the wall, which shook like it was made out of cardboard.”
“It didn’t break, did it?” asked Isabel.
“Nope,” said Glen.
“No holes?”
“Not one.”
“Did it scuff? Because when you move out you’ll be responsible for any marks on the wall.”
“It didn’t scuff,” said Glen, standing up straight. “And I’m not planning on moving out, unless you know something I don’t.”
“No.” Isabel shook her head, frowning slightly. “Go on.”
“So I checked out the wall and it seems kind of flimsy, which is weird because the rest of the walls in my place are so strong … almost like they’re made out of a different material. So I was wondering, has anyone renovated? Maybe changed the structure of the place?”
“Well, I’ve only been here for twenty-five years,” said Isabel. “I don’t know what happened to the brownstone before I bought it, but there are certainly some quirks in the place. That’s what happens in old buildings. And considering that this one was built by the legendary Al Flosso—”
“Who?” Glen asked.
“Al Flosso, the famous magician. I told you all about him when you moved in.”
“You told me a famous musician lived here.”
“Who knows?” Isabel shrugged. “Musicians probably lived here, too.”
Glen shook his head, like he was trying to clear out some cobwebs. “Never mind. We’re getting off track and I’m running late. So please just tell me, is it okay to fix it?”
Isabel frowned. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, starting up with construction.”
“I’m willing to take care of the expense and all the work, too, if that’s the issue. And it’s just one wall.”
“Which would change the integrity of the building,” she said, sounding slightly British.
“I’m not sure that a building can have integrity, but please just think about it.” As Glen backed away he waved to me. “See you later, Maggie.”
“See you,” I replied as he carried his bike upstairs.
“Reverberating walls.” Isabel shook her head. “Have you ever heard such a thing?”
“Uh, no,” I answered honestly, even though I suspected the question was rhetorical.
“Never be a landlady, Maggie. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Now where was I? Oh yes. Mia Farrow.”
“Actually, I’m here to pick up your dog for his nail appointment. Remember?” I leashed up Preston and headed for the door before Isabel could say much else.
The vet’s office was on the corner of First Street and Sixth Avenue in a space that used to be a restaurant. Some French place Ivy’s parents took us to so we could celebrate her tenth birthday.
It was super fancy—crisp linen napkins, three kinds of bread in the basket, classical music playing softly in the background, and people speaking in voices no louder than whispers. Weird food on the menu—they actually served frogs’ legs and snails and something called sweetbreads, which, according to Ivy’s dad, is actually the pancreas of a baby cow. (Although I still wonder if he was messing with us.) In short, the meal was disgusting.
We were excited about dessert, though. We had spied the large cart in the corner stacked with shiny strawberry tarts, cloudlike fluffy meringues, and dark chocolate cakes speckled with flakes that looked like genuine gold. But when the waiter finally wheeled it over, Ivy accidentally sneezed on it. The waiter recoiled, looking down at us like we’d brought a family of cockroaches to dinner or worse, like we were a family of cockroaches. “I’ll bring you your check now,” he’d said, all snooty. And we burst out laughing. Then we headed to the Uncle Louie G ice-cream stand for root beer floats instead—a delicious ending to a horrible meal.
The restaurant disappeared a while ago and no one missed it. The space had been vacant for over a year. Now the sign read DR. REESE, LICENSED VETERINARIAN out front. Inside, a row of chairs lined the lobby area and a receptionist sat at a large desk
“It didn’t break, did it?” asked Isabel.
“Nope,” said Glen.
“No holes?”
“Not one.”
“Did it scuff? Because when you move out you’ll be responsible for any marks on the wall.”
“It didn’t scuff,” said Glen, standing up straight. “And I’m not planning on moving out, unless you know something I don’t.”
“No.” Isabel shook her head, frowning slightly. “Go on.”
“So I checked out the wall and it seems kind of flimsy, which is weird because the rest of the walls in my place are so strong … almost like they’re made out of a different material. So I was wondering, has anyone renovated? Maybe changed the structure of the place?”
“Well, I’ve only been here for twenty-five years,” said Isabel. “I don’t know what happened to the brownstone before I bought it, but there are certainly some quirks in the place. That’s what happens in old buildings. And considering that this one was built by the legendary Al Flosso—”
“Who?” Glen asked.
“Al Flosso, the famous magician. I told you all about him when you moved in.”
“You told me a famous musician lived here.”
“Who knows?” Isabel shrugged. “Musicians probably lived here, too.”
Glen shook his head, like he was trying to clear out some cobwebs. “Never mind. We’re getting off track and I’m running late. So please just tell me, is it okay to fix it?”
Isabel frowned. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, starting up with construction.”
“I’m willing to take care of the expense and all the work, too, if that’s the issue. And it’s just one wall.”
“Which would change the integrity of the building,” she said, sounding slightly British.
“I’m not sure that a building can have integrity, but please just think about it.” As Glen backed away he waved to me. “See you later, Maggie.”
“See you,” I replied as he carried his bike upstairs.
“Reverberating walls.” Isabel shook her head. “Have you ever heard such a thing?”
“Uh, no,” I answered honestly, even though I suspected the question was rhetorical.
“Never be a landlady, Maggie. It’s more trouble than it’s worth. Now where was I? Oh yes. Mia Farrow.”
“Actually, I’m here to pick up your dog for his nail appointment. Remember?” I leashed up Preston and headed for the door before Isabel could say much else.
The vet’s office was on the corner of First Street and Sixth Avenue in a space that used to be a restaurant. Some French place Ivy’s parents took us to so we could celebrate her tenth birthday.
It was super fancy—crisp linen napkins, three kinds of bread in the basket, classical music playing softly in the background, and people speaking in voices no louder than whispers. Weird food on the menu—they actually served frogs’ legs and snails and something called sweetbreads, which, according to Ivy’s dad, is actually the pancreas of a baby cow. (Although I still wonder if he was messing with us.) In short, the meal was disgusting.
We were excited about dessert, though. We had spied the large cart in the corner stacked with shiny strawberry tarts, cloudlike fluffy meringues, and dark chocolate cakes speckled with flakes that looked like genuine gold. But when the waiter finally wheeled it over, Ivy accidentally sneezed on it. The waiter recoiled, looking down at us like we’d brought a family of cockroaches to dinner or worse, like we were a family of cockroaches. “I’ll bring you your check now,” he’d said, all snooty. And we burst out laughing. Then we headed to the Uncle Louie G ice-cream stand for root beer floats instead—a delicious ending to a horrible meal.
The restaurant disappeared a while ago and no one missed it. The space had been vacant for over a year. Now the sign read DR. REESE, LICENSED VETERINARIAN out front. Inside, a row of chairs lined the lobby area and a receptionist sat at a large desk
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