by Jane Heller
“Let’s hope,” he said, returning my smile. “Depending on how god-awful the house is, I’ll either renovate it or tear it down and build something else. It’s the property I’m really interested in. Dream houses should be situated on beautiful property, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said, nodding my head enthusiastically. “Tell me, Mr. Bettinger—”
“David, remember?”
“David.” I trembled as I said his first name aloud. “Are you a developer, by any chance?”
“No. I’m in the import/export business,” he replied, uncrossing his legs and then crossing them again. His shoes were expensive, buttery brown leather Italian loafers.
“Does your wife work in the business with you?” I asked. He was not wearing a wedding ring. There was no tan line on his finger, either.
“I’m not married,” he replied. “Not at the moment, anyway.”
I smiled knowingly, as if I, too, were worldly and sophisticated and merely between spouses, instead of a small-town girl who had, not twenty-four hours before, been dumped by the only man she’d ever slept with.
“The truth is, over the past several years I’ve been spending a great deal of time abroad,” he went on. “Too much time. But now that I’ve moved to Banyan Beach, all the traveling is going to stop. I’m planning to settle down and devote myself to one thing and one thing only.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
“Enjoying life,” he said without the slightest guilt.
“An excellent plan,” I said, thinking about my life and wondering when I would start to enjoy it. I checked my watch and looked up at him. “It’s nearly three o’clock. Why don’t we go and see the house?”
“I’d love to,” he said. “But first, I’d like to ask you something, Barbara.”
“Please. Ask away.”
“Are you married?”
I was surprised. I hadn’t expected David Bettinger to ask such a personal question. Was he flirting with me? Because I was blond and curvy? Did my new look give him the impression that I was “available?” Or was he just a little compulsive, the type who feels the need to get to know his realtor before plunging into discussions of linen closets, air conditioning ducts, and septic fields?
I glanced down at my left hand. I had taken off my wedding ring right after Mitchell left the house the night before. Come to think of it, I didn’t have a clue where I’d put it.
“I’m separated,” I said finally.
He smiled. “Forgive me for saying this, but I’m glad.”
“You are? Why?”
“As I told you, I’m new in Banyan Beach. I don’t know many people here, particularly women. I was hoping that you and I might…have dinner some night.”
I was absolutely stunned that such a magnificent specimen was putting the moves on me—and after only two seconds in my company! I knew I looked pretty “hot”—for me—but that hot? Maybe David wasn’t especially discriminating when it came to women. Look at his taste in houses, for God’s sake.
The truth was, I didn’t know how to respond to David’s invitation. Some women get angry if a man tries to pick them up during a business meeting, this being the age of sexual harassment, but how could I be angry at David Bettinger? He was my customer. I needed him if I was going to end my slump. Plus, he seemed very nice, very respectful. Not the least bit sleazy.
Of course, my instinct was to act coy. To make him think I was booked solid with dinner dates. Instead, I blurted out, “How about tonight?”
The instant I said it I nearly died of embarrassment. My new forthrightness was really beginning to get on my nerves.
“Tonight would be wonderful,” said David, his eyes holding mine.
I was about to ask, “What time?” when I remembered that Jeremy Cook was coming over to pick up Pete. I had asked Ben to tell him six o’clock, but Jeremy liked to do things his way. There was no telling what time he’d actually show up.
“I’m sorry, David,” I said. “I just remembered there’s something I have to do tonight.”
“No problem. There’s always tomorrow night,” he said in a way that wasn’t cocky, just confident, as if he expected us to go out together, as if it were automatic.
I nodded in agreement. Saturday night with David Bettinger sounded just fine to me.
“Well, I guess we’d better head over to the house,” he reminded me.
“Right.”
David rose from his chair and held out his hand to me.
“Shall we?” he said.
Normally, I don’t feel it’s very professional to hold hands with my male customers, but when I started to hesitate, he laughed and said, “It’s all right, Bah-ba-rah. I don’t bite.”
