by Greta Boris
Art grinned. Donald Pratt, president of the St. Barnabas Board of Directors though he was, wouldn't dare fire Millie. She’d become administrative assistant to the principal when Donald was still wearing shorts and swinging a book bag. She knew where all the bodies were buried—and all the best gossip.
And like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell, she was the first terror wayward children had to pass on their way to the various circles of punishment. That kind of intimidation wasn't something you easily got over.
Art opened his mouth to thank her for the files, but before he could say anything, she said, "Oh, and bad-boy Brian is sitting on the bench in my office. He needs a word of...encouragement."
"Send him in," Art said. Brian would give him an excuse to get off the phone quickly. He picked up the receiver. "Hello, Donald."
Donald had a talent for ferreting out problems where there were none. Today he launched into his ideas for rerouting the parents' cars during student drop-offs and pick-ups. Art listened with half an ear to the latest installment in his quest for a legacy issue.
The office door opened an inch, then a few more. A small, grubby fist shot through. A sneakered foot, laces untied, followed. "I hear you, Donald. I hear you," Art said into the phone.
A pair of worried looking brown eyes peeked around the doorframe. Art waved Brian in before he could run away. "I'll tell you what, Donald, I promise to look into it, but I have a student here now. You bet. You bet. Thanks for all your hard work." Pandering to the man turned Art's stomach, but it was temporary. He only had to make it to the end of the month when Donald would make his recommendations to the board.
Brian McKibben sat in the chair opposite Art, his chin hovering a few inches above the top of the desk. He looked small and nervous, not at all like the terror of the third-grade playground.
"Fighting again?" Art asked.
Brian nodded and ran his hand under his nose leaving a long, brown smudge on his upper lip.
"What's the trouble this time?"
Brian shrugged one shoulder and looked out the window.
"Was it Dwayne?"
Brian nodded again.
Dwayne Pratt, Donald's youngest, was a bully, not unlike his father. Brian McKibben was a scholarship student at St. Barnabas. He and his mother, Olivia Richard, a waitress at Enzo's Sports Bar, lived in the only HUD housing condos in Laguna Niguel. He made a big target for a kid who could afford a lot of darts, like Dwayne.
"Fighting isn't the way to handle it, Brian. You know that. We've had this talk."
Brian studied the floor as if it might hold a hidden escape hatch.
"I'm going to have to suspend you."
Brian's chin shot up. His eyes widened, and his lower lip quivered.
"Just for a week, but I want you to spend some time thinking about this."
Art's heart went out to the kid. Dwayne was an odious child who deserved whatever Brian had dished out, but this was the third time Brian had thrown the first punch. He needed to learn some self-discipline. If he didn't, Art might not be able to convince the board to extend his scholarship next year.
Besides, Dwayne was Donald Pratt's son and Donald had leverage. He was head of the committee tasked with hiring administrative staff including St. Barnabas' next principal. Art couldn't afford to tick him off.
At the end of the last school year, Steve Johnson, the prior principal, had been fired. There had been a sexting scandal involving the St. Barnabas football team and a cheerleader. The whole thing erupted when the cheerleader took a half bottle of her father's painkillers and wound up in the emergency room.
None of it was Steve's fault. He was a good guy, honest, hardworking. But families began pulling their children out of the school. The buck had to stop somewhere if the board was going to stem the financial tide. It stopped with Steve.
When Art had agreed to take on the interim principal position, he hadn't received a raise, only more responsibility, more hours, and the promise he'd be first in line for a job he wanted. He'd been working toward it for years. He started as a lower school English teacher, graduated to the high school, became the English Department Chair, and now the highest position in the school dangled in front of him, so close he could smell it.
Not only would the role change his financial status and relieve him of having to suck up to Donald Pratt it would enable him to do a lot of good for a lot of people. People like Brian McKibben and his single mother.
The agreement had been for six months and that time was almost up. His performance would be evaluated and he might, or might not depending on Donald’s recommendation, be offered a permanent position at the end of February, only three weeks away.
