“Right. So. The job is simple. You sit out there and you call New York City businesses. Manhattan. All the boroughs. And beyond. Hoboken. Jersey City. Fort fucking Lee. Ask for the office manager. You tell said office manager that we can provide whatever they need. Business cards, toner, pens, letterhead, routers, 3-D printers, a pair of used panties, whatever they need. And we can provide it faster and cheaper than anyone else. You will be provided a list of other A-list New York City firms who have switched their business to us, a list that will make them come in their pants—as will our prices, our delivery speed, and our customer. Fucking. Service.” Tom stared at the man, unsure if he was supposed to speak now. “That’s you, numb nuts,” Pete finished.
“Yes, of … of course,” Tom stuttered.
Pete looked at Kevin, a dubious expression on his face, and then back at Tom. “Your hometown boyfriend here is one of the most natural salesmen I’ve ever seen. If you can do half the business he did in his first couple of months, before I promoted him to Executive Ass-Kicker, you and I will get along just fine.”
“Tom is gonna fucking crush it,” Kevin piped in, stopping his drumbeat and leaning toward his boss. “Dude has charisma oozing out of his pores. He had to beat the ladies away with a stick in high school.”
“I don’t give a fuck about high school,” the man growled, staring Kevin down. “All I care about is whether or not he has a killer instinct.” His gaze swiveled toward Tom. “So … Decker. Tell me: Do you?” Tom swallowed, felt Kevin’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face, could practically hear his best friend’s silent urging not to fuck this up. Pete leaned even closer, his chest hovering over the messy desk. “Well?”
“Yes,” Tom lied. “I have a killer instinct.”
* * *
Jenny sat at the dining room table, placing a series of adhesive bandages, from an old box she’d found in the bathroom, over the multiple cuts on her leg.
They hurt like hell but weren’t too deep, thankfully, despite how much they’d bled at first. She wanted to avoid going to urgent care if possible. Tom was still at work and not answering his cell phone. She had no idea when his benefits started, or if they’d be retroactive if they didn’t officially begin today. She didn’t feel like taking a trip to the ER even with COBRA. In fact, she had no idea how much the stop-gap insurance covered. She started to panic. What if she had pregnancy complications before Tom’s insurance kicked in?
The bandages were covered in blood, and the metallic smell was making her nauseated. Just what she needed.
There was a sudden knock on the front door. Startled, Jenny flinched, streaking her arm with blood. “Shit!” she shouted as the person at the door knocked a second time. Give me a second! Jenny thought as she limped painfully over to see who it was and what was so fucking urgent.
Gasping for breath against the pain, she opened the door to find her neighbor Andrea standing there, cradling a bottle of white wine against her stomach. Her daughter, Paige, was nowhere in sight, thankfully. Some mom you’re going to be, she thought guiltily.
“Hi, Jenny! So sorry to pop in unannounced, but when you get five minutes alone, you have to take full advantage of … Oh my God, you’re bleeding! Are you hurt?” Andrea charged into the house, setting the bottle of wine on the dining room table and inspecting Jenny’s arm with the kind of focused intensity that seemed to be the purview of mothers with young children.
“I’m fine,” Jenny said, pulling away slightly, not sure if she was appreciative or overwhelmed by Andrea’s ministrations. “It’s not my arm … I cut my leg walking down to the basement. One of the stairs caved in. The wood must have rotted or something.”
Andrea quickly shifted her attention to Jenny’s injured leg, prodding gently at the haphazard collection of blood-soaked bandages that were barely hanging on to the skin. “Sit. Sit down,” she ordered as she led Jenny back to the table. “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”
“No, I’m fine. But thanks,” Jenny said. “Tom will be home in a couple of hours. He just started a new job today, and he’s super-excited. If it’s still bleeding then, he can take me. And honestly, I don’t think the cuts are that deep. But thanks again. Seriously.”