He continued to hold out his hand to me and as I gazed into his piercing brown eyes I suddenly felt very dizzy, lightheaded, faint, and my hands and feet began to tingle. I grabbed onto the desk for support.
“Barbara? Are you all right?” David asked with obvious concern.
I didn’t know if I was all right or not. Creepy things had been happening to me all day and I was beginning to wonder if I had a delayed-reaction hangover, the kind that gives you the shakes the afternoon after, instead of the morning after. Either that or I was losing my mind.
I didn’t want to alarm David. That was all I needed: to land a new customer and then scare him off before I even got to show him a house. But I couldn’t answer his question. I didn’t have a clue what was wrong with me. Not then.
“Why don’t we get you some fresh air,” he suggested. Without waiting for a response, he took hold of my hand and slipped it into his. He clasped his fingers around mine and squeezed them.
A little sigh escaped from my lips as our flesh made contact.
“That’s better,” he said. “Much better.”
I showed David the Nowak house, nude ladies and all. And then I walked him around the property, an acre and a quarter of rolling lawns, mature plantings, and towering palms, with over two hundred feet of riverfront.
“You really could do a lot with this house,” I said, trying to make the sale without being pushy about it. The place was even more ghastly than I remembered—musty and claustrophobic and totally unappealing. But I needed a sale desperately, and I felt that if I could point out the ways in which David could improve the house, maybe he’d buy it. Money didn’t seem to be an issue, given that he didn’t blanch at the $700,000 asking price. Neither did the fact that the house had been on the market for three years and nobody else had wanted to buy it. “Just by getting rid of the arches, opening up the living room, and taking down the wall between the kitchen and dining room, you could change the whole character of the place and turn it into that dream house you were telling me about.”
“Done,” David said as we stood outside the front door.
“What do you mean ‘done’?” I asked.
“I’m going to buy the house,” he said. “You talked me into it. You’re a terrific real estate agent, Barbara.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
Not again. I would have to get myself a muzzle. “No, excuse me, David,” I said. “I had no business using language like that. It’s just that I don’t recall talking you into anything. I barely opened my mouth.”
“Nonsense. You underestimate your selling ability. You’re obviously very good at what you do. You convinced me to buy the house, Barbara. You sold it to me.”
“Did I?” Now I was confused. It had seemed to me that David Bettinger had made up his mind to buy the house before he’d even looked at it.
“Now, you said the owner wants $700,000. How does a $675,000 offer sound?” he smiled.
“It sounds like you’re a chump,” I blurted out, knowing that the property was beautiful but worth much less. David Bettinger either didn’t have a clue about land values or was so rich he didn’t care if he overpaid for them. But when I realized what I had said, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. How could
I have said that to him? Now, he would walk away from the deal and cancel our dinner date, I was sure.
But he didn’t do either. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed.
“Oh, Barbara,” he said between chuckles. “You’re so amusing. I love that in a woman.”
Amusing? “Listen, David. I was only kidding about your being a chump,” I said in a frantic effort to make amends.
“Of course you were,” he smiled. “And let me tell you: You’re the first real estate agent I’ve ever met who has a sense of humor.”
“I am?”
“Yes, and I find it very sexy.”
Sexy? I had called the man a chump and he found it sexy? Oh, God. He must be one of those men who likes women to humiliate them every now and then. He did come from Palm Beach, and, according to everything I’d heard about Palm Beach, there was some pretty kinky stuff going on there.
Well, I was no dominatrix. I was a small-town gal from Banyan Beach. To me, “kinky” still meant hair that needed a little conditioner. I ignored his reference to my animal magnetism and changed the subject.
“So you’re sure you want to buy the house?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said.
“My, you really make quick decisions,” I said. “I’m not complaining, believe me. It’s just that most people don’t jump at the first house they see.”
“They do if it’s love at first sight,” he said, then winked at me.
I laughed self-consciously.
“You said it yourself,” he went on. “The property’s gorgeous. All I have to do is find a good architect to redo the house.”
