by Jayne Denker
He purses his lips, and I'm distracted by trying to figure out whether or not I like his new scruff. Honey-colored, with a hint of copper glinting on his chin, dusting his jawline and circling his lips. I wouldn't call it a beard quite yet, but it's getting there. I wonder how long he's going to let it go, and what it'll look like when…oh. He's said something.
"Sorry…can you repeat that?"
Conn draws back and shoots me an amused smirk. "Pay attention, Abbott. This is your big chance."
"For…?"
He drops into the leather recliner near the picture window. Mid to late twentieth century décor might be back in style lately, but not all the trends from the era were exactly wonderful. I put picture windows in that category. Why anyone would have a giant window that doesn't open looking out over the ocean is beyond me.
Conn's cat Harvey appears from out of nowhere and leaps onto his lap. He pets the geriatric longhair gray feline absently as he says, "I officially give you permission to get this place in shape. So you can list it."
"What?"
"I want you to sell the house."
I sink onto the couch. The coarse plaid fabric tickles the back of my knees. "Conn, no!" I whisper, horrified.
"Melanie, yes! You sell houses, so…make it happen."
"But…it's your home!"
"Come on. It's just a house."
"It is not just a house!" I can hear my voice getting more strident, but I can't manage to tone it down. "It's…it's…been your family's home for years!" Unmoved, he just looks at me, a small patient smile on his lips. I try a different tack. "It's beachfront in Abbott's Bay! You don't throw a place like this away!"
"I'm not. I'm asking you to sell it. Usually that means I get cash, and—may I remind you—so do you."
This is unheard of. Conn is breaking the unwritten code of Abbott's Bay lifers. Generations-old Abbott's Bay families know the value of their properties and would sooner die than give up their homes and land. I've seen residents with family histories that go back centuries flat-out refuse to sell to high-powered millionaires waving obscene amounts of cash in their faces, because you can't put a price on heritage.
Conn takes a breath and tries again, leaning forward while taking care not to displace the cat, as though he can get through to me if he gets a few inches closer. "It's okay, M," he says, using the intimate abbreviation of my name only he can get away with. "It's no big deal. My parents gave me this house and trust me to do what's best. I've decided selling is best."
I hesitate. Conn isn't an impulsive guy. He must have a plan, a reason for selling the house. Maybe he's going to use the money to buy—or possibly build—a nicer one. After all, this place is pretty damn ugly, outside as well as in. A squatty, angular, unpleasant-looking thing, its value comes from, as that hoary old real estate meme goes, "location, location, location." I wouldn't be surprised if whoever eventually buys it knocks it down and builds something better in its place.
But I don't want anyone else to buy it, whether they knock it down or not. Homely as the place is, it figured prominently in our childhood, with birthday parties and barbecues and other get-togethers here as far back as I can remember. I don't want Conn to sell those memories. I can't for the life of me understand what could be more important than keeping his family's house.
"Melanie," he says, "you're the best agent in town."
He's blatantly trying to butter me up. I'll let him, for now. "Damn right I am."
"We've known each other forever. I know I can trust you."
"Of course—always."
"So you'll do it?"
Reluctantly I whisper, "No."
I know what's coming next. Conn will either argue with me until the fishing boats come in for the night, or he'll turn on the charm. I can argue back, no problem—I've done it a million times before, from fighting over whether I was safe or out in a game of kickball to whether I've had too much caffeine (just the other day, in fact), and I can do it again. As for his charms, I'm immune. Comes from knowing pretty much everything there is to know about him…not to mention having seen him with chicken pox. That mental image neutralizes charm—let me assure you.
He sits back again, watching me thoughtfully while absently stroking his proto-beard. I'm fascinated by the movement of his hand. It's soothing. Like watching a cobra sway.
Finally he strikes. "Never mind. It's okay. I mean, I figured you'd be better than Eric—"
"Eric the Red?" I snap. He's pitting me against my coworker—the company's most cutthroat, albeit most unreliable, agent—and I'm falling for it. Dammit. "He'd set a ridiculous asking price and run off every potential buyer who made an offer even a hair under it."