“Okay … if you’re sure,” Andrea replied, sitting in the chair next to Jenny. “But I brought over a really expensive bottle of wine, and we’re going to have a glass of it right now, and it is going to make you feel a lot better, trust me. We can use Tom’s new job as an excuse! It’s a celebration! We’ll even save him a glass. Maybe half a glass.” She laughed and winked.
“I … I shouldn’t…,” Jenny said, her hand instinctively going to her stomach.
“Why not?” her neighbor protested. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. And you have clearly earned it today, my friend. I’ll get the glasses, you stay here.” Holding the bottle, she walked into the kitchen while Jenny silently wrestled with the idea of drinking wine during her first trimester.
Just a couple of sips, she decided.
“The wineglasses are to the right of the sink,” she said. “Up top. The opener is in the drawer below that.”
“Got ’em! No need for an opener, though,” Andrea replied, returning with two glasses, a beatific smile on her face. “I can usually find whatever I’m looking for in a kitchen on the first try, even if I’ve never been in the house before. It’s like some kind of housewife sixth sense!” She laughed at her own joke as she twisted the top off the bottle of wine. “I know, twist tops seem so junky, but apparently, they’re all the rage now. I don’t know. As long as it tastes good!”
Andrea poured generously, and the women toasted, the clink reverberating loudly in Jenny’s ears, as if the immense guilt she was feeling wanted to be heard over and over and over again.
She took a sip. It was delicious.
“Oh my God, that’s so good,” she said.
“Right?” Andrea almost finished her glass in a single gulp.
“Tom and I usually only get the cheap stuff. We know next to nothing about wine.”
“Me either. But Frank considers himself something of a connoisseur. Snob is more like it. He’s been collecting bottles since college. Sort of a hobby, I guess you could say. So, our wine cellar is pretty ridiculous. You guys should come over sometime for dinner, and Frank and I can show you.
“Paige would love it if you came, too. I think she has a bit of a crush on Tom. The hair and tattoos and all that. Not many men look like that around here!”
Well, she hasn’t seen him lately, Jenny almost said, and then bit down on her cheek, hard. She couldn’t believe she’d thought that. What the hell was wrong with her? She liked the way Tom looked now.
“Once you’re feeling settled,” Andrea continued, “we’ll have you over. We can drink a bunch of Frank’s obnoxiously expensive wine, the boys can smoke cigars, and I’ll catch you up on all the neighborhood gossip.”
“Sounds … great,” Jenny said, distracted. She took another sip. It didn’t taste so good anymore.
“So … tell me all about yourself. You guys moved from Manhattan, right? It’s the natural evolution of things. You guys just skipped a step. Usually it’s Manhattan, then Brooklyn, and then suburbia.”
Jenny smiled. “Yeah, we had this great place in Alphabet City, but they jacked the rent and we couldn’t do it anymore. It all happened so fast … totally surreal. I never thought I’d have a house this big. I mean, I never thought I’d have a house at all.”
“That’s funny. I always wanted a big house with lots of kids. I guess I’ll have to settle for the big house! I come from a huge family, I’m one of seven, so I was kind of hoping to replicate that in my own life. But Frank has absolutely no interest in that. He thinks one kid is too many! How about you, do you come from a big family?”
“No,” Jenny said. “Just me and my sister.”
“Oh, a sister! That’s so great. I have two sisters, and we are connected at the hip! Aren’t sisters the absolute best?”
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“Uhh … I guess. I mean, Victoria and I don’t always get along. We have a … complicated relationship. And she’s so busy. You know how it goes, high-powered career woman who’s also married and belongs to all kinds of charitable organizations. She’s got money coming out of her ears.”
“Well, that’s always nice. Do you at least get along with her husband? That’s such a make-or-break thing, isn’t it?”
“She’s actually a lesbian.”
“Oh,” Andrea said. “That’s … nice. Do you get along with her … wife?”
“Lakshmi? Yeah, she’s great. The total opposite of my sister. Down to earth and really laid back. They’re super-happy together. Victoria needed someone to ground her a bit.”