A few years ago, he and Gwen had discussed Art making a move into the public school system where salaries were higher and benefits better, but he wanted to climb the ladder where he was. Gwen had supported his decision.
Since they needed additional income, she’d gotten a job. When she’d started at Humboldt Realty, they'd both thought of it as a stopgap measure. Now the opportunity for her to scale back her career, or quit altogether, was right in front of them. Not only wasn't she excited about it, but she got belligerent whenever Art mentioned it.
Thankfully, Lorelei Tanaka, the school counselor, had stepped in and taken on many of the jobs Gwen should have shouldered. Lorelei showed up at PTA meetings, assemblies, and bake sales and waved the flag for Art. She was in his camp, a real advocate. But it would look better, strengthen his position, if his wife showed some enthusiasm.
The door closed behind the small fugitive, and Art looked at his watch. He was already late for the teacher's meeting. No time for lunch. He'd have to stop by the cafeteria and grab some peanut butter crackers from the vending machine, again.
Millie held something up for him as he hurried past her desk—a white bag perfumed with the sweet smell of Italian sausage. "You have to eat occasionally, or you won't have the strength to sign my paycheck."
"Thank you." Art smiled and patted her shoulder. Gwen might not give him the support he'd hoped for, but he always had Millie. And Lorelei.
Chapter Seven
He was a cretin. Gwen led Arnold and Etta Paul, in from Chicago, through the fifth and, thank God, final house of the day. She'd thought this would be an easy deal. They were motivated buyers—not much time and plenty of capital. But after spending two days with them, she wondered if she would ever be able to make him happy.
"What's this crack here?" Arnold bent over, held his bifocals away from his face and peered at a space between the wall and baseboard. Gwen looked to the ceiling for patience and, staying as far away from him as possible, moved over to inspect the spot. "That's where the molding attaches to the wall board."
"You could fit a small animal through that space." He straightened up to his full six feet, pushed his glasses onto his patrician nose and gazed at Gwen with disdain. "As you are a woman, I don't expect you to understand the basics of carpentry, but let me assure you this is sloppy work—extremely sloppy work."
"I can't imagine it would be very expensive to—" Gwen began.
"Maybe, maybe. But this could be the tip of the iceberg. If there's shoddy workmanship out here in the open where people can see it, just imagine what the foundation and studs look like."
In a timid voice, Etta interjected, "The neighborhood is nice, Arnie."
"How would you know?" Arnold glared at his diminutive wife.
Gwen thought Etta must have been pretty once. Her beauty was that of a brightly colored dress that had been through the wash one too many times. Everything about her was muted: her hair, her voice, her clothing, her personality. What Gwen found the saddest, however, were her eyes. They were the color of the ocean in the stretches of polluted beach near the Dana Point Harbor.
Etta twisted the fraying leather straps of her purse, "I mean it's pretty. The trees and..."
"Yes, well those trees would go up in flames right along with the house if the wiring is as poor as t
he finish work. No, no, this isn't for us." Arnold was sticking a credit card he'd pulled from his wallet under the wood around the doorframe. Whenever it slid in farther than a centimeter, he grunted in satisfaction.
"There are other places we can take a look at tomorrow," Gwen said and moved toward the door. She couldn't wait to put distance between herself and old Arnie, at least for a few hours. Her self-control was slipping.
Between his extreme negativism and the snide comments aimed at female agents in general, and Gwen in particular, she'd about had it. She would say something she'd later regret if she didn't get away from him soon.
"If they're anything like the ones you've already shown us, I'm not sure I want to see them." He examined his well-manicured nails for the imaginary dirt he'd picked up in the eight-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar hovels she'd taken him through.
"The houses we looked at today were in the price range you quoted me, Mr. Paul. I'm sorry to say the average home price in Southern Orange County is quite a bit higher than in the bedroom communities around Chicago." A vein throbbed in Gwen's temple.
