“Riveredge Park,” I say as we drive past it.
“What?” Megan barks.
“Riveredge Park!” I yell over her music. I point back at it.
She looks at me with such profound annoyance it almost has a righteously indignant quality to it, as if I made a racial slur, or tortured a kitten, instead of having simply interrupted her music for a moment to say something useless.
“Riveredge Park!” I yell again for Megan’s benefit.
Riveredge Park is the last place I saw Smith. Though I hadn’t seen him for six years by then, I came back to town to tell Smith about my new job. The catalog was soon to launch, and though I doubted he’d ever see a copy of So Perfect, I wanted him to know that Armand and I were only posing as a married couple for marketing purposes. That’s when I learned he was engaged.
Another four years have passed and here I am, about to see him again.
Megan abruptly switches off the radio. “You’re here,” she says, pulling up to my favorite downtown Riveredge building. The bottom floor has letters that spell Smith Walker Agency in black, in a reserved font attached to the aged red brick above the lobby doors.
I’m so nervous. I suddenly wish that I looked better. I wish Armand were here to make me camera ready, or more importantly, ready for the eyes of Smith Walker.
Chapter Eight
Smith
Gwen flips off her sister Megan, who peels out of the parking lot. Their deranged enmity used to truly terrify me. Megan still scares me when I see her barreling through town; she’s so much like her mother. Gwen looks gorgeous as she walks to the door. I struggle to hold it open for her but she stops cold about five feet away.
“What happened?” she asks.
This is what I dreaded. I point inward past the lobby, into the quiet anonymity of my working world, but she stands still.
“An accident?” she asks, slowly coming toward me again without taking her eyes from mine, until she’s touching the long scar along the left side of my face.
I nod yes.
I’m relieved she doesn’t look down at my left leg. Despite my heroic attempts, no matter what my physical therapist Irene may call them, I have to drag it along everywhere I go now, like old hopes, like missed opportunities. Or, as my brother Jones more poetically puts it, “like a sack a bad potatoes.”
“What happened?” Gwen asks. Her eyes seem even bigger than I remember. They’re outlined in dark circles; she looks exhausted.
“Come on now. Let’s get you inside before anyone finds out you’re here.”
She holds the door for me but I insist she go first.
“How’s your dad?” I ask as I make my way up the hall. Gwen stays with me at my snail pace.
“It looks like he’ll be OK,” she says.
Gwen folds herself into a chair with both legs tucked under her when we reach my office. I make my way around the desk and begin the twenty-step process of trying to sit down while keeping my cane in reach and not letting the chair slip out from under me. Once I’m seated, she holds on to the desk and wheels closer to me. I can smell her hair: coconut, maybe lime, and antiseptic—that last is probably from Riveredge Memorial. I suppress a shudder.
“So will you tell me what happened? Or don’t you like to talk about it?” she asks.
I hate talking about it. I hate everything about it.
“An SUV ran a red light while I was crossing the street late one night.”
“And you never saw it coming?” she asks.
I want to tell her that’s right, it all happened too fast for thought. But in truth it was the longest moment of my life. I saw the driver realize too late, and it felt like I had years to ponder the pain to come.
I look away from her face. “No. I saw it coming.”
She shakes her head and closes her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
I would chuckle derisively if anyone else had said that, but Gwen appears utterly sincere.
“Coffee?” I ask to change the subject.
“Do you have anything stronger? Like vodka, or a pistol?” she laughs and I’m relieved the conversation has shifted to her.
I hoist myself up to standing and head back out of the office. Eventually I return with two beers from the break room. “Here,” I say, handing her a bottle after twisting off the cap. “If you want a glass I can make another trip. Be back in a jiffy.”
She smiles. I make my way around my desk and do the twenty steps again.
Gwen takes a long swig and I remember she could drink as much as me when we were teenagers and had scored a bottle of wine to drink by the river.
“This is perfect. I don’t know when I last had a beer,” she says.
“All champagne lately, huh?” I push my chair under the desk to hide my leg. I know it makes people sad.
“Water mostly. Armand tries to stay away from alcohol, so I’ve practically been a teetotaler for the past four years.”
I want to ask if the online article was right, if she and Armand only pretended to be married. But the world of So Perfect seems very far from here. It strikes me as both bizarre and somehow normal that I don’t want to bring up the topic so many people have been talking about today, to the woman they have been discussing.
“So, you want to find a place in Riveredge?”
“Megan says it’s my turn to look after our dad. She also said there are lots of houses on the market, and maybe I can get a good deal on one that I can sell for a profit later.”
“It’s definitely a buyer’s market. What’s your budget?”
“Megan and I logged on to my bank account at the hospital and talked it over. She said I can spend $200,000.” Gwen grimaces, like she’s mortified by that number. “I think the house in Scenic was worth $2,000,000,” she adds.
I’m tempted to tell Gwen that $200,000 is a hell of a lot of money to a hell of a lot of people. That the house I grew up in with four brothers—where my brother Siler now lives with his family—still isn’t worth half that in today’s market, even after he’s worked hard to make it as nice as it can be. But Gwen looks tired and repentant and frankly afraid. She lowers her head onto her folded arms resting on my desk.
