it helped.
Lainie saw the
Reverend Mac in his front garden checking his mailbox. She waved at
him, wondering why she had tortured herself by coming this way. He
smiled, which made her foot come off the gas pedal and hover over
the brake while the car coasted forward. If it had been a stick
shift, it would have stalled.
She had a
prospective listing just up the hill from St James, a plain white
clapboard Cape. It was nothing to jump up and down about, and had
already been on the market for six months with another agency.
She’d paid a visit to the Cape just now to talk to its sellers, try
to convince them to lower the asking price, and do something about
the shed. But the way they’d spoken, she had the impression they
would end up listing with someone else.
There were two
ways to get back to Route 9N, and she’d self-destructively taken
the one that came past St James. Mac waved and she hovered, and
then she couldn’t do it, couldn’t stop and talk again, after
yesterday. Her cell phone diddled out its ring melody. She didn’t
stop to take the call because she was still only fifty yards from
his house. He would have thought she was stopping for him.
Which she
seventy percent would have been.
She really
needed a hands-free.
When she got
back on 9N she found a place to pull over and saw that the caller
had been Angie. She called her back. “Hi, where are you?” Angie
asked.
Lainie
explained. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over.” She wasn’t going
to mention the Reverend Mac. She liked saying his name too much.
Mac. Jeremy McLintock. Jeremy. She even liked saying Jeremy. Jerry,
was he ever called Jerry?
Am I
sixteen?
To avoid
mentioning Mac, she said too much about the Cape on Hill Street and
Angie replied, maybe too casually, “Oh, yes, I know that place.”
And Lainie just knew that Angie was the one the sellers were
signing with, which meant her own visit there had been a waste of
time. “So the reason I called,” Angie said, “is that I’m at a
possible new listing now and I have a feeling it’s a place you sold
about a year ago. Can you remember off the top of your head?”
“What’s the
address?”
“615 Clark, in
Fort Anne.”
Lainie thought
for a moment. “Ugly forest green shingle?”
“That’s the
one. Okay, just wanted to check. I think they’ve fixed it up since
then.”
“Yes, it was
way overdue.”
“That’s what I
thought. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
All right,
Lainie. Now this is stupid. Your cousin was not calling to let you
know that the people you sold to only a year ago didn’t like you
enough to approach you again when they decided to put the place
back on the market. Because that would be just too petty a reason
to call. Forget this.
But it nagged
at her.
Angie drove by
Lainie’s place on her way from the new listing. She had Lainie’s
front door key in her purse – because of course they had each
other’s keys – and the rain from this morning had cleared. Lainie’s
front lawn was steaming. She wasn’t planning to do anything bad,
not at all, she just wanted to take another look at that dress of
Emma Dean’s, and discover something about it that meant she’d be
able to let this go and stop wanting the dress so much for
Brooke.
She didn’t
enjoy feeling this ill and tense about it. She really didn’t want
to feel this way about Lainie, either. She hated herself every time
it happened, felt her own spiritual ugliness like greasy hair or a
tight waistband. She would go for months feeling at peace about it
all, and then it would surge again, and occasionally – really only
a couple of times in all these years – disaster would strike. She
shouldn’t have rubbed Lainie’s nose in the Clark Street house, but
sometimes wasn’t it her turn to win?
How was it
that she always felt Lainie had something – possessed or knew or
understood some secret, wonderful thing, some vital answer – that
Angie wanted for herself, when she had no idea what
Lainie saw the
Reverend Mac in his front garden checking his mailbox. She waved at
him, wondering why she had tortured herself by coming this way. He
smiled, which made her foot come off the gas pedal and hover over
the brake while the car coasted forward. If it had been a stick
shift, it would have stalled.
She had a
prospective listing just up the hill from St James, a plain white
clapboard Cape. It was nothing to jump up and down about, and had
already been on the market for six months with another agency.
She’d paid a visit to the Cape just now to talk to its sellers, try
to convince them to lower the asking price, and do something about
the shed. But the way they’d spoken, she had the impression they
would end up listing with someone else.
There were two
ways to get back to Route 9N, and she’d self-destructively taken
the one that came past St James. Mac waved and she hovered, and
then she couldn’t do it, couldn’t stop and talk again, after
yesterday. Her cell phone diddled out its ring melody. She didn’t
stop to take the call because she was still only fifty yards from
his house. He would have thought she was stopping for him.
Which she
seventy percent would have been.
She really
needed a hands-free.
When she got
back on 9N she found a place to pull over and saw that the caller
had been Angie. She called her back. “Hi, where are you?” Angie
asked.
Lainie
explained. “There wasn’t anywhere to pull over.” She wasn’t going
to mention the Reverend Mac. She liked saying his name too much.
Mac. Jeremy McLintock. Jeremy. She even liked saying Jeremy. Jerry,
was he ever called Jerry?
Am I
sixteen?
To avoid
mentioning Mac, she said too much about the Cape on Hill Street and
Angie replied, maybe too casually, “Oh, yes, I know that place.”
And Lainie just knew that Angie was the one the sellers were
signing with, which meant her own visit there had been a waste of
time. “So the reason I called,” Angie said, “is that I’m at a
possible new listing now and I have a feeling it’s a place you sold
about a year ago. Can you remember off the top of your head?”
“What’s the
address?”
“615 Clark, in
Fort Anne.”
Lainie thought
for a moment. “Ugly forest green shingle?”
“That’s the
one. Okay, just wanted to check. I think they’ve fixed it up since
then.”
“Yes, it was
way overdue.”
“That’s what I
thought. Talk to you soon. Bye.”
All right,
Lainie. Now this is stupid. Your cousin was not calling to let you
know that the people you sold to only a year ago didn’t like you
enough to approach you again when they decided to put the place
back on the market. Because that would be just too petty a reason
to call. Forget this.
But it nagged
at her.
Angie drove by
Lainie’s place on her way from the new listing. She had Lainie’s
front door key in her purse – because of course they had each
other’s keys – and the rain from this morning had cleared. Lainie’s
front lawn was steaming. She wasn’t planning to do anything bad,
not at all, she just wanted to take another look at that dress of
Emma Dean’s, and discover something about it that meant she’d be
able to let this go and stop wanting the dress so much for
Brooke.
She didn’t
enjoy feeling this ill and tense about it. She really didn’t want
to feel this way about Lainie, either. She hated herself every time
it happened, felt her own spiritual ugliness like greasy hair or a
tight waistband. She would go for months feeling at peace about it
all, and then it would surge again, and occasionally – really only
a couple of times in all these years – disaster would strike. She
shouldn’t have rubbed Lainie’s nose in the Clark Street house, but
sometimes wasn’t it her turn to win?
How was it
that she always felt Lainie had something – possessed or knew or
understood some secret, wonderful thing, some vital answer – that
Angie wanted for herself, when she had no idea what
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