If the suburbs felt like another planet to me, the concept of kids was downright alien. Bill wanted them, the sooner the better. I, on the other hand, had reservations.
This was hardly the first time Bill had tried to get me to see houses, but I’d always been able to come up with convincing excuses to get out of it.
Until Mark Alvarez.
“I still can’t get over that story.” Jeanine shook her head, the needle of her speedometer hovering at twenty-six miles an hour. Champagne blonde, the same color of her SUV, streaked her brown hair. “The gang violence in this city has really gotten out of hand. I don’t blame you for wanting out after your attack.”
How could I argue with my safety? For Bill, having Mark Alvarez—an aggrieved family member of a convict Bill had put away—show up at our apartment was the last straw. We’d never personally faced violence in the city, but as an attorney, Bill had been exposed to the worst of it. He knew what happened in Chicago’s underbelly, and now that it’d reached his doorstep, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Lou Alvarez had been one of Bill’s final assignments before he’d left the DA’s office. He’d called the double homicide one of the ugliest and most difficult cases he’d worked on—but it’d been worth it. Lou was now serving a life sentence without parole for first-degree murder. His gang affiliation had hurt his case—and it also put Bill and his former colleagues in danger of retaliation.
What would Lou’s brother Mark have done if he’d encountered Bill instead? “It could’ve been worse,” I said.
“Worse?” Bill asked. “Well, I suppose he could’ve shot you down right there on the sidewalk.”
I grimaced. “He didn’t even have a gun.”
“You don’t know that. The guys at my old office have a pool going over how many counts we’ll nail him for, including whether he’ll be carrying when we pick him up.”
“It must be non-stop action over there,” Jeanine said.
As Bill did his best to shock her with overblown tales from the Cook County crypt, I removed my cell from my handbag to check my e-mail. A subject line from the night before caught my eye.
Your Safety
My interest piqued, but it was the sender’s name that made the world around me fall away.
David Dylan.
I hadn’t talked to him since he’d walked out of my office earlier in the week, but my heart fluttered the same way it did whenever I came face to face with him.
“See something you like?” Jeanine asked.
I glanced up. “Sorry?”
“You’re smiling,” she said into the rearview. “If you spot any For Sale signs, we can pull over.”
I put my phone away as Bill shifted to face me. “I knew you’d like Oak Park. It’s the perfect distance. You’re still close to the city, and I can finally get a decent night’s rest.”
Jeanine pulled over and parked in front of a house. I braced myself for disappointment, but to my surprise, its spiked, triangular roof and jagged rock exterior was nothing like what we’d seen so far. Its enormity lay in the imposing structure rather than in square footage. It wasn’t turnkey like Bill had requested; it needed work. The run-down property, thick with overgrown brush, oozed with character. Hard angles, a stone path and chimney, and clean, jutting lines gave it a modern but rustic feel. Yet in an oasis of traditional homes, it somehow retained the neighborhood’s atmosphere.
It was quietly magnificent.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out to get a better look. Dead grass crunched under my shoes as I used my hand to shield my eyes against the lowering sun.
“Olivia?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Jeanine gestured to me as she and Bill crossed the street. “This one. Over here.”
Ah. Behind her, a realtor’s sign sprouted from lush, green grass that belonged to a spacious, pretty home resembling every other house on the block. Except the one where I stood.
I should’ve known. And it was for the best. Neither Bill nor I had time for a DIY project.
I stepped off the curb and followed Jeanine into the house we were supposed to be seeing. We climbed the front steps to a large entryway, then an empty dining room that echoed with our footsteps, making our way through a kitchen with enough room that I’d actually be able to spread out. Upstairs, a sprawling master bedroom and en suite bathroom with double sinks would be the clincher for Bill. He often complained about our cramped one-bedroom and single bathroom, especially when we had guests over.
While he and Jeanine discussed amenities, I wandered down the hall into a smaller room that faced the street.
A cracked window allowed me to breathe in the fresh, spring breeze and absorb the sunshine that graced the home’s vivid lawn in all its brilliance. What was so scary about the suburbs?
From where I stood on the second floor, the home across the way seemed even more out of place. The lush backyard seemed as unkempt as the front, but what I could see looked as if it had once been a garden. With its rock exterior, contrasting rust-colored roof, and darkened windows, the house gave off a much less welcoming vibe than its neighbors. It was different. Unexpected. It didn’t belong. As it stood, it was an eyesore, but I could envision bringing it to life with a weed whacker, fixing the cracks in the stone walkway, adding a fresh coat of paint . . .
Before I could finish the thought, my phone rang in my handbag. I checked the screen but didn’t recognize the number. That wasn’t a surprise. The weekend receptionist occasionally forwarded me calls from the office.
“This is Olivia,” I answered.
“This is David.”
I froze, keeping my eyes out the window. He didn’t need to announce himself. I’d have easily identified David Dylan’s deep voice despite my will to forget him.
He didn’t need any more encouragement, though. “David who?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose you know me better as Lucas.”
