by Leanna Ellis
After returning home from the hospital to don a suit and the dreaded panty hose, which make me look ultraprofessional, I stop in at the local coffee shop for fortification before my meeting with a potential new client. As I wait in line, I notice my advertisement is still stuck to the community board. I’ve received several calls off of it.
“Kaye!”
I turn and find a group of moms I recognize from PTA meetings. “Elise!” I stuff my receipt in my bulging wallet—more full of receipts and bills than actual money. “How are you?” I move toward the women while I wait for my order. They’re all wearing workout shorts and tank tops, revealing tanned and toned arms and new polish on their sculpted fingertips. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”
Elise, a petite blonde who looks like she could put on a cheerleader outfit and go out for the high school squad even though I know for a fact she’s several months over forty, pivots around, exaggerating the swing of her backside. “What do you think?”
She’s wearing a formfitting warm-up and looks like she’s lost a good twenty pounds, which I undoubtedly found. “You look great. What’s your secret?”
The other women, who I vaguely recognize but don’t actually know, resume their conversation while Elise moves closer to me. “Want the number?”
My stomach drops, as has everything else—or so it seems. “For what? Weight Watchers or Marie Osmond?”
“My surgeon! I had breast implants and a tummy tuck. Next year”—she wiggles her fanny and a couple of businessmen at the next table pause in their conversation—“when my checking account has recovered, I’m having a butt lift.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” She winks.
“Well, I . . . uh . . .” I’m not sure what to say.
She leans forward. “You should try it. Maybe it’s the ticket you need.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” My mind wanders down that slippery slope as I imagine myself slimmer, lifted, wrinkle free, my cups set high and overflowing. Would that bring Cliff back? Is that what drove him away? And am I just a few procedures shy of bringing joy back to my family? The big roadblock to me, besides my depleted checking account, is Marla and the very solid memory of what could happen. Not to mention the doubt that would settle firmly between Cliff and me. What kind of a marriage is based on smooth skin and flat abs?
Elise puts a hand on my arm. “You won’t believe who I saw last night.”
Her half-lidded squint and the catch in my chest tells me it was Cliff. “Where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Was he with—”
“Oooh”— she draws out her answer—“yeah.”
My untucked tummy flips over. I don’t want to hear anymore.
“You could do so much better, Kaye. Really! I know someone—”
“No, really. I’m not—”
“Café mocha,” the barrister calls out. “Venti, no whip.”
Saved by the mighty coffee bean. “That’s me.” I give Elise a quick hug. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“Call me!”
Ten minutes later, still sipping my coffee, I turn my Volvo in to an exclusive neighborhood and leave my name with the round-the-clock guard, who acts like he’s guarding Buckingham Palace rather than a tiny nine-by-nine-foot, bricked, child-sized fort, which sits outside the gates of a community of massive estates, each with its own security system. A kid Izzie once babysat lives in this neighborhood. Lily probably has a nanny now, so the parents no longer need an undependable teenager for their date nights.
Following my spiral-bound map, which sits in the passenger seat, (my GPS system is on the fritz and I don’t have extra cash lying around to repair it), I locate the jaw-dropping estate. Giant oaks and elms dominate the yard and offer a shady respite from the Texas heat. The money trees must be in the backyard, probably offering provisions to the pool boy. The curve of the circular drive angles toward the stone entrance replete with oversized urns filled with flowering rose bushes. Red, my favorite. I hope the lady of the manor won’t take offense to any of my suggestions. Not that I have any at the moment. But it’s my job (or so I hope) to find something to suggest.
My arms laden with materials, I approach the expansive porch. The arched double door with an old-world charm leaves me speechless and aware that Lancelot astride his war horse could gallop through any ol’ time. Wish my Prince Charming would come galloping along. But I’ve given up on such nonsense—I simply want my husband back.
A miniature window doorway of beveled glass and wrought iron bars is a classy touch. My services may not be required here. From my peripheral vision, something hot pink grabs my attention—a battery-powered Hot Wheels Barbie Jeep lurks at the corner of the house. That needs to go. I take a mental note.
