by S W Vaughn
How could I, when he doesn’t even know?
“Look, Mommy. It’s the blue fish movie,” Alyssa says, pointing the remote at the TV where she’s selected Finding Nemo. “I ’member it from when I was little.”
I laugh and ruffle her silky hair. “You’re still little, munchkin,” I tell her.
“Not as little as I used to be.”
“That’s very true,” I say. “And you haven’t seen this one in a while. Are you going to watch it tonight?”
“Maybe,” she says, drawing the word out. “Or maybe I’ll watch Frozen again.”
That seems likely. Frozen is the best movie ever, after all.
The doorbell rings, and I get up to answer it. Tabitha is a few minutes early. When I open the door, she’s standing there with a shoebox-sized plastic container and a smile, her laptop bag slung over a shoulder. “I made us cupcakes. Hope you don’t mind,” she says.
“Oh, you’re definitely going to be Alyssa’s favorite person tonight.” I return the smile and step back to let her in. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry about the short notice.”
Tabitha walks in and waves to Alyssa, who’s mugging like mad from the couch. “It’s no problem at all,” she says. “The only hot date I had tonight was with my bathtub, and that’s over now. You look great, Celine.”
“Thank you. But I don’t have a hot date either,” I say with a laugh. “Just a client.”
We head to the kitchen, and I grab my purse while Tabitha puts the cupcake box on the counter. She’s three years younger than me and runs some kind of online business — I’m not sure exactly what, but she makes decent money and has a super-flexible schedule since she can work anywhere from her laptop. She’s also getting dual degrees in programming and business management, attending Oslow and an online school at the same time.
For some reason, she makes me feel old.
Just as I’m about to go back to the living room and say goodnight to my daughter, Tabitha says, “Hey … did you hear about Brad Dowling?”
It seems everybody’s hearing about Brad lately. Apparently, I can’t stop hearing about Brad. “You mean about him waking up?” I say, struggling to keep it casual.
“Yeah. It’s wild, right? Five years,” she says as she shakes her head. “I can’t even imagine what that’s like, to wake up and find out you’ve been asleep that long. He must be pretty strong to survive that. Didn’t he get crushed or something?”
“Car accident,” I say absently as I wrestle with sudden, painful memories of that night.
Tabitha doesn’t seem to notice. She’s looking into the distance, a fond smile on her face. “I had such a crush on him in high school,” she says. “You know, the whole gorgeous senior, geeky freshman fantasy. I even did that notebook thing, filled a whole one up with his name and mine like we were married. Mrs. Tabitha Dowling, Mr. and Mrs. Brad Dowling, all that dumb stuff, with hearts and flowers all over. God, I was stupid.” She shakes herself back to the present and grins. “But I’ll bet half the girls who went to Wolfsbrook High that year had a notebook just like it,” she says. “Did you know him? You were a junior, right?”
I manage a nod. “We were in college together,” I say, and leave it at that. “So, do you need anything else for tonight? I have to head out soon.”
“I think we’re good. I’ll call you if we have any problems.”
“Thanks again. I’m just going to say goodbye,” I say, already headed for the dining room. “I won’t be gone too long, probably eleven at the latest.”
“No worries,” she calls after me.
By the time I wrap up the mommy’s-leaving ritual with Alyssa, Tabitha is in the living room with a plate of cupcakes and two glasses of milk. My daughter hardly notices that I’m going. She’s preoccupied with mounds of frosting, not to mention Elsa and Olaf.
I feel worse than ever about Brad. Somehow, I’ve got to stand up to his mother and tell him what happened, before life carries him away from me again.
Old City is packed tonight. There’s a local band playing live rock music, and they’re not half bad, but they sound better from a distance. That’s why the three of us are outside, standing by the rail of the concrete barrier that separates the patio from the creek. There’s a breeze blowing across the water, still warm for September, and I’m pleasantly buzzed for the second night in a week. It’s a record for me.
