The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Sheila says, “You realize you’re going above your original bid, Dr. Norman.”

  “So I can seal the deal. What time is it, Sandy?” Dr. Norman nudges his wife, who looks up from her cell, startled. Tetris. Definitely Tetris.

  “I dunno.Twelve fifteen?” Sandy doesn’t seem too concerned.

  More important, she doesn’t seem to care.

  Patty and I quickly exchange looks. One of the benefits of having a long-term friend like Patty is that our communication often doesn’t require words. She’s thinking what I’m thinking, that Sandy’s not gaga about the house. I’m as sure of this as I’m sure Patty’s going commando.

  “Put this house under contract by twelve thirty and I’ll personally chip in an extra one percent to your commission,” Dr. Norman declares.

  Sheila laughs slightly and says, “Dr. Norman. That’s not necessary.”

  Though we all know damn well it is.

  “Is this water damage?” Patty rocks back and forth, causing a tiny, almost imperceptible squeak in the flooring.

  “I don’t think that’s water damage,” Sheila snaps. “That’s just what you get with an older house. Now, about that offer—”

  “Really? It certainly smells like there might be water damage.”

  We all sniff. It could be my imagination, but there really is a vague scent of rotting wood.

  “It does seem a bit . . . damp,” Dr. Norman observes.

  Patty says, “You know, you’re right. Almost like mold. Does this house have a mold problem, Sheila?”

  That captures the attention of Sandy, who pauses from aligning her digital bricks to comment that mold makes her cough and that she’s highly allergic to all sorts of spores as well as bees and certain varieties of berries.

  “Could be black mold.” Patty opens her eyes wide in alarm. “That shit will kill you dead.”

  It’s appalling, Patty’s hyperbolic redundancy.

  As if on cue, the back door to the kitchen opens and Todd tromps in carrying a huge tool chest and wearing a leather tool belt, work boots, even a yellow hard hat.The works.

  “Howdy!” he hollers. “Don’t mind me. Just finishing a patch job.”

  Todd never says howdy and he never wears a hard hat if he can help it—certainly not for a patch job.

  Clearly annoyed, Sheila excuses herself to have a private chat with my brother in the kitchen. I’m sure Todd’s not supposed to be here, though he’s doing a superb job of acting confused, taking off his hat and scratching his head. I actually hear him say, “I got my orders.”

  Sandy tugs at her husband’s sleeve. “Do you think there’s mold?”

  “No.” He sneers at Patty. “This woman’s just trying to queer the deal.” Then, realizing his politically incorrect faux pas, says, “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Patty replies politely. Cough.

  Oh, she’s good.

  Cough. It’s a tiny feminine cough.“Excuse me.” Patty points to her throat. “Just a slight tickle.” Cough.

  Patting her on the back, I inquire, "Is it the dust?”

  “I don’t think so.” Cough. “It’s the kind of cough I got that summer in P-town.That summer of the red tide.”

  “Brevetoxins,” Sandy gasps, herself releasing a contagious cough. “Similar reaction to the molds. Remember that vacation we took to the Outer Banks?” She coughs again. “It’s deadly.”

  “You’re imagining things,” her husband says.“Coughs are psychologically contagious. Everyone knows that.”

  Patty, still coughing, gestures to Todd. “I bet he can tell us if there’s mold.”

  “Good idea.” Sandy deposits her cell in her purse and, moving like a warship, glides toward the kitchen.

  Dr. Norman gives us a dirty look and follows.

  “I have a question,” Sandy says to Sheila and Todd, who are in the middle of a confrontation.

  Sheila holds up a finger.“In a moment. We’re finishing up and then we’ll go over the terms of the contract. It’s right here on the kitchen table.”

  “Is there mold?” Sandy addresses Todd. “I’m asking you because you’ve been doing work here.”

  Todd shuffles his feet. “No, ma’am. There’s no mold. Not in this house.”

  “There. Does that satisfy you, Sandy?” Dr. Norman asks.“Now, let’s go back—”

  “Not on this floor, but in the basement, absolutely,” Todd interjects. “Tons of it. Black stuff in all the corners. Hard to see with a naked eye, but you can’t miss it once you get your nose in the cracks.”