The beveled glass distorts my reflection, making my shoulder-length brown hair appear like a football helmet and enlarging my short stature to the proportions of a linebacker. Or maybe it’s the pumpkin loaves. Arms tucked around the photo album and decorator sample books, I scowl at my image and elbow the doorbell. The bell echoes through what sounds like cavernous square footage, and I peer through the tiny diamond-shaped windows.
Marble flooring and a heavy brass chandelier sparkle in the morning sunlight. The caramel painted walls give way to a wrought iron and wood banister that curls upward to the second floor. This job looks easy. Or maybe there won’t be a need for any consulting. Which won’t help my checking account. So far, no clown pictures or menagerie of baby photos clutter the walls. Simple, elegant furnishings should result in a quick, painless sale for the homeowner, which always makes for a happy client and often brings referrals.
Through the door I hear someone bounding down the stairs and watch socked feet slide across the slick floor. The lock clicks and the door opens with a whoosh. A young man with peach fuzz along his jaw says, “Yeah?”
“Hi, I’m Kaye with Altered Images. I have an appointment with—”
The teenager turns to holler behind him. His blond hair is pulled back in a short ponytail. “Jack! Someone at the door for you.” He opens it wider and moves backward. His khaki slacks and collared knit shirt set off a deep tan, as if he spent the summer next to a pool. “I’m late,” he tells me, then louder, “I’m outta here!”
I blink, but he’s disappeared into the house, leaving me standing alone in the grand foyer. With a moment to glance around unnoticed and unobserved, it’s easy to see the house is neatly maintained. No dust on the furniture or cobwebs in the corners. But the expansive entryway is empty and hints nothing of its impressive possibilities. I dig for a pen in my bag and scribble a note: Needs table. Rug. Grandfather clock?
Peering around the corner, I almost drop my load of books. Doubt about being needed fades and a new one springs up: What will I do with this? Inside what appears to be the main living area, a Star Wars X-wing Fighter arcade game sits idle. Nearby is an intricately carved pool table, but even its magnificence is crowded out by an air hockey table squaring off with foosball and shielding an old-fashioned popcorn machine. A juke box decorated in reds, oranges, and purples pulls me toward it like a three-headed snake at a carnival. I step into the room, bend down, and examine the impressive list of CDs available in the juke box—everything from the Bangles to the Beatles, Miley Cyrus to Beyonce, and Coldplay to Taylor Swift. Lingering in the air is a sickly-sweet cotton candy odor mixed with the greasy scent of corn dogs.
No wonder the owner needs staging. This house wouldn’t sell if a hundred grand were knocked off the asking price.
Obviously, from the looks of the house so far, there’s no lady of the manor. At least, not anymore. Did she take all the furniture? There seem to be children in the fallout. So the sale must be due to an impending divorce. I can so relate, and I know to tread carefully.
From some far corner of the house, I hear a door close, then a scrabbling scratching sound.
“It!” a deep voice hollers.
I turn toward the sound, just as the b
lur of a giant black furball zooms around the corner. A scream lodges in my throat. Before I can even throw up my hands to protect myself, it hits me full throttle, knocking me back a step, sending my books and sunglasses, notepad and pen flying. Baseball glove-sized paws hook onto my shoulders and a pink, slobbery tongue slurps the side of my face.
“Come.” The voice from somewhere behind this assault weapon gives me hope.
Smothered by the giant, wiggling carpet, I try to ward off the squirming, wagging, panting beast. Then suddenly it’s gone, yanked backward by a collar.
“Sorry about that.” A flash of a smile unsettles me more. “She got away from me.”
Out of breath and flustered, I wipe my face with my hand, readjust my clothing. “What is it?”
“Cousin It. Or that’s what we call her. She’s still a puppy.”
“A puppy?” My gaze settles back on the black furry mass.
“But she’s learning.”