“How do your parents feel about … you know?”
“Having a gay daughter? Well … they’re pretty conservative, to put it mildly, so it was a shock to them at first. I remember listening from the other room when she came out to them. She was home from college on winter break and I was still in high school. I was really impressed with how confident she was about it. I don’t know if I could have done that, especially with my dad. He’s … uhh … a bit rough around the edges. He and my sister didn’t really talk for a while after that.
“But now? I think Victoria and my dad get along better than I do with either of our parents. It doesn’t hurt that my sister is so fricking wealthy. My dad forgives almost anything when people are successful. It’s some kind of weird litmus test for him. I don’t know…”
“I hear you. Families are weird. One of my brothers is an absolute mess. He wants to be a painter. None of us have the heart to tell him that he’s no good!”
Andrea laughed, and Jenny shifted uncomfortably.
“Most of his paintings just look like splotches,” she continued. “And he’s surprised when no one wants to buy them.” Andrea took another large sip of wine. “Oh, and speaking of splotches, I noticed you weren’t able to get the stain on the kitchen floor out completely. That must be awful. A constant reminder. If you want, I can put you in touch with my cleaning lady. She’s to die for. I mean, she makes me look like—”
“Wait,” Jenny interrupted, putting the glass back down onto the table. “What do you mean? Why is that stain ‘awful’? I don’t understand. A constant reminder of what?”
Andrea stared at her, the color draining from her face.
“You’re … kind of freaking me out here, Andrea,” Jenny said, getting frustrated with this woman she barely knew.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” the other woman fumbled. “I … I assumed. That you knew. About the previous owners. What the wife did. To her husband. Your real estate agent didn’t … mention this to you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please … just tell me.”
Andrea took a deep breath, polished off her wine, then poured another glass, practically up to the brim. She sucked down half of it, took one more breath, and talked.
As Jenny listened, the two sips of wine turned to acid in her stomach.
MONTH THREE
The Deckers sat in their car outside Chelsea’s large house, rain pounding loudly on the roof. The house was beautiful, the kind you’d expect an experienced real estate agent to own, and it made Jenny hate the woman even more. Chelsea’s husband and kids had just left the house, which would make this easier. Or at least a little less awful, Jenny thought.
“You ready?” Tom asked, his voice steady.
Jenny didn’t answer immediately. It had been over a week since Andrea told her the history of their house, how the previous owner, a seemingly sweet older woman, had hacked her husband to death one night with a carving knife. In their kitchen. Which explained the stain.
After showing a flustered and apologetic Andrea out of the house, Jenny had tried reaching Chelsea, but soon discovered that the woman was out of the country on vacation in Europe and wouldn’t be back on the grid until she and her family returned. Furious, Jenny had called Tom, but hung up before he could answer.
It’s still his first day, she’d reminded herself. There’s nothing you can do about it now anyway.
She decided to stay calm and see what she could find out about the killing. The problem was that the story had barely been reported on. There’d been a multi-person shooting in Newark the same day, so the bizarre story of a retired archaeologist who stabbed her doting husband to death was shunted to the middle of the regional paper, sandwiched between the national news and the local high schools’ sports scores. Mentioned as a morbid curiosity and then promptly forgotten.
When Tom got home, Jenny let him talk first, let him vent about how much he already hated his job. How terrible the cold calls to random businesses had gone. How much he hated the commute. How unsure he was about this entire new direction in his life. She assured him that it would get better and served him a glass of Andrea’s expensive wine. Then Jenny told her husband about the bloody carnage that had occurred one room away.
Tom listened. And then Tom got pissed.
He’d agreed that there was nothing they could do until Chelsea got back.
And now, she was back. They’d called multiple times, but she never picked up. If they wanted to talk to her, it seemed, there was only one way. They had to do it in person. She hadn’t left them much choice.
It was Saturday, and they hadn’t really made a plan, just gotten into the car and driven over. It was dumb luck that the husband and kids had left. Tom admitted to her that he’d been having waking nightmares of getting into a fistfight with the guy.
