through a pencil sharpener. Where Sandra Lockley flit, Blossom lumbered like a loaded wheelbarrow, her dress looking more like a tablecloth for a seating of eight.
Nonetheless, Blossom did have money—and money, after all, was money. The pointy-faced woman tried to hide her judgments as she showed Blossom her first apartment. But Blossom could feel the sting of her glances like darts on the back of her neck and knew she was thinking,
She’s so unsophisticated, so overweight, so Gomer Pyle-ish. It must be family money. Perhaps the heir to the Dunkin’ Donuts fortune. And clearly brand-loyal.
“As I was saying, Miss McBeal, I think you might like this choice. It’s really quite lovely, with expansive views of the valley. The living room has a sunken conversation pit, and the master bathroom has a bidet and a Jacuzzi. Marble, marble, marble...Would you just look at this foyer! I know it comes furnished, but if you had a grand piano, it would work beautifully right here in the entry.”
Blossom surveyed the apartment. It was beautiful. In fact, aside from the Four Seasons, it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen.
“You share the pool with fourteen other apartments, Miss McBeal, but rest assured, the people at Beckman Gardens are top-drawer. The only people here are people who can afford to be here. No riffraff.” The agent bit her lip and looked up and down at her client, trying to assess exactly which category she fell into. Eccentric? Trashy? New money? Old money? Donut money? Was it an accident claim she was able to collect on? “So let’s go down to the pool and take a look, shall we?”
They descended a circular staircase, passing flowering balconies, and entered the manicured gardens. A huge kidney-shaped pool with decorative fountains and lush shrubbery spread out before Blossom like an invitation. Marble sculptures dotted the property, and a lovely blue-and-white-striped cabana rose up from a knot of lemon trees like a French mirage, in the southern corner. Pink and lavender fuchsia hung over a reflecting pool near a cherry swing nestled under a weeping willow. The whole thing resembeled an embellished stage set, in an extravagant musical that could only end happily ever after. But Blossom could barely concentrate on all this beauty. The only thing she could see was the six-foot-two pool man who was skimming leaves off the water. Blond, built, and absolutely gorgeous, he was better than Brad Pitt. Better than Robert Redford in
The Way We Were.
Well, maybe not better than Robert Redford, but just as good. Blossom could not take her eyes off him.
“What do you think?” The agent’s voice was as faraway as an echo. “Miss McBeal?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, yes... yes, it’s very nice, beautiful.”
“So with everything, you’re looking at a million two. But I think they’d be willing to let it go for a million. They want out because the husband has to relocate. As a matter of fact, I think he went on ahead, so the wife is really anxious to sell.”
The man lifted the leaves softly out of the water, as if he were laying porcelain and fine silver down on a dining room table. His features were perfect, separately and together, and his torso looked like someone had carved it out of alabaster. He looked exactly like the picture on the cover of every romance novel she’d ever read:
Mar-cello Brigatino and His Secret Amours.
“Miss McBeal? Does this seem like something you’re looking for?”
“Yes, it’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she said with a longing that was almost painful.
“And it’s within range of what you were planning to spend?”
“I’m sorry, how much is it again?”
“A million two. Utilities are included in an up-front fee of thirty-five thousand dollars, to be paid on a yearly basis. Maintenance is part of that fee. But as I said, I think we can get it for a million.”
Blossom figured she would have to pay for her phone in person, in cash. But that was not
Nonetheless, Blossom did have money—and money, after all, was money. The pointy-faced woman tried to hide her judgments as she showed Blossom her first apartment. But Blossom could feel the sting of her glances like darts on the back of her neck and knew she was thinking,
She’s so unsophisticated, so overweight, so Gomer Pyle-ish. It must be family money. Perhaps the heir to the Dunkin’ Donuts fortune. And clearly brand-loyal.
“As I was saying, Miss McBeal, I think you might like this choice. It’s really quite lovely, with expansive views of the valley. The living room has a sunken conversation pit, and the master bathroom has a bidet and a Jacuzzi. Marble, marble, marble...Would you just look at this foyer! I know it comes furnished, but if you had a grand piano, it would work beautifully right here in the entry.”
Blossom surveyed the apartment. It was beautiful. In fact, aside from the Four Seasons, it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen.
“You share the pool with fourteen other apartments, Miss McBeal, but rest assured, the people at Beckman Gardens are top-drawer. The only people here are people who can afford to be here. No riffraff.” The agent bit her lip and looked up and down at her client, trying to assess exactly which category she fell into. Eccentric? Trashy? New money? Old money? Donut money? Was it an accident claim she was able to collect on? “So let’s go down to the pool and take a look, shall we?”
They descended a circular staircase, passing flowering balconies, and entered the manicured gardens. A huge kidney-shaped pool with decorative fountains and lush shrubbery spread out before Blossom like an invitation. Marble sculptures dotted the property, and a lovely blue-and-white-striped cabana rose up from a knot of lemon trees like a French mirage, in the southern corner. Pink and lavender fuchsia hung over a reflecting pool near a cherry swing nestled under a weeping willow. The whole thing resembeled an embellished stage set, in an extravagant musical that could only end happily ever after. But Blossom could barely concentrate on all this beauty. The only thing she could see was the six-foot-two pool man who was skimming leaves off the water. Blond, built, and absolutely gorgeous, he was better than Brad Pitt. Better than Robert Redford in
The Way We Were.
Well, maybe not better than Robert Redford, but just as good. Blossom could not take her eyes off him.
“What do you think?” The agent’s voice was as faraway as an echo. “Miss McBeal?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, yes... yes, it’s very nice, beautiful.”
“So with everything, you’re looking at a million two. But I think they’d be willing to let it go for a million. They want out because the husband has to relocate. As a matter of fact, I think he went on ahead, so the wife is really anxious to sell.”
The man lifted the leaves softly out of the water, as if he were laying porcelain and fine silver down on a dining room table. His features were perfect, separately and together, and his torso looked like someone had carved it out of alabaster. He looked exactly like the picture on the cover of every romance novel she’d ever read:
Mar-cello Brigatino and His Secret Amours.
“Miss McBeal? Does this seem like something you’re looking for?”
“Yes, it’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she said with a longing that was almost painful.
“And it’s within range of what you were planning to spend?”
“I’m sorry, how much is it again?”
“A million two. Utilities are included in an up-front fee of thirty-five thousand dollars, to be paid on a yearly basis. Maintenance is part of that fee. But as I said, I think we can get it for a million.”
Blossom figured she would have to pay for her phone in person, in cash. But that was not
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