Jill is decked out in a leather mini-dress and thigh-high boots, sipping her third Jack and Coke as she casually peruses the selection of single males. Unfortunately, there’s not much variety — in a town like Wolfsbrook, you find pretty much the same faces every time. And then there’s Hannah, with a fire-engine-red silk top over spangled gold tights and her nails painted to match. She’s alternately chain-smoking red Marlboros and chewing on her thumbnail as the conversation comes in awkward fits and spurts.
“So,” I say after a swallow of my own drink. I’m sticking to tame Tom Collins so I can drive myself home, but Jill took an Uber here. “How does your daughter like kindergarten?”
Hannah startles, and Jill looks on with sly anticipation while she fumbles for an answer and finally says, “She’s fine, I think. No complaints.”
Well, that’s vague. I decide to press a little harder. “Which teacher does she have?”
“Um. Mrs. Somebody,” Hannah says with a slight flush. “I’m not sure, actually. I’m terrible with names.”
“Is it Mrs. Jocasta?” I say. “Alyssa’s in her class.”
Hannah bites her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe,” she says, and looks away. “Can we talk about something else?”
She seems distressed. At this point I’m not sure if she’s lying or actually doesn’t like to talk about her daughter for some reason, which seems strange, but I’ll drop the subject. No reason to alienate her before the closing. “Okay, sure,” I say. “What did you do before you came to Wolfsbrook?”
“Oh, you know. Mostly I just hung around being rich,” she says with a small laugh. “And I did a little programming for a while. I designed an app. Look, I’ll show you.” She digs in her purse — Louis Vuitton tonight instead of the Hermès — to come up with a cell phone, and swipes a password to unlock the screen. “Here it is,” she says, pointing to an icon. “It’s … not great or anything, but it works.”
The icon is a cartoon megaphone with a funny, wiggly mouth at the wide end and a blue musical note imposed across the center. “Um. What is it?”
Hannah presses her lips together. “It’s called ShoutTone,” she sort of mutters. “You connect it to your address book, and it uses your conversations and stuff to match celebrity quotes or bits of music to your contacts, and give them all unique ring tones and text notification sounds.” She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “It works right about half the time.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I say. “Jill’s into that kind of programming stuff.”
Jill snorts and rolls her eyes. “I made a website once. That doesn’t make me a programmer,” she says. “It is cool, though. Your app, I mean.”
Looking pleased, Hannah starts to say something, but then a female voice shouts across the patio: “Oh my God, Celine! I can’t believe you’re here!”
It’s Missy. Again. I haven’t seen her since college, and suddenly she’s everywhere I go.
She pushes her way through the crowd toward us, and I notice the blond figure trailing her and realize I never did tell Jill about seeing her the other day. I lean toward her and whisper, “You’re not gonna believe this, but Missy’s engaged to your nemesis.”
She smirks. “Your friend is marrying Angeline Jolie?”
“Not that nemesis,” I say. “The one you work with.”
Jill’s jaw drops as Missy reaches us with her fiancé in tow. “Danny?” she blurts.
Missy’s eyes narrow, and the blond looks up and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s Dan,” he mumbles. “I don’t really like Danny.”
“Well, you never mentioned that. How was I suppose
d to know?”
“Excuse me,” Missy says with a brittle smile. “You two know each other?”
I step forward and hold out a placating hand. “Jill’s a paralegal. She works in Danny — er, Dan’s office,” I say. “And this is Hannah.”
Missy gives Hannah the full side-eye. “Weren’t you at Rosalie’s funeral?”
Hannah blinks and plucks a fresh cigarette from her pocket. “Yes,” she says.
“How did you know her?” Missy demands. “I’ve never seen you before then, and I know all of Rosalie’s friends and family. She was my best friend, you know.” Tears form in her eyes. She sniffles and holds a hand out, and Dan fumbles a travel tissue pack out, separates a single tissue and gives it to her.
I don’t dare look at Jill’s face during this little exchange. If I do, I know I’ll burst out laughing.