  The three of them stop. I don’t dare make eye contact with Patty. Nose in the cracks. Where does he come up with these lines?

  “In the basement?” Dr. Norman is incredulous. “Why? This house is at the top of a hill. It’s not even near any water.”

  “It’s one of them stone basements. You know, dug out. All these houses on the streets, the ones what haven’t been refinished, are crawling with mold. Course it’s a bitch to remove, even if you do finish them off.You could tear it down to the foundation and never be rid of it. No, sir.”

  Sixteen credits short of a Harvard degree, my brother is playing the dim-witted yokel.

  On cue, Patty erupts into a full-blown coughing fit. “I knew it. I just knew it.You can have this house.You couldn’t get me to buy it for free.

  “Me neither,” agrees Sandy.“I knew there was something fishy about this place, the way the owner was selling it before the renovations were complete. Everyone said the owner just wanted out so she could move to L.A. But that’s not it. There’s mold here. Black mold.”

  Dr. Norman is not as sure as his wife, but since he’s already behind in his busy, busy schedule he doesn’t stick around to argue. As he follows Sandy out the door, he leans toward me and growls, “You tricked your way into getting the house, missy. I just hope it’s got dry rot.”

  I truly despise that word, missy.

  We stand in the kitchen dully, listening to the Normans arguing outside, listening to the doors of the Volvo slam and then it backing off. When the Normans are gone, Sheila says, “I could report you.”

  “To what?” Patty screeches. “The Board of Sneaky Home Buyers? Give me a break.You were about to accept an illegal offer for a one percent bump on the commission. Mess with me and you’ll never buy or sell real estate in this state again, toots.”

  Sheila is shocked, never having suspected that the tiny woman in the Dippity-Do flip and pink top is a legal whip.

  Composing herself, Patty says calmly, “Now let’s discuss a reasonable purchase price.”

  “These people were willing to pay five hundred twenty-five thousand dollars cash.” Sheila fiddles with the contract nervously. “Are you willing to pay that?”

  Patty says, “Four seventy-five, not cash. It has no downstairs kitchen, no downstairs bath, and might even have mold.Take it or leave it.”

  The front door slams. Shoot. The Normans are back and immediately we all shut up.

  “Stop everything, Sheila,” an imperious voice declares. “I’ve already accepted an offer.The house is sold.”

  “Uh-oh,” says Todd. “Godzilla.”

  Cecily Blake, in a head-to-toe snow-white pantsuit, has suddenly appeared in the living room holding a set of papers. It might be my imagination, but I swear she is saving her dirtiest of dirty looks for me.

  Her heels pound across the hardwood floor as she marches straight past Patty and me and thrusts the papers into Sheila’s hand. “Five hundred thousand, cash, just as I requested. No thanks to you.”

  Once again, Sheila’s speechless.

  “Let me see those.” Patty snatches the contracts and starts reading, her face falling lower and lower the farther she gets into the paperwork. “Holy hell. He really did pay cash.”

  “Who?” I’m dying to know who stole my dream house.Who could have been so cruel, so devious as to go straight to Cecily? Who could have come up with that much money?

  “You’ll never believe it. N
ick.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  TO: genie.michaels@thoreaucollege.edu FROM: steven.taylor@point107.com SUBJECT: When are you going to forgive me?

  Okay, to count I have left fifteen messages on your home phone/seven at work. Alice says you’re in the office so don’t tell me you’re too swamped.

  I can’t believe you’re still avoiding me.

  To repeat my many messages, I sincerely apologize for stepping over the line and telling your brother and that other guy that you and Hugh were having sexual problems. I don’t know what else to say. I fucked up.

  BTW, how are things with you and Hugh? Better?

  E-mail me back or I will get a total complex.

  Steve

  TO: steven.taylor@point107.com FROM: genie.michaels@thoreaucollege.edu SUBJECT: RE: When are you going to forgive me?

  I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you. I’m not some psycho.

  And I really am swamped. (That’s my official line and I’m sticking to it.)

  BTW—what’s wrong with you that you can’t haul your butt over here to take me out for a make-up lunch?

