandmother would be like. About the same time, Carol enters. I love it when Carol comes in—cakes, muffins, tarts, donuts. This time, it’s a plate of soft, warm cookies. Yes, this is exactly what it’s like to go to Grandma’s house.
“I see you have something to show me,” Ruby says, turning her attention to the DVD in my hand.
“It’s part of our Halloween party on Wednesday. I think you’ll like this.” I pop it in and press start. The first group comes on and Ruby’s eyes brighten. I hit pause for each new group to name the students. Then we watch them dance across the stage in their costumes.
Afterward, I hug Ruby and say goodbye. She calls us back as we step out of the doorway. “Sophie, perhaps Liam could get two balls.” Liam asks which two, reaches for them and holds them out to Ruby, but she signals him to give them to me.
I take them. “Bye, Ruby. I’ll see you next week.”
As we walk down the drive and back to his truck, I tell Liam how I met Ruby. “The deal of two balls whenever I visit is kind of an inside joke now. Funny thing, though—she never seems to run out.”
November 3, 2007
Newbie Blog:
Oh, Grow Up!
Okay, so you’re mad at me, but why take it out on the students? Get over it!
Background—More than a month ago, I told a mom her child had a hard time during PE and was punching other students in class. Instead of helping him learn how to be a better friend, she tells her son not to listen to me because I’m not his mother. But I am his teacher, and any child breaking the rules will be corrected and their parents informed. I think I’m right here. Can I get an amen?
This same mother volunteered to organize a class party for Halloween. I guess s
he thought it would be payback to ditch the party. How junior high is that? It didn’t work. Another student’s parent and a friend of mine dropped everything to make sure the kids still had a great day.
Here’s the memo. Elementary school isn’t about you or me. It’s about students and what they can learn together about life in a protected place. By the way, your child was the only one to miss out on the fun, and we all wished he was with us.
Something I’ve learned this week: Don’t expect parent support, but appreciate it when it comes.
Dainty flakes flutter from the sky as I put my dress shoes in my purse and head out the door in my winter boots. At least it hadn’t actually snowed while I was walking to school until today. As I reach the school, my hair is dripping and flat, but don’t you worry—it will be dry and frizzy in about forty-five minutes. I’m glad six-year-olds don’t really care.
At lunchtime, I check my messages. I missed a call from my real estate broker, Collin, and he left a message. “Hi, Sophie. It’s Collin. Got a surprise today. One of the FSBO listings you brought in last July had an offer faxed over this morning. When could you come over and get the paperwork and present the offer to the sellers? Give me a call.”
I call him back. “Hi, Collin. It’s Sophie. Your message was quite a surprise. Which listing?”
“The four-bedroom home on Cañon Breeze Lane. When can you come get this?”
“I’m at work today until at least five. Could you fax it to me here at school?”
“What’s the number?”
“I don’t know, but it’s probably on the school’s website.”
“I can find it. You need to present it this evening or tomorrow morning. Call me after you do.”
“Right, thank y. . .” I begin to answer, but he’s already clicked off. What is it about real estate agents never saying good-bye?
I call Mina next and ask if I can borrow her car after work to run an errand. I’m so excited—maybe I’ll have a sale and just before Christmas. Stop. I’m not going to get my hopes up. These things fall apart more often than they close—thus the teaching gig.
As soon as I get the contract from the office, I call the sellers and arrange to present the offer after dinner.
My mom calls before I leave for the appointment, but we cut the conversation short so I can drive over in time. I promise to call her back before I go to bed. The sellers are desperate, and are accepting an offer $10,000 below the asking price with no convincing on my part. In the car, I call Collin to let him know.
“They accepted the offer.”
“Great. Bring in the paperwork tomorrow morning.”
“Collin, I work. I’ll ask for a day off on Thursday and bring it in then. Can I fax you a copy of the acceptance?”
“Sure. Plan some time to stay and talk with me. I think I have an offer you’ll want. Be here at nine.”
“Okay.” I didn’t even try to chitchat this time, and I was right—he had already hung up.
Before bed, I call mom. She loves me. She feels sorry for me. She’s bringing me Dad’s old Volvo tomorrow.
“Can you stay for dinner?”
“No, we already have plans.”
“Thanks for the car, Mom. This means so much. See you tomorrow. Love you, bye.”
At dinnertime, Mom pulls into the driveway and parks the Volvo. It looks just the way I remember it, very squarish. The friend that came with her, that she has dinner plans with, is a man. Interesting. Weird but interesting. Mom’s not a recent widow, but I never imagined her having male friends. Mom introduces me to Bill, she reminds me we’ll have lunch together on Sunday to celebrate my birthday next week, and then they leave.
The car is a mustard yellow color with no dents or rust. The tires look new. I sit in the driver’s seat and my hands grip the wheel right where Dad’s hands did. This feels like home. The interior is light brown and in perfect condition—no rips, tears, or stains. Pristine condition—even the cassette player. Too bad I don’t own cassettes. Only 84,000 miles. Inside the glove box are the papers for registration and insurance. The owner’s manual is still there too, along with the original purchase documents. It’s a 1986 Volvo 240, four-door. Mom’s right—Dad will always look after us. Thanks, Dad.