“Armand wants to move here, too?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Why would he?” she asks, looking up.
I almost crack a smile at her predicament. I don’t think Gwen is any more a natural liar than I am. I wonder how on earth she got herself into this mess. “Isn’t he your husband?”
She makes a face like she just smashed her toe. “We pretended to be married. It was part of the marketing plan for So Perfect. I know it sounds very bad, but at the time it didn’t seem…” She puts her head back down and soon I see her shoulders shake a bit. She sniffles and I slide the box of tissues on my desk close to her.
I could have kissed Gwen that day in Riveredge Park four years ago. Admittedly, I would have been an extreme cad to do so before breaking it off with Nancy. But I wish I had. That was before I became irrevocably changed in an instant; the line of thought is moot now.
I turn my attention to the real estate database on my computer screen to pull up short sale and foreclosure listings. After a few minutes I hear Gwen blow her nose and finish her beer.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“I’m not a bad person,” she says. It sounds like a question.
I look into her tearstained face and somehow she’s still beautiful, even though her nose is currently the color of a ripe turnip. “I know what kind of a person you are, Gwen. You’ve always been good.”
I reach out and touch her face. I think what a pair we’d make: a scandalized crybaby looking for a foreclosed home, and a guy whose look only works on Halloween. She puts her hand over mine and nods a big thank you that involves more tears spilling from her eyes.
“Now roll over here and tell me if you’d like to tour any of these houses,” I say, taking my hand away from her fa
ce and pointing toward the screen. “In order to get the most of your money, you might want to consider buying a house in short sale or foreclosure status.”
“Megan’s husband said he knows of a nice one in Hidden Pines that’s in foreclosure. On Hidden Lakes Drive.”
“Okay,” I jot that down, in case it meets her criteria.
“Is buying a foreclosure the same as buying a regular house?”
“They are regular houses, but the bank is taking them back because the owner is too far behind on mortgage payments. Sometimes owners don’t leave the homes in good shape, and because they tend to be sold very cheaply, the bank isn’t usually willing to do repairs like other homeowners would normally negotiate into a deal. Foreclosed and short sale houses are sold in ‘as is/where is’ condition, which means that the buyer buys at her own risk.”
“That sounds scary.”
Gwen twists the fringe on her long crocheted sweater and I realize she arrived without a coat. She seems woefully ill prepared for the weather, let alone buying a house.
“Well, I’ll be along to help,” I assure her.
She looks up at me again, with her red-rimmed eyes. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition? I mean already, it’s Friday evening, and instead of being home with your family you’re still here at work.”
“I don’t have a family.”
“But you were engaged when I last saw you… Oh my God, did she get hit, too?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I never got married after all.”
I see something pass over Gwen’s face that I can’t quite read. “I’m sorry, Smith,” she says.
“It’s okay. When we broke it off Nancy hated me for a while. But after the accident she forgave me, and she and her boyfriend even brought over a casserole when I finally got out of the hospital.”
Gwen smiles. She looks incredibly tired, like the entire day has caught up with her at once.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“I don’t know yet. Is the hotel on Main Street still nice?”
“Well, it has suffered a bit with the slow economy, but I know they’d be glad to have you until you find a place. Let me call Walter Owens, the manager there, to see if he can guarantee you some privacy.”
“Walter Owens from school? A few years younger than us?”
I wonder if this is a bad idea. Walter Owens has taken really good care of himself, in the metrosexual sense that stands out in Riveredge, where far more men hunt deer than blow dry their hair. Men around here snigger about a guy who’s as into his clothes as Walter, skeptical about anyone who’d arrive for his men’s league baseball game freshly shaved and cologned like he’s going on a date. The women are divided, I think, but enough of them must like Walter’s style because he’s known as a lady’s man.
“That’s him. Or the Holiday Inn just got overhauled…”
“Let’s try Walter.”
“Did you bring any luggage?” I ask.
Gwen drops her head onto my desk and pounds it a few times. “Damn it! I left my suitcase at the hospital.”
I call the Riveredge on Main and get Walter on the line. He seems very excited at the prospect of having Gwen as a guest—too excited for my taste. Like with his primping, he can’t seem to stop with enough. “I’ll send someone to the hospital to get Gwendolyn’s suitcase. I’ll put her in the nicest suite we have, and give her a key to the private entrance. Hold on for a minute,” he says, and in the background I hear him ask someone to fill her mini fridge. “She’s there at your office?” he asks.
“Yes, she’s right here.”
“Put her on. Please.”
Walter Owens is so determined to show his dedication to his new guest that he insists on picking up Gwen. I try to find a reason why I need to drive her there, but I can’t.
Gwen and I talk about what kind of a house might work best for her so that I can narrow our options down. We look at a few online until she yawns and rubs her eyes.