"He does play hardball. Laura, then?"
"Our little weirdo who hasn't sold a house in three years? You do realize my father keeps her on staff with a base salary out of pity, right?"
"Then I'll call Maude."
A bridge too far. "Don't you dare."
"Well, who else am I going to go with? That's everybody in the office, unless I can talk your dad into taking listings again, which he won't. Should I go to Prime One?"
Ugh, the real estate agency with the stupid redundant name. He can't be serious. Everybody knows they survive on our castoffs. Abbott Realty is the only real game in town.
"Look," he continues, obviously struggling to remain patient, "I'm selling the house whether you're in or not. What's it going to take to convince you?"
I check my watch. "Buy me lunch." At the sight of his triumphant grin, I add, "That is not a yes. I'm just hungry."
Conn doesn't actually join me for lunch, of course. He's much too busy. The only time I'll see him is when he brings my food to my table. While I wait for my order, I bookmark different properties I think Hannah would like. Then I text her to let her know I'm ready when she is.
Deep Brew C is hopping for a weekday. Another group of people come in, blinking with the change of light from the bright sunshine outside, and Conn directs them to an empty table. He gathers up some menus for them as I see Ornette, the cook, put my food on the counter. I decide to help Conn out—mainly because I'm too famished to wait—and I get it myself.
"Hey!" Conn appears beside me and slaps my hand as I reach for a few extra napkins. "Quit that."
"Quit what?"
"The giant clump of napkins. Do you plan on bathing in the salad dressing or what?"
"What's the big deal?"
"Napkins don't grow on trees, you know."
"They kinda do, actually."
"You know what I mean. Put 'em back."
"Okay, okay. Sheesh."
I do as I'm told, but as soon as his back is turned, I sneak two or three and carry them back to the table under my plate. I realize paying attention to the number of napkins handed out is all part of DBC's sustainability practices, but come on. Whoever heard of a restaurant owner denying his customers napkins? Good thing he doesn't serve barbecue.
There's a text from Hannah waiting for me. I stuff a piece of lemon-and-herb grilled chicken into my mouth as I unlock my phone with my other hand. She's eager to look at houses too. Good. I tell her to meet me here in half an hour.
She's staying at The Windward B&B, which is practically on top of Deep Brew C, so I'm not surprised when she shows up twenty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds later. I'm still rooting around in my salad for the last bits of chicken and slivered almonds, so I gesture for her to have a seat while I finish.
"Conn has the best food. Have you had anything here besides his coffee? Because if you haven't, you should."
"Not yet," she says, slipping into the chair opposite mine. "This place looks really popular though."
"Oh, you have no idea. Wait till you see it during the tourist season. Crazy. You'll have to do at least three different wrestling takedowns to get to the counter for coffee in the morning."
"Well, if you find me a place with a good kitchen, I'll be making my own."
"I like your optimism. I promise the place you
rent will have a good kitchen. Maybe even a gourmet kitchen."
I fire up my tablet and show her the different properties I have in mind, getting oohs for some and uncertain pinchy-face reactions for others. Fair enough. I can filter. I am here to serve. Just like the big guy over there.
"Hey, garçon? Refill?" I waggle my empty iced-tea glass at him. Conn nods and scoops ice cubes into a new glass. "So I'm thinking we start at the top of the list, high-end first…"
Hannah's not listening. Instead, she's resting her chin on her hand, staring at the bar. Or, rather, the figure coming around the end of the bar. "Must be nice to have a hot guy wait on you hand and foot," she murmurs in a dreamy voice.
I snort. "Oh, I pay. I pay dearly."
Just in time for Conn to hear me as he delivers my iced tea. "Funny, I have a running tab that says otherwise."
"Will you get off the tab thing? That's the second time you've mentioned it in two days."
"Because it's still there."