“I can help you with that. Home Sweet Home has a list of architects and builders that we recommend very highly. But first, I’ve got to submit your offer to the owner.”
“Tell him I’ll pay cash. No contingencies. And I’ll close in thirty days,” said David. “That ought to get his attention.”
“Yes, it certainly ought to.”
This can’t be happening, I thought. David Bettinger is buying the Nowak house. With cash. After seeing it once. For ten minutes.
David and I went back to my office and, for the second time that day, I tried to reach Frances Lutz. It seems she had called in sick that morning, saying she’d pulled a stomach muscle the night before. “It must have happened when she was lifting Oreos,” Althea Dicks had snickered. “Or maybe when she was turning up the volume on ‘$100,000 Name That Tune.’”
I was hanging up the phone when in walked Frances herself.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” I said when she waddled over to my desk, a vision in her voluminous orange caftan and wide-brimmed straw hat. She was in her sixties, but had virtually no lines on her face, which was as smooth and chubby as a baby’s. She had short, close-cropped ash-blond hair and deeply set brown eyes—a pretty woman if a tad on the androgynous side. But it was her girth, not her face, that got your attention. It seemed to have a life of its own, each layer of fat shimmying and shaking like Jell-O under the brightly colored fabrics she always wore. As usual, she was out of breath and sweating profusely, a heart attack waiting to happen. But that didn’t keep her from stopping at McDonald’s on her way over to the office.
“I was a little under the weather earlier, but I’m just fine now,” she smiled, shoving a bag of French fries at David and me. “Anybody want one? They’re fresh.”
“No, thanks. Frances, this is David Bettinger,” I said.
“Frances Lutz,” she replied, extending her hand to David after licking off a blob of “special sauce” that had dripped from her Big Mac. David rose from his chair politely.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said as they shook hands.
“Well, Barbara. You’ve been to the beauty salon, haven’t you,” she said, right in front of David, which made me extremely uncomfortable. Why not let him think I’d always been a vixen? Besides, how would I even begin to explain my transformation to him, to Frances, to anyone? I had already given each person who’d asked about my appearance a different explanation and I was at the stage where I couldn’t remember what I’d said to whom. More to the point, I didn’t understand the transformation myself. I hadn’t been to the beauty salon or to a gym or to some diet guru. I’d gotten drunk, passed out, and woken up with a new bod and a new ’do. And that’s all I knew.
So I ignored Frances’s question and distracted her with a subject I was sure she’d find more interesting than my appearance.
“David would like to make an offer on the Nowak house,” I told her.
“A wise man. That property is going to be worth millions someday,” she said, nodding at David and then, when he looked away, winking at me. She was a good liar—a “must” for a real estate broker.
“I’m counting on that,” David said.
I told Frances how much he was offering for the house and marveled at her ability to keep a straight face.
“I’ll get in touch with Mr. Nowak this evening,” she said. “As soon as I have an answer, I’ll call you, Barbara.”
“Great,” I said.
“Yes,” said David. “I’m very eager to hear his response.”
She smiled and dragged herself over to her own desk, only a few feet away from mine. When she got there, she maneuvered herself onto her chair, reminding me of a trained seal climbing onto a rock.
“Well, David. I guess the ball is in Mr. Nowak’s court now,” I said.
“So it is,” he said. “Will you call me the minute you hear anything?”
“Of course.”
“And you won’t forget our dinner date? Tomorrow night?”
“Forget? Are you serious? Dentist appointments I forget. Dinner dates with Greek gods I don’t forget.”
David laughed. “I love your directness, Barbara Chessner. I really do.”
He gave me a little wave, turned, and walked out the door of Home Sweet Home, leaving me to shake my head in astonishment that he had come into my life.
It had been so unexpected, so out of the blue. If Deirdre hadn’t asked me to cover for her, she would have been the one to take his call. She would have been the one to show him the Nowak house. She would have been the one he asked out to dinner. Instead, I was there, in the right place at the right time, for a change. Maybe I was finally getting a break after the awful year I’d had.