I glanced at the ground, smiling at the jab. I couldn’t blame him for teasing me when I should’ve done my homework. “Oh, that David,” I said. “How’d you get this number?”
“Serena. I’m grateful for my sake she’s working over the weekend, but you should have a talk with her about giving out your personal info to charming strangers.”
“Apparently.” I could only imagine how David had sweet-talked the receptionist into passing him on to Serena so he could butter her up for my number.
“You never responded to my e-mail,” he said.
Your Safety. I bit my bottom lip. “It’s Saturday. I haven’t looked yet. What’d it say?”
“I’ve been worried since I last saw you. What’d your husband say about the encounter with . . .?”
“Mark Alvarez,” I supplied. “He was upset about his brother, Lou, who’s serving a life sentence.”
“For?”
I shifted on my feet. “First-degree murder.”
After a moment of silence, David said, “What about this guy Mark?”
“I guess he was also on trial, but he had a better defense attorney and served minimal time with early release.”
“And now that he’s out, he needs someone to blame,” David concluded. “I thought your husband was at a private practice.”
David had just referred to Bill as “your husband” twice in a row. “Bill used to be a criminal prosecutor at the district attorney’s office.”
“And now he does criminal defense?”
I swiped a finger along the windowsill. No dust. I could picture Jeanine as a seller maniacally scrubbing the house sparkling clean like Annette Benning’s character in American Beauty. “That’s what makes Bill a good attorney,” I said. “He’s been on both sides.”
“I see,” David said. “What now?”
“Aside from filing a report, there’s not much we can do.”
“Did you file a report?”
I nudged the toe of my heel between where the carpet met the wall. “Not yet.”
<
br /> “Why not? Isn’t your husband irate? I’d think he’d be ripping everyone in his path a new one.”
“He was,” I said, although I wasn’t sure irate was the right word. Bill had been shocked. Fascinated by the details. Confused as to why I’d walked home. He’d called friends at his old job to tell them the story. He was grateful I was safe, and angry enough to use this as an excuse to convince me we needed out of the city. But not necessarily irate.
The truth was boring. We just hadn’t gotten around to reporting Mark—not that there was much to tell. “I’m sure they were empty threats,” I said.
“You don’t know that, Olivia.” He said my name like a warning, but David Dylan was the real threat. I believed him more capable of overturning my life than some vengeful, drunken asshole.
“Was there anything else?” I asked him. “Maybe something work-related?”
David’s presence only seemed to expand with his silence. “What are you doing right now?” he asked.
I glanced across the street. “Looking at a house.”
“What house?”
“This ugly, run-down, overgrown, magnificent eyesore of a house,” I said and sighed.
He chuckled. “Now you’re speaking my language. What makes it magnificent?”
“It’s weird—every other house on the block looks like it belongs in the suburbs. Underneath all the disrepair, this one looks like it actually could’ve been something special.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
I frowned, sure I wasn’t making any sense. “Are you teasing me?”
“I’m serious. I’m an architect, remember? I’ll choose a magnificent eyesore over a tract home any day.”
“But it requires money. Energy. Time.”
“Even better. You have to get your hands dirty to unearth the good parts. That’s work I love to do.”
What did he mean by that? Could he fix the place up himself? I hadn’t lived in an actual house since I’d left my father’s at eighteen—yet I had the sudden urge to get my hands dirty with David.
“You’re in the suburbs?” he asked.
“Oak Park.” I twisted the stud in my earlobe. “You asked if my husband was irate—this is his answer to the attack. Moving away.”
David cleared his throat. “I see.”
Voices in the hallway made me turn. My fantasy dissolved. This house was a much more reasonable place with no assembly required. Bill wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty. If I was honest, I probably wasn’t, either. When was the last time I’d done anything remotely close to restoring a home? Cleaning stalls at our local animal shelter was as dirty as my hands ever got.
“I have to go,” I said.
“I called for a reason.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not a good time. Please don’t call again.”
I hung up as Bill spoke behind me. “So, what do you think?” he asked.
I knew what he wanted to hear, but I couldn’t lie. “The house across the street is interesting,” I said as I slid my cell into my handbag’s side pocket.
After a moment of quiet, he said, “And if you were on that side of the street, you’d be saying the same thing about this one. Conveniently, that place isn’t for sale.”
I turned. “I didn’t say I wanted it. Just that it’s interesting.”
“Which is more than you’ve said about any other property we’ve seen. This is the best one yet. Good neighborhood, in our price range, and more square footage than we’d hoped. And you have no comment at all?”
“It’s nice,” I conceded. “It is. I’m just not sure it’s right. I can’t see myself here.”
“You’re not even trying.”
I looked at my heels as they sank into the beige carpet. I liked beige. Non-committal, unassuming, nothing-to-see-here-folks beige. Bland walls, maybe with some staged family photos, would offer our neighbors little insight into who I was, and I liked it that way. I liked my privacy, the little cage I’d built—not to lock myself in but to keep others out. Could I live in this beige house with Bill? Maybe. But with David’s phone call fresh in my mind, I wondered—what would I be giving up? What kind of life could I live toiling on the passion project across the street, and did I even want that? Unlike safe beige, white-hot passion seared anything in its path.