“Walter should be here any minute. Meanwhile, I hate to ask you this, but I promised my secretary I’d get your autograph for her. Actually two of them: one for Jessie, and one for her mother.”
“I hate signing autographs. Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“Well, I’m rarely asked for mine.” I smile, careful to show her my good side. “It would really help me out if you’d do it. Otherwise I’ll have to make forgeries to satisfy her.”
Gwen writes: To Jessie, You’re so lucky to work for Smith Walker. Love, Gwendolyn Golden under her photo in the newspaper. “Is that OK?”
“She’ll accuse me of dictating. But what if I was planning to save that? You celebrities are all the same—wanton disregard for the rest of us.”
“You were not going to save that!” she says, as if the idea were beneath me. She yawns again. “Jessie’s mother’s name is…?”
“Pinky.”
“Your secretary has a mother named Pinky?” Gwen asks, her eyes lighting up.
“Yes. Tragic, isn’t it?”
“Armand would love it. He’ll want a mother named Pinky if I tell him it’s possible.”
“Jessie might be willing to part with her.”
Gwen writes: To Pinky, you’re my favorite color. Love, Gwendolyn Golden on a sheet of paper she pulled off the printer. I don’t mention the fact that Pinky, who can’t be a day over a hundred and twelve, is actually more the color of ashy skim milk than her name implies.
“When do you want to go and look at houses?” I ask.
“What works for you?”
“Tomorrow?”
She wrinkles her nose and I see that I overreached. “Tomorrow I’ll be at the hospital with my dad all day.”
I decide not to go for Sunday; I don’t want to scare her off with my enthusiasm. I look through my calendar and see that on Monday I’ve got back-to-back meetings that must stand. Tuesday I can cancel what I’ve got planned for the afternoon.
“Tuesday afternoon sound okay?”
“It’s a deal,” she says, smiling and holding out her hand. I shake it.
She looks down at my scars but doesn’t wince. I wonder if she’s had special training, in case audience members at interviews are disfigured like me.
“Do your injuries hurt, Smith?” she asks. Most people don’t; they generally recoil before pretending they don’t see that there’s anything wrong at all. Gwen reaches out and takes my hand back. She gently turns it over, studying it. I find that I don’t mind somehow.
“Sometimes. In the beginning it was much worse.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Can I buy you lunch tomorrow?” I ask.
“I can’t. I told Megan I’d stay with Dad.”
“Right. You said that. It’s just so good to see you.”
“Maybe I can get away for dinner?” she suggests.
I know Siler’s wife Janet is making my favorites tomorrow and I can’t cancel. I suppose I could invite Gwen, but that would be incredibly awkward. I never invited her home when I lived in that house as a kid because I knew it was so far beneath her lifestyle. I’m sure it would be even more of a culture shock to bring her there now, after years living in So Perfect land.
“Shoot. I’ve got plans,” I say. For a moment I think I see her face fall in disappointment, but then I realize it can’t be so—it was more likely relief. She probably only suggested dinner because she’s grateful that I’ve offered to help her, that I’m not fawning all over her, or snapping her picture, or tossing insults. She certainly can’t be sad that a broken man she cared for a lifetime ago has dinner plans.
Walter pounds on the lobby doors, here to collect his famous new resident. I get up with my usual speed, which is something akin to a tortoise with a crumpled shell, but Gwen tells me she can find her way.
“So I’ll pick you up from the hotel Tuesday at 1:00?” I ask.
“That sounds perfect. Thanks for letting me come
tonight, Smith, and for helping me. You’re like an island of sanity in the craziest day I’ve ever had.” She leans in for a swift cheek kiss like movie stars give each other, and waves goodbye on her way out the door.
Chapter Nine
Caroline
I barely suppress a shriek when I open my front door.
I feel like one of those poor slobs who answers her doorbell in pajamas, only to be photographed and handed balloons because she’s won the sweepstakes. I’ve always thought that approach was very underhanded, surely someone could call ahead and give a tipoff: Pssst, throw on a dress and some lipstick because we’ll be there in five minutes with cameras. I know I’m not about to win a jackpot, but this is definitely a case where a little warning would have gone a long way.
“Can we come in?”
I hadn’t even noticed the man yet, leaning on his cane. He has a huge scar from his hairline to his chin, which makes his friendly green eyes seem impossible, especially his left one in the middle of the scar. I can’t imagine how it could have escaped damage. He smiles and I wonder the same about his teeth.
He hands me a business card. “I’m Smith Walker. I called earlier about showing my client your house. Caroline Penny, right? This is Gwen Golden.”
She puts out her hand and I shake it, just like I’d shake anyone else’s. It’s perfectly normal. The current local media queen is here to look at my soon-to-be-foreclosed-upon home. Of course. This sort of thing happens every day.
“Uh, hi.”
I try not to stare too obviously. She’s much taller than I am, maybe 5’10. I’ve only ever seen her made up and dressed to the nines. She’s got a bohemian casual look going on tonight that seems to suit her well. Her easygoing, natural beauty is the kind I always envy, because the best I’ve ever managed is cute—and it never comes easy.
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