Still, I couldn’t quite believe how effortlessly I had sold David the least appealing house in Banyan Beach. There was something terribly wrong, and I must have known it. Even then. I just didn’t want to face it. Who would?
Chapter 6
When I pulled into my driveway, Pete was sitting by the front door, his head buried in his balls.
“Sorry to intrude,” I said as I got out of the car and walked toward the house.
He looked up, made eye contact with me, and bounded over to me, apparently beside himself with ecstasy at seeing me again. Either that, or he was hungry.
“Look, for the hundredth time, I’m not your owner,” I said as I removed his muddy paws from the skirt of my blue dress.
Pete cocked his head and peered at me with his soulful hazel eyes. Then he opened his mouth, stuck his tongue out, and panted like a lovesick schoolboy. His breath was pretty grim, but it was a lot better than mine, which, I noticed, smelled faintly of Brussels sprouts. Yet another bizarre change in my body chemistry, particularly since I hadn’t eaten Brussels sprouts since I was a kid whose mother believed that Brussels sprouts were so foul-tasting that they had to be good for you.
“It’s been swell meeting you, Pete,” I said, stepping past him, “but if you think I’m fun, wait until you meet my brother. You and he will get along famously.”
The comment provoked five straight minutes of loud barking. I held my ears and went inside the house.
Why was Pete hanging around me of all people? I asked myself as I waited for Jeremy Cook to come and take the damn dog away. I’d always thought animals had sixth senses or something and could tell when yo
u were scared of them—or found them repugnant. But not good old Pete, obviously. No, sir. He seemed oblivious to the fact that I had about as much affection for him as I did for the man who was due at my house any minute.
Still, I couldn’t very well sit there and let the dog bark his heart out, could I? I opened the refrigerator, found some leftover chicken salad, and brought it outside to Pete. He sniffed the Tupperware container, shook his head, and then shoved it away with the end of his nose.
“What’s the matter? Are you a vegetarian? Or do you just prefer your chicken salad with a little less mayonnaise?” I asked.
Pete responded by licking the tip of my right shoe.
Jeremy and his Chevy pickup arrived at six-thirty. Talk about a mixed blessing. As I watched my brother’s best friend saunter up the driveway, hitching his blue jeans up over his beer paunch and running his hands through his shoulder-length reddish brown hair, I wondered where on earth he got his cocky attitude. He was a hick. A nobody. A crazy Irishman whose claim to fame was that he once caught a fifty-pound African Pompano and threw it back. What a guy, huh?
So he sang in a local rock ’n’ roll band a couple of nights a week. Big deal. The band didn’t even sing original songs. They sang oldies, for God’s sake. A nostalgia act.
Jeremy’s “career,” if you could call it that, was chartering his fishing boat, a forty-six-foot Hatteras called the Devil-May-Care. (Interesting name, don’t you think, given what was going on in my life? But more on that later.) He spent his days taking tourists out in the boat, trolling the waters for a big fish for them to catch, and then letting them catch it. Sort of the way a pimp does business, you know?
“Hey, if it isn’t Ms. BS” was the charming way he greeted me.
“BS” was Jeremy’s term of endearment for me and had been since high school. It was his idea of a double entendre: it meant BS, as in Benjamin’s sister; and BS, as in he thought I was full of it. Jeremy was a laugh riot, as you can see.
“Hello,” I said politely, trying to avoid looking at his T-shirt, which pictured Cindy Crawford dressed as a mermaid, along with the caption: “Hook a tasty one. Call Cook’s Charters.” His rugged, sunburned face bore a thick beard of the same reddish brown hair that covered his head. His eyes were a pale green, his nose was upturned at the tip but wide at the bridge, his lips were thick and meaty, like the rest of him. He was five-foot-ten or -eleven, I guessed, but his build was stocky, burly, muscular, his forearms especially so. He was as crude as David Bettinger was smooth, as unpolished and unkempt as David was well-groomed.