His deadpan game is strong. I can't tell whether he's teasing or actually wants me to pay my bill. I decide to ignore it altogether. "Conn, have you met Hannah Clement? Hannah, this is Conn Garvey."
"We have met," he says, "but not formally." Now he brings out his best, brightest smile for Hannah. "Welcome to Abbott's Bay."
"Conn short for Connor?" she asks, shaking the hand he extends, her cheeks going pink.
"Connacht, actually. Family name."
"That's very different."
"Just like its owner," I mutter.
"That's enough out of you, before I throw an apron on you and make you work off your outstanding balance. Don't think I won't do it."
Hannah and I watch him walk away. I'm rolling my eyes while Hannah barely blinks, she's so captivated by his backside. I scoop up my belongings and push my chair back.
"What do you say we find you a house?"
CHAPTER FIVE
"Ugh. Beer me."
Conn laughs and continues to rinse out some glasses. "Since when do you self-medicate with alcohol?"
"Since I started taking Hannah house hunting."
"Find anything?"
"If we did, would I be begging you for booze in the middle of the afternoon?"
"You seriously want a beer?"
I actually consider it. But then I deflate, collapse onto the nearest bar stool, and sigh, "No, not really."
"Triple espresso then."
"It is that time of day."
After Conn makes my coffee, he rests his elbows on the bar and studies me for a moment. In a somber tone, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"
He sounds so serious that for a second I almost buy it. I squeeze the lemon rind over the cup, watching the spritz zing the tan foam, and mutter with a smile, "Shut up."
"No, no—I really want to hear all about it."
"You do, do you?" I take a sip of my espresso and contemplate which story I should regale him with. Maybe I should give him the entire rundown so he can get the full House Hunting with Hannah experience.
The problem isn't that she's super picky, which is too bad—I can handle super picky. When you cater to millionaires, you learn how to field some crazy demands. You know—they'd love to rent the beach house for six weeks, if only they could move a wall or two, rip up the entire lawn, and put in fresh sod…and a pool. I can make it happen, can't I? Or they want the refrigerator restocked by invisible elves every day. For free, of course.
That isn't what I'm faced with this time. Hannah is the opposite of super picky. She wanted to take all the houses I showed her. Like Dory, she was newly delighted every time we walked through the door of another one. Each house was "it"…until she saw the next place. Rinse, repeat. All day.
Eventually I suggested, if she liked them all, it was simply a matter of…oh, I don't know…picking one. Any one. Eenie meenie miney mo. She'd decide on one and would be ready to sign, but then she'd think back to a previous house. Maybe it was better. One house had the best views. Oh, but the first one was so charming. Wait. What about the place that looked like it belonged in Architectural Digest? No, maybe that one was too fancy…
On and on. And on. And on.
"I showed her the Miller place."
"Ooh, that's a stunner," Conn says.
Bless him. He gets me. "Right? But she wouldn't even consider it. 'Belongs to a family,' she said."
"Well, yeah, but they're selling it."
"Hannah got all sentimental and said it looked like the kind of place where children should be running around. And…and grandparents should be chastely embracing by the fire pit while Mom and Dad serve up s'mores. Whatever tourism ad started running in her head."
"Okay, she didn't feel at home there. No big deal. Did you show her the A-frame on the spit?"
"Ski resort."
"Huh?"
"She says it belongs in the mountains, not on the beach. Out of the running."
"Cripes, sell her mine."
"Stop it."
"I'm serious. Rent to own. If she wants it after the summer's up, she can keep it. Everybody wins."
"I told you, I'm not selling your house."
Conn holds an invisible phone up to his ear. "Hi, Maude? Got some business for you."
I slap his hand away. He grins at me and starts fitting printouts of the dinner specials into the menus.
"Anything good tonight?"
"Please. I've got something good every night."
"Okay, whoever told you that? She lied." Conn snorts as I pick up one of the small squares of paper from the stack. There are noticeably fewer options and no dessert specials at all. "Going a little short lately?"