“She was in my sociology class. In college,” Hannah says almost woodenly.
“You went to Oslow?” Missy dabs at her eyes with the tissue. “I didn’t see you there.”
Hannah shrugs one shoulder. “I was only there for two semesters.”
“Well, you … oh, God, I sound like such a bitch!” Missy says. She’s on the verge of wailing. “I’m sorry. It’s just — Celine, you won’t believe what happened.” She grabs my hand, switching moods from misery to breathless shock. “The police say that the handwriting on Rosalie’s suicide note isn’t hers. They think she might have been murdered,” she gushes, and now the tears start falling. “Isn’t that horrible? I mean, who would want to kill Rosalie?”
I’m too shocked to respond, but Missy doesn’t seem to require a reply. She throws herself into Dan’s arms, sobbing. “I’m so sorry. I think I need some air,” she says. “It was great to see you again, Celine. Jill, Hannah.”
Dan leads her dutifully away, without pointing out that she’s already standing outside where there’s plenty of air. I stare after them and try to process the news — Rosalie didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. I know Missy tends to exaggerate everything, but she wouldn’t lie about this.
And now I have to wonder why whoever faked her suicide would mention Brad.
10
Monday
After Saturday night, the rest of the weekend passes by quietly. I don’t even try to tackle the big problems — Brad, the threatening texts, Rosalie’s murder, none of it. I just want to get through the closing this afternoon and feel like I’ve accomplished something. Then I’ll worry about the rest.
I go back home for a while after I take Alyssa to school, and wait to head to the office until a little after nine. It’s cowardly of me, I know, but I don’t want to be alone there with Sabrina. The last text I got is so vague, I’m not sure what it meant, but I know it doesn’t rule her out. Though I’m not sure how she would have found out about Joan.
When I walk in, Sabrina and Lucas are at their desks and Maxine is in her office. Courtney hasn’t arrived yet, but that’s not surprising, since she views her nine AM start time as more of a guideline than a rule. And our fourth agent, Eleanor Finch, rarely comes to the office since she’s semi-retired and this job is basically her hobby. Maxine allows it because the two of them went to school together.
Sabrina springs to attention as I’m walking to my desk and gets up to follow me. “Celine, I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry about yesterday,” she says in a tone that’s about as genuine as a politician during an election year. “I didn’t mean it. It was just my time of the month — you know, the old hormones talking.”
I manage to glare at her. I’m not sure why she’s apologizing, since Lucas didn’t see what happened and usually she only backtracks the horrible things she says for show. But maybe Courtney was paying attention after all, and maybe she ratted her out to Maxine.
“Fine, whatever,” I say. “Did you …”
Send me a text is on the tip of my tongue. I’m determined to say it out loud, to actually confront her, but then I see a small piece of paper on the surface of my desk from a Hughes Real Estate notepad. Written on it, in Maxine’s no-frills handwriting, is ‘My office, please.’
Dread sinks its claws into my stomach. Something’s gone wrong with the sale, I just know it. Did Hannah back out? I thought Saturday night went pretty well, except for Missy’s unfortunate interruption. Jill had ended up flirting with some tattooed guy for a while after that, and it was just me and Hannah. She seemed happy when she left. But maybe I’d done something to upset her.
“Is something wrong?” Sabrina says with a tiny smile, and suddenly I know why she apologized. She must’ve seen Maxine put the note on my desk.
Whatever happened, she knows about it. Because she did it.
“No, not a thing,” I force myself to say with a smile, snatching the note to stuff it in my pocket. “But thanks for your concern, Sabrina. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Her smile widens. “I’m not.”
I ignore her and walk to Maxine’s office on legs that want to tremble. I’m sick with worry, but I think part of it is pure anger. Sabrina’s done something to screw this up for me. She must have. And what, exactly, am I going to do about it?
Nothing, a small voice whispers in my head. Just like you always do.
God, I hate that I’m so fucking passive.