“What? How to attack?”
The man, wearing an untucked khaki shirt, faded jeans, and tan work boots, laughs, and the robust sound echoes through the room and irritates me. He looks as shaggy as the dog. “She’s just overly friendly. Sit.” He makes a hand motion. The dog sits, but her furry round backside pops right up off the scraped hardwoods within half a second. “Sit,” the man says more patiently than I’d manage. “Good girl.”
A shadow of a beard darkens his jaw. His dark hair curls over his shirt collar, but the rest is hidden beneath the brim of a New York Yankees baseball cap. Shaded hazel eyes watch me along with the dog’s brown ones.
“She’ll settle down once she greets you.”
“Oh? I thought we just met.”
“If you don’t mind.” He waves me over, and I take a cautious step toward him. Once upon a time I liked dogs. But I haven’t been around any pets in a long while, and I’ve become used to not having any shedding or panting or messes of any kind in my house.
“Put your hand out,” he advises. “So she can get a good sniff.”
“What if she’s hungry?”
He chuckles. “She’s really sweet. I promise.”
The thing is, one does not want to offend a client. Even though I suspect this man just works in this giant-sized house, maybe as the dog trainer, insulting the help or a beloved pet equals insulting the owner. So I inch closer. Cousin It sniffs my hand, placing her cold, black nose against my knuckles. The man steps closer.
“Don’t worry.” His voice is low and calming. And yet, not. A part of me feels rattled by his nearness. “It’s okay.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the dog.
“Dogs can tell a lot by scent.”
“Uh-huh.” Women can too. This man doesn’t smell of sweat or dirt as I anticipated, but something alluring that draws me toward him. Something light and purely male. Back in college, I knew all the colognes by name: freshmen wore Polo, frat boys Obsession, and law students Drakkar Noir. But now, at the ripe old age of thirty-six, I no longer know what men (other than my husband . . . okay ex-husband) wear. Admittedly my knowledge of Cliff’s choice of fragrance may be outdated now that Barbie has her manicured claws into him. Sure, I’ve been alone more than a year now, but I must be getting desperate if this man is appealing to me.
“Now,” he encourages, “give her a little loving and she’ll be your friend for life.”
I stare into his eyes and something deep inside me quivers. I feel more in that moment than a woman should for a stranger. I clear my throat, step toward the dog, pat It’s head, and then move away. The man rubs his hands over the dog’s body and murmurs approval. Feeling the itch of discomfort deep inside my bones, I look around at all my materials, strewn across the floor.
“Sorry about that.” He lets go of the dog’s red collar and holds a hand up toward the dog. “Stay.” The sweeping tail twitches. The man scoops up one of my decorator books. Some of the pages ended up dog-eared in the melee and he carefully unbends them. “Let me help you with all of this.”
“That’s okay.” I step toward my purse—its contents falling out of the opening. I shove wallet, checkbook, makeup bag, cell phone back inside. “I can get it. Is the owner here?”
He reaches for my appointment book. “Sure is.”
But I bend to retrieve it, bumping his arm with my hand. “I got it.” But two more books crash to the floor.
The gardener’s self-assured smile widens, his white teeth flashing. With as much dignity as I can muster, I haul my load of books over to the pool table. “Mind?”
“Go ahead.”
I set my books on the green felt surface, and he steps beside me, placing more on the stack. “Thanks.”
Finally I stick out my hand. “I’m Kaye. Kaye Redmond. I’m here to see Mr. Franklin.”
He shakes my hand. There’s much to digest in a simple handshake—the grip, the duration, the texture of skin. His hand is warm, the skin not as smooth as my ex’s, the grip firm and strong. Working man’s hands, strong and sure. “Jack Franklin, at your service.”
“Oh, you’re—” My new client. Why didn’t I figure that out? Was my first impression clouding my judgment? Maybe I expected a suit—or at the very least, manicured hands.
“Sit, It.” His tone is forceful but a smile crinkles those intriguing eyes that never waver off me.