  P.S. Todd says you’re in love with some young thing named Alexi. Tell me, are her parents letting her stay out past midnight?

  P.P.S. I am no longer discussing my sex life (or lack thereof) with you, fink.

  TO: genie.michaels@thoreaucollege.edu FROM: steven.taylor@point107.com SUBJECT: FWD: Request for tact

  Genie? What gives? Is this a joke? Inquiring minds want to know. (P.S. I never asked him about his goddamn potboiler.)

  Steve

  TO: steven.taylor@point107.com From: hugh@hughspencer.com SUBJECT: Request for tact

  Steve, ole fellow. How delightful to hear from Genie’s best (male) friend. Thanks so much for the toasts and all that. Yes, yes, I’ve gone and done it. Well, sort of.

  Listen, as I did this with both guns blazing, I am now trying to regain my privacy regarding my personal life, so I’d appreciate any effort you can make to nix the gossip. If her other friends ask about Genie and me, my suggestion is to feign ignorance. Thank you in advance.

  I can’t tell you what it’s like to be hounded by the press. It’s as if, overnight, I’ve become Mick Jagger of the literary world. If you haven’t heard, my blockbuster HOPEFUL, KANSAS has reached a printing that portends to pass THE DAVINCI CODE or, dare I say it, HARRY POTTER. Naturally, I’m as thrilled as you are.

  How did I manage to write such a huge hit? I get asked that question constantly and, though I don’t mind if you inquire, really it’s becoming a bit of a bore. Anyway, I suppose the crux of the answer is that I’ve just developed a certain skill, an ability to tap into the collective yearnings of the female species, if you will. The jealousy of my fellow writers is darn near palpable. Soon, I fear I will need around-the -clock security.

  So there you have it. Don’t worry. I won’t let my fantastic success go to my head, even if I’ve just found out that Miramax is in negotiations with Colin Firth to play Dick Credo. I promise that I’ll stop by and say hello when I return to Boston next week.

  Cheers,

  Hugh.

  P.S. Alexi sounds splendid, you lucky dog.

  P.P.S. Please don’t circulate this e-mail address among the hoi polloi. Fans are ruthless!

  P.P.S. I understand there’s a rumor that Genie has gotten herself engaged. Any clue as to whom?

  Gotcha!

  It is killing Hugh that I might be engaged to someone else. Though, I’m a tad bummed to hear that he might be cutting his book tour short and returning from England next week.

  Picking up the receiver, I’m about to dial Steve and make amends when another call comes in. It’s Todd, who is irrationally worried about me lately.

  “How about you knock off early and come down to Hingham with me,” he says. “You’ve got to see this house I’m working on. Eight fireplaces and I swear there’s a ghost. Afterward I’ll take you to dinner at Harry’s Clams.”

  Ever since that night of the Bob Dylan look-alike contest, Todd’s been going out of his way to be nice. “Thanks. But I have too much work. Besides, I’m not ready to look at yet another house I can’t buy. It’d just bum me out.”

  “You have got to get over this, Genie. Remember what I’ve been saying, that when Hugh gets back from England you two can go house hunting together. Probably, with Hugh’s royalties, you’ll end up with that huge colonial in Concord, something much better than a crappy two-family in Watertown.”

  “You don’t get it, Todd. It’s not only losing the house. It’s the fact that Nick went behind everyone’s back, straight to Cecily, and stole it from me.”

  “Stole it from you? You didn’t have that kind of cash in the first place. Get real.”

  Yes, but that’s not the point.“We talked about splitting it. I figured that at least he’d call me to ask if I was still interested in doing that. But I haven’t heard anything. I’m telling you, he’s stolen the whole thing.”

  “Stop using that word, stolen. He saw a good investment opportunity and took it. He’d been looking to invest in real estate for some time. End of story.”

  “Investment, ha!” That makes it worse.“I wanted to live there. I wanted to pass it on to my grandchildren. He just wants a source of rental income.”

  “Or not. Patty says he’s got a girlfriend back in Greece he plans on bringing over here to marry. For all you know, that house will be brimming with little curly-haired, olive-eating Greek kids in a few years. Now wouldn’t that make you happy?”