On Thursday, I wake up and get ready. This time, I don’t wear sensible shoes or a long skirt. I put on high heels and a fitted suit, zipping myself into my old career. I love this work, helping people find a starter home or move up to their dream home. Meet the client, write a contract, then say goodbye in thirty to sixty days—short-term and fast paced. The sellers’ acceptance is in my leather portfolio and I take off.
“Sophie, I want you to come back.”
He looks serious. He can’t be. “Collin, the real estate market is stagnant. I need to pay my bills. When the market comes back, so will I.”
“Business has never been better. We’ve changed our focus. With so many homes in foreclosure, we’re attacking the market for short sales. As soon as a lender sends out a notice of default, we contact the homeowners to see if they want to try to sell the house instead of losing it. This office is processing fifteen to twenty listings every week.”
“Listings aren’t paychecks—I need more than listings. Are you having closings?”
“Yes. You could come back part-time to work up your pipeline. A few evenings or weekends a month? I have a new agent who is looking for a partner who can take the showings during those hours. What do you think?”
What would it hurt? It might even earn a little extra income. “Sure. I’ll give it a go.”
Collin buzzes his phone. “Kevin, come in here for a minute?”
He walks in. Kevin’s the kind of guy I’ve always dated but never got serious with. Well-tailored suits, perfect hair, countenance that is assuring to people putting a lot of money down on an investment, the kind of guy who doesn’t want a wife. A safe guy.
“Sophie Kanakaredes, Kevin Diaz.” No ring. Oh my gosh. Why do I check? It’s harder than it seems to stop an ingrained habit: One—check the face if it looks good. Wow, and it does. Two—check the ring finger next. I can really stop doing that now.
“What do you have in mind for the partnership?” I ask Kevin or Collin, whoever wants to answer.
Kevin takes the question. “We split all residential commissions, no matter which of us works on the deal or shows the properties. Everything down the middle. I do day appointments and you do evenings and weekends. We have a partnership meeting every Saturday morning to fill each other in on showings, listings, and deals.”
“Okay. Residential contracts?
“I’ll keep my commercial business separate. You won’t need to work those contracts at all.”
This might be the solution I’ve been looking for to turn around my poverty. Right—poverty is too strong a word, but it’s diminished status for sure. “Let’s do it, starting on all future contracts. Wait—what time on Saturdays for the partnership meeting?”
“Seven thirty in the morning.”
I probably gasped. “Deal breaker. Nine.”
“Deal.” We shake hands. “We’ll meet here at the office, November seventeenth, for our first meeting. I’ll be out of town this weekend.”
I sit across from Mina and Scarlet in the restaurant. “Your new partner is a man? Is he cute?” Scarlet asks.
“Yes, but I’m not interested.”
Mina stares at me. Her eyebrows lift and her mouth tips up on one side. “Single?”
“Yes. Well most likely. Don’t look at me like that. We’re both professionals, all business.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who was all business,” Mina quips and looks toward Scarlet who is smiling and shaking her head to show me she would say the same. “Be careful.”
“Mina, I don’t have to be careful. I just have to be a real estate agent, period.” The conversation lags. I vaguely remember this—being outside in the middle of the day, on a weekday, having lunch with friends or colleagues. Eve
ryone is dressed in business suits and talking about deals for whatever business they’re in. I really miss this life, the freedom to set my own hours and have time to be with friends.
It’s Friday morning and it’s snowing hard. Ha! I’m driving to work this morning and not walking. Thanks again, Dad.
November 10, 2007
Newbie Blog:
I’ll Call Her Jan
About a month ago, I noticed that one of my students rarely interacted with other students outside of class time. I’ve made it a point since then to arrange for her to be with other students to see if she can pick up a friendship. Another girl in our class seems to be around Jan more and invites her to join in group work or games. Jan’s face and whole being can almost not contain the happiness she feels at being noticed. Truth is, Jan worries me. If a six-year-old can be shut down and depressed, then maybe Jan is. Her eyes are so vacant and sad, rarely fixing on people’s faces for very long.
Jan is just one of my students. I have twenty-four who have squeezed into my life and heart. Being a teacher lasts more than seven hours a day. I can’t shut off wondering who struggles with friends? Who needs more attention? Who needs what next? It’s like my students are shadows behind my conscious thoughts. Teaching demands my mind, my heart, and my soul.
Sunday dinner at my mother’s is a frequent occurrence, but today’s a special occasion, celebrating my birthday a few days early. We spend a little time catching up, talking about her work and mine, her friends and mine. I slide in a question—I hope tactfully. “Are you dating Bill?” Please say no.
“No.” She shakes her head thoughtfully.
Yes. I really don’t know how to handle seeing my mom with a man who’s not my dad.
“No. He’s a nice person though. My friends think I should. They say it’s been long enough, but I’m not interested in dating. I still feel very married, but I’m lonely, a lot.”