They watched the house for a few more minutes, screwing up the courage to go knock on the door and confront the woman, when they saw Chelsea appear in one of the windows near the front door. She was laughing and talking on a cell phone that was cradled between her ear and shoulder as she grabbed her purse and an umbrella.
“Let’s do this,” Jenny said, exiting the car in a rush. Tom nodded, let out a nervous breath, and got out, too, following his wife through the rain and onto the porch. It hadn’t been raining when they left their house, and they had neglected to bring coats or umbrellas—so they were instantly soaked, not that either of them cared.
Chelsea opened the front door of her house and stepped onto the porch, still talking animatedly on the phone. Oblivious to the two people approaching, she turned back to lock up, then pivoted again toward the street, coming face-to-face with two very wet and very angry former clients.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked, then said, “Britney, I have to call you right back. No. Everything’s fine. Give me two minutes.” Ending her call, she flashed Tom and Jenny a smile that might as well have been made out of molded plastic. Her forehead was smooth despite the smile, completely wrinkle-free. “Hi! I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I was—”
“Cut the shit, Chelsea,” Jenny said. “You know exactly why we’ve been trying to reach you. Everything is not fine, and this is going to take a lot more than two minutes.”
“My husband is inside, and he has a—”
“Look,” Tom interrupted, “we don’t want any trouble, but I think you owe us an explanation. At the very least.”
Jenny crossed her arms across her chest and stared at the real estate agent.
“I suppose you found out about the … incident,” Chelsea said.
“Incident?” Jenny shouted, stepping forward, her hands dropping to her sides and balling into fists.
Tom put a gentle but firm arm around his wife’s shoulder, stopping her in place. “Yes, Chelsea,” he said. “We found out everything. You should have told us when we first saw the house.”
“Damn straight, you should have told us,” Jenny said, her voice breaking as she struggled to maintain her composure. “You’re lucky I haven’t called the cops on you.”
“I had no legal obligation to reveal anything about that house’s unfortunate history,” Chelsea retorted, her back straightening as her cool, professional demeanor reasserted itself. “You
needed a house, I gave you options. And with about thirty seconds’ notice, as a favor to your sister. It’s not my fault if you two were being overly picky.”
“Overly picky?!” Jenny shouted, getting loud again.
“Jen,” Tom said.
“That’s right,” Chelsea continued. “‘Picky’ is a nice way to put it. Do you think I didn’t see you both rolling your eyes at those first houses? I’m sorry that you have limited resources, but that is your problem, not mine. I showed you houses that were within your limited price range—nothing more, nothing less.”
Tom could feel Jenny tensing in his grasp, so he squeezed gently, telling her silently not to cross a line. She didn’t relax, but she kept quiet.
“You may not have been legally obligated to tell us anything,” Tom said, “but you were morally obligated to mention it.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Chelsea sniffed, shifting the purse and umbrella in her hands. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for an appointment.”
Jenny shook off Tom’s arm and stepped closer to Chelsea. She was only an inch or two taller than the woman but seemed to tower over her as she shoved a finger close to the Realtor’s concerned eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass,” she hissed. “And I wonder if your husband knows about that little gangbang you participated in back in college…” Chelsea’s face went pale, her ice-cold veneer instantly melting and falling away.
“What? I…,” she barely got out.
“That’s right. When I told my sister about the fucking murder that happened in my fucking kitchen, she told me all about your little adventures in college. You just better hope that I’m a nicer person than you are, Chelsea.”
With that, Jenny turned and stomped down the porch steps and got into the driver’s seat of the car, punching the engine and revving it.
Tom gave the terrified real estate agent a little smile and said, “Have a great day,” and then headed out after his wife and into the growing storm.
* * *
Jenny stared out the café window, the steam from her decaf tea drifting lazily around her face. She looked sad to Tom, and who could blame her? It had been a difficult couple of months. Their tiny studio apartment in Alphabet City seemed like a million years ago.
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