like.”
It was nowhere near where she worked. It was nowhere near anything, really, but she knew her mother’s terrible sense of direction. More important, this gave Nola an excuse to check the place out. She didn’t know what that would accomplish, but it couldn’t get her into trouble with Dalton if she was there on behalf of her own dear mother.
“Get the floor plans if they have them,” her mother said. “I like looking at those. I like imagining where I would put all the furniture.”
“Will do. I’ll stop by sometime next weekend and bring you what I get.” As Nola ended the call and put her phone away, she smiled. There were moments when she could see the whimsical side of her mother and not just her weirdness, and she understood perhaps why her father had fallen for her.
That was a long time ago. As she turned up the road that would eventually take her to Greenbriar—she figured she might as well do this now on her way out of town—she thought about how many couples she knew who had replaced love and affection with a sort of knee-jerk instinct to contradict, to defy—to hurt, even. When she was in an especially dark mood, she would look at people’s homes as she drove by and wonder just how much suffering was going on behind those walls, masked by tidy lawns and well-kept beds of geraniums.
And here was Greenbriar, an entire community of homes waiting to be filled with human joy and human misery. They did look like very nice houses, as her mother had said, at least the ones that were finished, and Nola had no doubt the others would look pretty much the same. There had been a time when the ordinary life represented by houses like this seemed like the worst fate ever. Now Nola could see what a snobbish sort of belief that was. She could afford to shun the ordinary; a lot of people could not.
She followed signs pointing her to the real estate office, which unsurprisingly looked identical to the houses. She parked and entered the office, finding herself in an overly A/C-chilled room with racks of pamphlets and floor plans. A woman about Nola’s age in a dark blue suit and nylons sat behind a desk and chirped cheerfully on the phone. She nodded and mouthed something with her heavily lipsticked mouth at Nola, probably “be with you in a minute.” Nola nodded and busied herself gathering literature.
“Sooo sorry about that,” the woman was saying now, having finished her call. Nola resisted the urge to say something sarcastic like Yes, how incredibly rude of you to continue a work-related phone conversation at your place of work. Something about situations that demanded a thick social veneer often made Nola prickly and uncomfortable. She hated that about herself and tried very hard to get over it but failed frequently.
The woman, Patty something, went through the expected questions—“How did you hear about Greenbriar? When were you looking to move? Do you rent or own now”—and was in the middle of suggesting a tour of the grounds, which was the main thing that had interested Nola to begin with, when Vincent Kirke appeared from seemingly out of nowhere. He looked just as surprised to see Nola as Nola was to see him, and for a weird moment they stood there gaping at each other. Vincent recovered first, easing a smile onto his face. “Ms. Lantri, isn’t it? How good to see you again. I heard Patty saying you’re looking into Greenbriar for your mother, is that right? Patty, I can take over here—I’ll give you the grand tour.”
This was not quite what Nola had planned. So much for not defying Dalton. She realized she had not spoken yet, so to deflect the awkwardness, she blurted, “Do we get to ride in one of those golf carts? I love those things.”
If she could have smacked her forehead without looking even more like a teenager, she would have. And to think she made fun of her mother’s conversational weirdness.
Vincent grinned. “Unfortunately, no, just an
It was nowhere near where she worked. It was nowhere near anything, really, but she knew her mother’s terrible sense of direction. More important, this gave Nola an excuse to check the place out. She didn’t know what that would accomplish, but it couldn’t get her into trouble with Dalton if she was there on behalf of her own dear mother.
“Get the floor plans if they have them,” her mother said. “I like looking at those. I like imagining where I would put all the furniture.”
“Will do. I’ll stop by sometime next weekend and bring you what I get.” As Nola ended the call and put her phone away, she smiled. There were moments when she could see the whimsical side of her mother and not just her weirdness, and she understood perhaps why her father had fallen for her.
That was a long time ago. As she turned up the road that would eventually take her to Greenbriar—she figured she might as well do this now on her way out of town—she thought about how many couples she knew who had replaced love and affection with a sort of knee-jerk instinct to contradict, to defy—to hurt, even. When she was in an especially dark mood, she would look at people’s homes as she drove by and wonder just how much suffering was going on behind those walls, masked by tidy lawns and well-kept beds of geraniums.
And here was Greenbriar, an entire community of homes waiting to be filled with human joy and human misery. They did look like very nice houses, as her mother had said, at least the ones that were finished, and Nola had no doubt the others would look pretty much the same. There had been a time when the ordinary life represented by houses like this seemed like the worst fate ever. Now Nola could see what a snobbish sort of belief that was. She could afford to shun the ordinary; a lot of people could not.
She followed signs pointing her to the real estate office, which unsurprisingly looked identical to the houses. She parked and entered the office, finding herself in an overly A/C-chilled room with racks of pamphlets and floor plans. A woman about Nola’s age in a dark blue suit and nylons sat behind a desk and chirped cheerfully on the phone. She nodded and mouthed something with her heavily lipsticked mouth at Nola, probably “be with you in a minute.” Nola nodded and busied herself gathering literature.
“Sooo sorry about that,” the woman was saying now, having finished her call. Nola resisted the urge to say something sarcastic like Yes, how incredibly rude of you to continue a work-related phone conversation at your place of work. Something about situations that demanded a thick social veneer often made Nola prickly and uncomfortable. She hated that about herself and tried very hard to get over it but failed frequently.
The woman, Patty something, went through the expected questions—“How did you hear about Greenbriar? When were you looking to move? Do you rent or own now”—and was in the middle of suggesting a tour of the grounds, which was the main thing that had interested Nola to begin with, when Vincent Kirke appeared from seemingly out of nowhere. He looked just as surprised to see Nola as Nola was to see him, and for a weird moment they stood there gaping at each other. Vincent recovered first, easing a smile onto his face. “Ms. Lantri, isn’t it? How good to see you again. I heard Patty saying you’re looking into Greenbriar for your mother, is that right? Patty, I can take over here—I’ll give you the grand tour.”
This was not quite what Nola had planned. So much for not defying Dalton. She realized she had not spoken yet, so to deflect the awkwardness, she blurted, “Do we get to ride in one of those golf carts? I love those things.”
If she could have smacked her forehead without looking even more like a teenager, she would have. And to think she made fun of her mother’s conversational weirdness.
Vincent grinned. “Unfortunately, no, just an
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