He shrugs. "I don't want to overwork Ornette, you know?"
"Ornette likes coming up with the specials. He lives for it."
"Yeah, but there's such a thing as too many choices. Why do you care, anyway? You'll still get your meatloaf."
"You know I always order the scallops," I fire back lightly, even as my stomach twists.
I don't know why this change in routine bothers me, but it does. Like something's off-kilter. I just can't put my finger on what, exactly. And then it hits me.
"The napkins!"
Bugging his eyes at me in a spot the loony sort of way, he whispers, "What about the napkins? Are they talking to you again?"
Conn tried to keep me from taking what he suddenly considered to be too many. Now he's cutting corners on the menu and nagging me about my outstanding bill and even wants to sell his house…
"Are you in trouble?" I blurt out.
I've always assumed Deep Brew C is making a nice profit because it has a steady stream of customers, but it could be going under for all I know. Conn's behavior certainly makes it look like that's the case.
"What?" Even though he punctuates his question with an astounded laugh, I'm still suspicious.
"If this place is…I mean, if you're having trouble, just say so. Do you need money?"
Uh-oh. His brow lowers like a storm cloud, darkening his blue-green eyes. I've overstepped. But I can't seem to stop talking. It happens sometimes.
"Not…not charity or anything," I stammer. "A loan. Do you need a…a little bit to get you over the hump? Till the summer people get here? Is that what's going on?"
And the giant, foot-thick, studded-metal, bulletproof door of Conn's private affairs slams shut in my face. He looks down and stuffs another specials list into another menu. "Everything's fine, Melanie."
His voice is hard. If I know what's good for me, I'll back away now. But so very often, even when I do know what's good for me, I choose to ignore it. This is one of those times. Unfortunately. "I'm just saying…"
"Stop saying. Okay? Mind your own business."
Ouch.
Annoyance radiating from him, Conn doesn't look up again. That gets me to stop talking, finally, and I back away a couple of steps. Keeping one eye on him, I scoop up my purse from the floor, root around in it, find a pen, scribble out a check, and gingerly s
lide it across the bar. I feel like I'm feeding the lions at the zoo, and my hand could be bitten off at any second.
"Paying my tab," I whisper.
As I turn away, I catch a glimpse of a smile—a tiny one—as Conn shakes his head disbelievingly.
* * *
"'Lo."
The cell phone slides off my head and hits me on the side of my nose, waking me up a little bit more. I have no idea what time it is. Dark o'clock. I fumble with the thing, cursing its slipperiness, while a muffled voice says something unintelligible.
"Wait, wait," I say a little more clearly. "Hannah? What's going on? Has the B&B burned down?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "No," she says, sounding puzzled. "Why?"
"Because you're calling me in the middle of the night."
"It's 11:30."
"Like I said."
"I'm sorry! I thought you'd be up."
Her voice is throaty, and her nose sounds plugged. She may have caught a cold since I saw her several hours ago, but I doubt it. Those are tears. I push myself up a little, stuffing one of my pillows behind my shoulders. "What's going on?"
"You know what? It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
"Hannah, I'm awake now. Don't waste my good will."
"Can we go for a walk?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A walk. Can we?"
"No, we can't go for a walk. It's the middle of the—"
"I just got off the phone with Marty."
Oh. Her ex. I swipe my hand across my bleary eyes and groan. "Give me five minutes. I'll meet you out front of the B&B."
Five and a half minutes later, we're walking the nearly deserted streets of the town center. I've always loved the cramped, uneven, brick-paved historic district, with its gas streetlamps and tiny shops all crowded in on one another, like a little American Hogsmeade. I feel like we should be wearing black robes instead of yoga pants and hoodies.
"He wanted to see if I was okay," Hannah murmurs.
"He wanted," I correct her, "to check up on you."
"That's what I said."
"There's a difference. He was checking to make sure you're still devastated and not, you know, dating someone else already."