Maxine’s door is ajar. I open it a little more and stick my head in with a nervous smile. She’s sitting behind her desk, and she looks up immediately. Her expression is blank.
“You wanted to see me?” I say.
“Yes. Come in.” Maxine sighs, and I know it’s going to be bad. Even worse when she says, “Close the door.”
I do it without looking back where, Sabrina and Lucas are sure to be staring at me. She doesn’t ask me to take a seat in the chair in front of her desk, but I do anyway. My legs are no longer steady. “What’s wrong?” I blurt.
In typical blunt fashion, Maxine gets straight to the point. “Your real estate license is expired,” she says. “The commission CC’d me on the email they sent to you. I can’t let you close on this property today.”
“That’s impossible.” My head starts throbbing sickly, and my voice is a disbelieving whisper. “It was supposed to be good until next year, but … anyway, I renewed it when I got the notification about it expiring. I did it last week, right from my work computer.”
Maxine’s features soften slightly, and I realize with a shock that she thought I just let it lapse. As if I could be so forgetful, or lazy, about something that important. For an instant I’m furious with her for that. “Well, maybe there was some kind of mix-up at the real estate commission. Crossed wires somewhere,” she says. “If you can get it straightened out today, fine. But … Celine, you know how slow they are at resolving issues.”
The anger is building in my gut, a slow burn that sends tremors through me. “And if I can’t get it fixed today?”
Her mouth is a firm line. “Then Sabrina will represent the buyer and the agency at the closing today.”
“No,” I spit out. “I’m not … Maxine, I can’t lose this sale.” My anger comes out as a wheedling plea, and I hate myself for it. “I’ll call Hannah. I’m sure she won’t mind waiting a few days while I sort out —”
“I’ve already spoken to Ms. Byers,” Maxine interrupts. “She doesn’t want to wait. And I’m not going to lose this sale for the agency because you allowed your license to lapse.”
“I didn’t allow it!” My fists clench in my lap. “I told you, I renewed it last week.”
Maxine shakes her head. “Not according to the commission,” she says. “And you’re not going to lose the sale. You’ll split it with Sabrina as the agent of record for the seller, once you’ve straightened out your license.”
At once, I’m too furious to speak. Sabrina. She’s done this, somehow. She couldn’t stand the idea of me pulling ahead of her sales record, so she arranged it to make this one even, so she’d still be ahead.
I’m not going to keep my mouth shut this time.
Without another word, I stand, wrench Maxine’s door open and stalk out, heading straight for Sabrina’s desk. Her cat-ate-the-canary smile turns to a surprised O as she glimpses my face, right before I swat a stack of files off the edge of her desk, scattering manila folders and papers everywhere. “It was you!” I shout, almost delighting in her fear as she cringes back. “You fucked with my license, and you sent those texts.”
Sabrina gasps and shoves her chair back, away from me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammers.
“Bullshit. I know it was you,” I say as I take a step forward. “This is my sale. I’ve worked on it for two years, and you’re going to keep your bitchy little hands out of it!”
“Celine?” Sabrina says in Maxine’s voice. “I said, you won’t lose the sale.”
I blink rapidly and let out the breath I was holding. I’m still sitting in Maxine’s office, my hands clenched in my lap. I never went out there to confront Sabrina. Just like every argument I ever had with my mother, it was all in my head.
I can’t do it.
Maxine purses her lips. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she says. “Go home and try to relax, see if you can make any progress with your license. I’ll make sure you get your half of the commission, one way or another.
My half. Damn it, it was supposed to be my whole. But I can’t muster any more anger at the moment, or even a mild disagreement. I’m hollowed out to the core, hurt and humiliated and dazed, unable to think anything beyond How did this happen? How?
I know what will happen now. I can see it unfolding. I’ll go home with my tail between my legs and say nothing to Sabrina, or anyone else. Eventually I’ll get my license straightened out — it’ll turn out to be some stupid glitch. Then I’ll take fifty percent of my commission and pretend it’s great, it’s what I wanted all along. It’s what I expected.