  Nick has a girlfriend in Greece? That completely knocks me for a loop as I recall our kiss over coffee. Though, I don’t know why I should care. I mean, good riddance is all I have to say. A woman would have to be a fool to assume a man like Nick Spanadopolous would be loyal for a week, much less a lifetime. Look at the way he treated me, pretending to be smitten one minute, and then not even calling to explain about the house the next.

  Yes, good riddance indeed.

  Still, as soon as Todd gets off, I call Patty on her cell. “What’s this about Nick having a girlfriend in Greece?”

  Patty must be multitasking because she answers in a monotone. “Girlfriend? I think her name’s Elena. He mentioned her the other day when we were drawing up papers for the house. Rumor is she’s gorgeous.”

  Gorgeous Elena. Figures. I picture a fecund woman bursting out of a white peasant’s smock, lots of wavy black hair cascading over her porcelain white shoulders. “Did she help him come up with cash for the house?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lawyer-client confidentiality.”

  "Oh, please.We’re talking about Nick here, the megalomaniac who stole my dream home.”

  “He didn’t steal it, Genie. His reasoning was very sound and his approach was completely aboveboard. Todd and I were the ones who were cheating, not Nick.”

  I hold the phone away at arm’s length, as if this will allow me to verify whether I’m really talking to my best friend—or a robot who’s answered her cell. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I also can’t get into it.You might think I don’t take this lawyer-client shit seriously, but I do. And this is a lousy time, anyway. I’m drowning in paperwork.Talk to you later.”

  How about maybe never. I can’t believe my best friend has turned on me.That is so unlike Patty.There’s a lot of stuff you can say about her, but one thing you cannot say is that she’s disloyal. Patty defends me first, shoots questions later.

  Okay. I have got to get back to work. Our new student review meeting is in a few minutes, and I still haven’t drafted a plausible explanation at to why we should not retract our acceptance of Hob Cooper as an incoming freshman. Hob was a stellar student until he contracted what appears to be an almost fatal case of senioritis, garnering a bunch of Bs and even a few Cs in his high school back in Salt Lake City.

  Now Bill wants me to give him the boot, according to revised school policy.

  Rec
ently, there’s been a lot of pressure on us to rescind our offers of admission if students don’t maintain their grade point averages. Personally, I think this is just plain mean. The spring of senior year is the last opportunity some of these overachievers get to goof off.And, as we all know, goofing off is a vital part of a well-rounded life. It’s essential to our health.

  Thanks to my own proclivity to goof off, I am able to jot down no more than one measly note about Hob when the door opens and Alice barges in holding a huge basket of roses.

  “Two dozen.” She rearranges my photos and puts the basket next to the one of Hugh and me at Thanksgiving. “Guess who they’re from.”

  I eye the card and see the envelope flap askew. Good thing peeking in flower mail isn’t a federal offense or Alice’s photo would be gracing every U.S. Post Office.

  “Tell me.”

  She acts shocked. “How would I know? I don’t go sticking my nose into other people’s business. Though I bet I have an inkling.” She drops her gaze to my ring. It is driving her nuts that I refuse to officially, finally confirm that Hugh and I are engaged.

  So far, my policy at work has been to provide only vague, suggestive answers when my coworkers ask, “Did Hugh give that to you? I heard you two were engaged.”

  I’ve found a blush on the cheeks and a slight shrug of the shoulders do the trick. Also, when forced, a very blasé “We’re very excited.Yes. August twentieth. Right around the corner.”

  Skirting all questions is the safest route, the one that will steer me clear of hot water should Hugh demand to know why I’ve been telling people we’re getting married. This way I can honestly state that I have, in fact, told no one (on campus) that he is my future husband.

  Can I help it if people jump to conclusions? It’s only rational since he was my boyfriend for four years!

  Alice is determined to stay until I read the card, though I make no move to. While I review Hob’s essay and transcript, she lolly-gags around my desk, pretending to straighten my framed painting of Thoreau, dusting a plant with the cuff of her blouse, and chatting as though we’re hanging out in the Laundromat waiting for the spin cycle to finish instead of preparing for another high-tension meeting with Bill.