I glance at the panting, black mop-of-a-dog. Her bottom automatically touches the floor again. Hoping she’ll stay put, I look back at Jack Franklin. What must he think of me snooping around his house? “Your . . . uh, son let me in. But he had to go and I thought . . . well, I didn’t know. . . .”
He blinks slowly as if digesting my remarks. “My Realtor thought I could use your services to get the house to move faster.”
“Of course.” I glance around the room, past It to the assortment of arcade games, imagining that Jack’s wife must have moved out and taken all the furniture. Maybe she hated the dog. Or maybe he lost his job and has sold much of the furniture to make ends meet. The first thing I’ll suggest is that he find another home for Cousin It. “I have a few ideas.” I lean on the edge of the pool table. “You like games, huh?”
“As much as anybody.” He walks toward another doorway and It follows. “There are a few more in here.” An arched opening leads to a sitting area with built-ins and fireplace, a cozy nook now crammed with more arcade games and pinball machines.
Does he think anyone else would fill their house with this many toys? “What do you do for a living, Mr. Franklin?”
“Jack.” His tone is even softer than when he addressed Cousin It. “I have a travel agency.”
“Do you travel much, then?” My gaze shifts back toward It, who has settled on the floor, taking up a wide swath of space like a bear rug. She lays her chin on her giant paws and watches us.
“Not as much anymore. I’ve had some . . . well, I’ve needed to stay in town more and more. The agency focuses on high-end clientele who want exotic locations and specialized hunting expeditions. I used to conduct private tours or safaris but now . . .”
Since he doesn’t look like the museum type, I ask, “Hunting?”
“Anything from deep-sea fishing for marlin to wild boar.”
Daring to look at what else I have to contend with, hoping it won’t be a room full of Bambis mounted on the wall, I follow him through the house, taking note of the empty spaces and blank walls, mismatched towels, and diverse furniture. Cousin It wanders off during the tour. Right now it wouldn’t surprise me if Chuck E. Cheese waddled around a corner. Hopefully the giant rat won’t attack like the dog.
Instead, Darth Vader storms the house.
“Your phone?” Jack asks as we return to the den.
I contemplate answering it, but I only left Marla an hour and a half ago and promised to be back after my meeting. If it’s an emergency, she has a whole staff of doctors and nurses to care for her. Then the ringtone stops. “It’s okay. I’ll call her back.”
“Her? Not your r
egular ringtone, then?”
“My ex mother-in-law.” I suppress the bitterness trying to creep into my voice. “My daughter downloaded that ringtone for her.”
“Interesting song for Grandma.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks around at the menagerie of games. “So, what do you think?”
I search for pride in his features, but I’m not sure how he feels about the bombarding colors and jumbled chaos around us. Eager to avoid a conversation about Marla, I glance past the rump of Cousin It as she chews on a bone, crunching it between those powerful jaws, and around the wood-paneled room up to the cathedral ceiling bisected by long cedar beams. I focus first on the positive. “You have a beautiful home. I’m sure Altered Images can help you get it sold quickly.”
A glance at his worn work boots makes me consider the possibility that his ex took him for every penny. Or has the economic downturn affected his business? Or maybe he’s the token nonpretentious person in the whole city of Southlake. “The idea of staging is completely opposite of how you or I might decorate a house in which we want to live. It’s like a . . . facelift.” Gee, where’d that idea come from? “It shows off the best features. You want someone to walk in and imagine how great their furniture will look here.”
“So it’s better to have completely empty rooms?”
“Not at all. Most people don’t have that good of an imagination. They need a little help. You see, all these wonderful games might distract buyers from actually seeing the features of the house.” I silently congratulate myself on my tact. “They might want to play the games rather than buy. So what I see happening here is putting—”
“If I Loved You” begins. Even though I suspect Marla called Cliff when she couldn’t reach me, I lunge past Jack for my purse. But when I reach the pool table, I realize the ringtone is coming from the corner of the room. From the dog.