"You don't need to give me a lecture little lady. I'm well aware of the real estate market in California. I've been flying out and looking at houses for the past year and a half. In fact, I was here last week to look at some places in Laguna Beach."
"Then you know—" Gwen started to say.
"But I've never seen such a sorry bunch of houses in my life as the ones you showed us today. Come, Etta." He pointed to the door. He said the last like you would say, "Sit, Etta," or "Fetch, Etta." Etta jerked into motion and trotted toward the exit. Gwen wished Rocket, her family’s retriever, were as well behaved.
Why women stayed with men like Arnold Paul was one of life's great mysteries. Gwen would have started peppering his dinner with arsenic on the honeymoon. Or, maybe she'd have clubbed him with a frozen turkey leg then cooked it up for the cops. Or, she might have slipped him a mickey on a cruise ship and pushed him overboard. The thoughts cheered her.
"I can show you some homes in a slightly higher price range if you'd like. It doesn't pay to be cheap when it comes to property," Gwen said.
"Cheap?" He spit out the word. "I'd hardly call any of the homes we looked at cheap in any way other than in their construction."
"I have another listing I haven't shown you because it's more than you said you wanted to spend. The owner is a builder. He designed the house himself. It's sensational." Gwen looked at Etta and added, "Nice neighborhood, oceanview, quiet well-landscaped street."
Etta looked at Arnold before allowing herself to smile.
"How much more?" Arnold narrowed his eyes.
"Thirty-five thousand," Gwen said.
"I don't know." Arnold folded his arms over his ample stomach.
"I think you'll qualify..." Gwen let the words trail off.
"Of course I'll qualify." He puffed out his chest.
Gwen smiled. "I can take you by tomorrow. The owners are getting ready to leave town and can't be disturbed today."
"Okay, we'll take a look at it." He strutted out the door, flattening his poor wife against the wall as he steamrolled by her. "But don't you get your hopes up, Etta."
#
After Gwen dropped the Pauls off at their hotel, she headed to Dana Point. A cool breeze tickled the hair on her neck as she walked up the stone path of 213 Sailor's Haven Drive. She inhaled. The delicious scent of wisteria riding on the ocean air reminded her of chocolate laced with sea salt. Rockroses and white hydrangeas popped against a backdrop of cool gray-blue siding. She couldn't imagine what Arnold could find wrong with this house, but he'd probably find something.
She rang the doorbell next to the crisp, white front door. Mary Beth Frobisher answered looking like a cover model from an AARP magazine. "So, show me this contraption you're hooking our house up with," she said, ushering Gwen indoors. "Tea?"
"No, thanks. It's nothing like the old lockboxes," Gwen began.
They walked through the dining area to a living room overlooking the Dana Point Harbor. Sunlight streamed through large, paned windows and fell in blocks on the hardwood floor. Boats bobbed on a crayon-box blue background. This was the kind of house Gwen dreamed of, not only to represent, but also to live in one day. One day, when she'd made it big.
"It's been so long since we've sold a house, I'm afraid I'm way behind the times." Mary Beth sat on a spotless, white sofa gesturing to a matching chair opposite. Gwen perched on its edge, fearful she'd smudge it. She could only imagine what the kids and the dog would do to this furniture.
"Things have changed a lot," Gwen said.
Mary Beth and her husband, Charles, had not wanted to put a lockbox on their home. They had expensive art and didn't like the idea of strangers tromping through their house when they weren't there.
"The new lockboxes," Gwen said, "are connected wirelessly to a security company. Agents have to have an account with them to get to the key inside the box."
"But how do they know you're an agent when you sign up? What's to stop any Tom, Dick, or Harry from creating an account?"
"We have to prove we're Realtors in good standing with the board. It's a very secure system."
Mary Beth crossed her legs, tapped her foot in the air and looked out the window. After several seconds she said, "You must think I'm a fuddy-duddy but there have been two break-ins near here recently."
"I'm sure they didn't use e-keys to enter the homes," Gwen said.
"They could have if they were agents," Mary Beth said with an intake of breath.