There was a reason I chose chardonnay.
“This isn’t just about you,” Bill said. “We have our future to think about.”
“I understand that,” I said, annoyed by the suggestion that I hadn’t considered our future. “But buying a house is a huge decision, and I want it to be perfect.”
He threw his arms in the air. “There’s always going to be something, Livs. How many times do I have to tell you—perfect doesn’t exist. It’ll feel like home, you just have to give it time. You think that shithole across the street is perfect?”
“I have to apologize for that,” Jeanine said, appearing in the doorway. She looked past me out the window. “It’s appalling. The owners live in California and stopped taking care of it a while back. I think a couple neighbors have tried to report housing code violations, so perhaps one day they’ll sell or tear it down. I can find out for you.”
I readjusted my purse strap on my shoulder. “It’s kind of charming.”
“Even if it was for sale, it would need a complete overhaul,” Jeanine said. “I wouldn’t describe it as family-friendly, either. This room, on the other hand, would make a great nursery.”
I frowned. Was I family-friendly? I’d asked myself some version of that countless times since meeting Bill. Here was my chance to give in to the fantasy he had for us. Standing here at the window of my would-be nursery, I imagined a tiny human in my arms. Bill’s son or daughter. Before I could even complete the picture, the skin at the base of my neck began to burn, and my throat closed. “We’re not looking for that yet.”
“Oh, I . . .” Jeanine said. “Sorry for assuming. Most couples who move from the city—”
“We are looking for that,” Bill said.
I forced myself to try again. I pictured myself downstairs, chicken parmesan baking in the oven. That sight came easier. Cooking soothed me. I’d wipe my hands on my apron and call “dinner’s ready!” up the stairs to Bill. From the kitchen, I could see the living room and TV—all moms wanted that in a floorplan, Jeanine had said. My family within sight on Thanksgiving, watching the parade as I prepared a feast. To call out help with homework as I steamed vegetables for my growing child. To watch the Food Network or the news in the mornings as I made lunches for those who were leaving the house for the day.
And leaving me by myself.
I had to get out of the house, too. I couldn’t spend my life between the kitchen and the nursery, regardless of whether I had the privilege of seeing the TV or the kids or the house across the street that had actual character.
“Not right now.” The words tumbled out, and I didn’t try to stop them. Voicing them was the only thing that calmed the increasingly unbearable itch under my collar. “Maybe one day we’ll need all this space, but not now.”
He scoffed. “What do you think we’re doing here then?”
I had no answer for that. I worried if we got the nursery now, I’d be consenting to things I wasn’t sure I wanted. And then, Bill’s desire for children would grow, pushing and pushing until I gave in.
When I didn’t respond, Bill’s brows furrowed. “You think a fixer-upper is the answer?” he asked. “Do you understand the commitment that takes? You wouldn’t even get in the car to come to the suburbs if I didn’t push you at every turn—now you’re going to take on a gut renovation?”
I bristled at the sarcasm dripping from his tone. “I want to choose the home I live in, and have some kind of gut feeling about it. Not settle because it’s good on paper.”
“Then we’d never move out of our apartment, and you know it.”
Just like I never would’ve gotten married, I almost said, then froze, taken aba
ck by the thought. I’d never considered Bill as someone I’d settled for. I’d chosen him and this life for many reasons. But none of them had been based on my gut—they were all good-on-paper reasons. Why, suddenly, after all these years, did it feel as if the walls were closing in and it was my last chance to inject some . . . some desire and ownership—some passion—into my choices?
I glanced at the house across the street again. What once would’ve been a risk and potentially disastrous undertaking with more potential for failure than success now seemed like raw possibility. Hope, in a way, that things weren’t already set in stone.
Jeanine slipped a spec sheet into a manila file folder. “I’ll give you two a moment.”
“It’s fine. Stay,” I said. I didn’t even want to have this argument alone with Bill, much less in front of someone else. Anything I said now, I might regret later. “Let’s finish the tour.”
“We already did the tour,” Bill said.
“Half an hour and you’re ready to make an offer?” I asked.
Jeanine nodded. “This place won’t be on the market long.”
Bill’s lips drew tight across his face, but he didn’t object.
“Let’s get more information then,” I said and walked out, leaving them both in the great nursery.
* * *
In a kitchen barely large enough for two people, where I definitely could not see the television or anywhere else into the apartment, I washed lettuce and did my best to distract myself from my thoughts while making dinner. As soon as Jeanine had dropped us off, Bill had turned on ESPN and hadn’t emerged from the living room for more than an hour.
Until now.
He entered the kitchen and went straight for the refrigerator. “About earlier.”
I had no desire to reopen the afternoon’s discussion, but I suspected he wouldn’t let this go. “Dinner will be ready soon,” I said. “Don’t snack.” I passed him a knife and motioned to two tomatoes. “Can you chop those?”
As he sliced into the first one, red juice seeped onto the cutting board. “What are you thinking?”
“About what?” I asked.
“Today.”
Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set Page 9