"Yes, they could, but whenever an agent uses their e-key, a message is sent to the security company letting them know the address of the box, the date and time it was opened and by whom. It would be like leaving a business card for the cops."
"Oh," Mary Beth's shoulders relaxed, and she looked out the window again. "So, it's safe? You're sure it's safe?"
"It's safe," Gwen said in a soothing tone. "I'll get a report of every agent who enters your house." Mary Beth continued to tap her foot and stare at the passing boats.
Gwen added, "If you want to sell your house while you're in Switzerland, you have to have a lockbox. Agents just won't show the house without one. It's too much trouble for them."
The Frobishers would be away for the rest of the month. They were disappointed they hadn't had an offer on their home before the trip, but Gwen had only had the house listed for two weeks. It was unreasonable to think it would sell that quickly, but now she had to talk them into putting a lockbox on the property.
"Okay, then. Let's do it." She uncrossed her legs and stood in one smooth motion. "I promised Charles I'd give you the third degree."
"I’ll tell him you did an excellent job." Gwen stood with her.
Gwen snapped the box on the side gate and reassured Mary Beth several more times before the front door closed between them. She pulled her keys from her purse and hurried to the curb. She was running late, again. She had to pick up the kids and get Emily to ballet before four.
When Gwen had gone to work three years ago, she’d felt like she took on an avatar whose busy life had to be lived in the same twenty-four hour period as her own. The Frobishers were leaving for Europe the next day. Gwen wanted to have a buyer in place before they returned. But ballet and basketball, dinners and driving duty took as much of her time as ever. Even so, it was exhilarating to be in the race again. She loved her children, but she'd found being a stay-at-home mom claustrophobic.
"Excuse me. Miss." A breathless voice interrupted her rush to the car. It belonged to a painfully thin woman with a beak for a nose and gray hair that stuck up from her head in nest-like tufts. A loose, charcoal cardigan flapped behind her as she walked stiff-legged up the sidewalk like a sandpiper racing before a wave.
"Are you the agent?" she asked.
"I am an agent," Gwen answered.
"I mean the agent, the Frobishers' agent?"
"Yes, I have the listing."
The woman stu
died Gwen with beady eyes that were neither brown nor hazel. "I just wanted you to know I'll be keeping an eye on things for Mary Beth and Charles while they're out of town." She said the words as if Gwen were a teenager bent on partying hardy while Mom and Dad were away.
"That's a comfort," Gwen said.
"I'll be taking in the paper and the mail and making sure the gardeners don't skip days. They do that sometimes when they know people are gone. Just let the lawn go to heck in a handbasket, and figure they'll catch it up right before the owners come home." She thrust her head forward on her scrawny neck and stuck a thumb in her concave chest. "Not on my watch."
"The Frobishers are lucky to have you. I'm Gwen Bishop. You are?" Gwen donned her friendliest smile and stuck out her hand.
Maricela had taught her to find and befriend the busybody on the block. Every neighborhood had one. The busybody knew things like who was transferring across the country, who was getting a divorce, or who was planning to retire to a condo on a golf course. Nuggets of valuable information could be mined from a busybody. Gwen was pretty sure she'd struck pay dirt.
"Esther VanVlear. Been living in this neighborhood since 1969. Original owner," she said and shook hands.
"Glad to meet you, Esther," Gwen said and turned toward the street, rattling her keys for emphasis. She would have loved to talk longer, but time didn't permit. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around."
"You will. I'm on the neighborhood watch committee. Can't be too careful. Crime is rampant." She tipped her head and gave Gwen a sidelong glance as if she was a suspect. "Rampant."
Chapter Eight
Three days later Gwen blew into the office to pick up her briefcase before heading to Dana Point to show the Pauls the Sailor's Haven listing for the second time. Maricela sat at her desk, unmoving.
Maricela was the most energetic person Gwen knew—a perpetual motion machine at work. Her uncharacteristic stillness brought Gwen to a stop, despite the fact she was running late.
