Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  I smile through my tears, “Yes, exactly!”

  Blond paramedic adds, “Brian Wilson is dead.”

  Nodding my head I agree, “Y-y-yes and s-s-so is Shannon.”

  All four men stand and stare at me like I’ve totally gone off my gourd. Brunette paramedic inquires, “Ma’am, is your baby dead?”

  I shake my head, “No, S-s-s-s-ophie’s fine.”

  Elliot throws himself in my arms and starts to cry before exclaiming, “Thank God! You’re both okay then?”

  I nod my head and answer, “Of course. It’s just Shannon who’s dead.”

  Office Ben apparently needs some more clarification and asks, “Shannon, Brian Wilson’s dog?”

  Blond paramedic hands me a bottle of water to sip which is just the ticket because I finally stop the emotional hiccupping. I look at the four very confused faces surrounding me and tell my story, “I was on my way to a meeting when the song Shannon came on the radio and the DJ said it was a song written for Brian Wilson’s dead dog. It was just so, so, sad!”

  The paramedics finally grasp what I’m saying. They explain they legally have to take me in and get checked out by the emergency room doc before letting me go, even though this is just a horrible misunderstanding. Officer Ben mumbles something about how he’ll never understand women and Elliot is so relieved he remains glued to my side the whole time.

  Thank God the ER doc is a woman and a mother to boot. She totally comprehends how my emotions took over and agrees that Shannon is one of the saddest songs of all time. She confesses that during her third pregnancy, Mr. Bojangles was her undoing, although she never wound up being transported to the hospital, via ambulance, because of it.

  Elliot takes me home and he and the earl go to meet with Faith. They find out that her parents live in Tacoma and they purchase plane tickets for her and her children to go home. They also give them enough money to help them get back on their feet. I’m starting to think this being rich thing is going to be fun. I could have never helped Faith so much on my own.

  Chapter 20

  The frigging countess and I are on our way to see my favorite house with Blaine, the Realtor boy wonder. To say I hate the guy would be incorrect. I do not know him well enough to hate him, thank God. But I do dislike his demeanor. He acts like he’s better than 99.9 percent of the free world and he kisses the other .01 percent’s asses like their bum’s hold the secrets of the ages. I loathe Blaine’s arrogance, his fawning and his superiority. And quite frankly, I hate his sweater. Heterosexual men should not wear sweaters flung over their shoulders like they’re afraid of catching a chill. Man up, dude.

  Blaine is so far up the countess’s hind quarters I haven’t had to contribute much to the conversation. I do insert pertinent facts like, “No small family needs fifteen thousand square feet to live in.” And ask insightful questions like, “Who’s going to clean all these bathrooms?” They both ignore me, which is exactly what I expect given the circumstances.

  When we pull up to the house, my insides perform a secret, spastic jig. I know this isn’t the house for us but it’s still magnificent to behold. The fountain is bubbling away and the grounds are hanging on to their crisp autumnal colors. This would be the perfect backdrop for a feminine hygiene commercial from the eighties. Remember how elated those chicks were with their new slim maxi-pads? They felt such freedom to be active they were always filmed running through nature, blatantly expressing their joy.

  Blaine gives Victoria the same spiel I got upon my first visit here. She seems to think the bedroom to bathroom ratio is quite normal and wants to know if the kitchen hosts a bun warmer. I wrestle against suggesting she just sidle up to the oven if she wants her buns warmed and actually win the war against my inner devil by staying quiet.

  I let my mother-in-law take a tour with my eager Realtor and opt to sit out by the pool. Against all conscious desire, I can see Sophie learning how to swim here. I imagine golden retriever puppies running around the water, barking at her and eventually jumping in to join her. It’s a picture right out of a fairy tale. Why can’t I just make the leap and say, “What the heck, let’s buy this castle and call it home?” Probably because my definition of home has always been something more intimate and quaint, something this manor could never be.

  I must have dozed off because the next thing I know I wake up to find the countess and Blaine standing next to me talking numbers. The countess inquires, “Do you feel the listing price on this property is appropriate for the area?”

  Blaine, nearly drooling on his Italian loafers, responds, “Most definitely! This estate will be snapped up in a heartbeat!”

  I can’t help but interject, “Blaine, “I’ve been looking at this house for a month and it hasn’t sold yet. In fact, you’ve told me there haven’t even been any offers on it.”

  My mother-in-law arches one of her perfectly groomed English eyebrows and informs Blaine, “While we are interested in the property, we’re not interested in being taken advantage of.”

  Blaine assures her the right couple simply hasn’t come along yet. But as soon as they do, they will happily pay full asking price. Victoria seems to be no more enamored of my Realtor than I am, so she simply turns her back on him and asks me, “What do say, Mimi, shall we make an offer?”

  No one, I repeat no one in my previous acquaintance could or would so cavalierly suggest purchasing a five million plus dollar home as easily as proposing a Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s. I fight against choking on my own saliva. Hoping to buy time, I answer, “Elliot hasn’t even seen it yet. I really think he should before we buy it.”

  The countess shifts her attention to Blaine, “I assume you have no problem waiting while my son stops by?”

  I can’t pull myself together fast enough to call a halt to this farce. Elliot’s mother has smoothed out all the wrinkles and is on the phone with Elliot before I can scream, “NO!!!”

  She’s arranged for him to drive himself over to meet us so I will have zero opportunity to convince him not to love it. And of course he’s going to love, I mean, I love it. And he grew up like this so it will in no way intimidate him like it does me. And you know Elliot is never going to worry about who’s going to clean all these bathrooms. I’m sure he’s never so much as held a toilet brush, assuming he even knows what one is.

  I am so overstimulated and nervous at the thought that I can’t stop this thing, my bladder goes into overdrive. I’m in real jeopardy of having an accident so I excuse myself without any explanation and run through the French doors leading to the kitchen. I make it in the nick of time and after completing my mission, take a moment to realize this is the singularly most comfortable toilet seat I have ever been on in my life. Why is that I wonder. I mean a toilet seat is a toilet seat is a toilet seat, right? Unless, of course, you happen to be sitting on a heated toilet seat. That’s right. My posterior is being kept toasty warm while I complete my business. This is unadulterated luxury. I may never be able to go back to the unwelcoming embrace of a cold toilet seat now that I’ve know this splendor.

  I detour through the kitchen to drool at the appliances on my way back to the pool, which is how Elliot and I arrive next to his mother at the same moment. My husband’s smile is in jeopardy of taking over his entire face. “Mimi, I adore this place! It’s everything I imagined for us.” And that’s before he’s even seen the inside.

  I know when I’m beat. There is no way to convince Elliot this house is too much for us when he, his mother and Blaine, are all of the opinion it’s perfect. Once Elliot finishes the grand tour, he announces, “We’ll take it.”

  Blaine appears to be having spasms of joy and Victoria actually steps away from him as though his distasteful behavior might be contagious.

  I seize the moment to declare, “Don’t do a happy dance yet, Blaine. We aren’t offering full asking price.”

  Elliot asks, “We’re not, why?”

  The countess interjects, “Mimi mentioned the estate has been on the
market for over a month and there have been no offers.” She says this almost admiringly, like she might actually realize the value of money and isn’t one to give it away for no reason.

  My clueless husband inquires, “But if we like it and want it, why not pay full asking price? We don’t want someone else to snatch it out from under us.”

  Accepting my fate, I reply, “Don’t worry. We’ll get it.”

  Our greedy real estate agent turns to Elliot and advises, “Sir Fielding, you are a man of the world and understand how these things are done far better than your wife. I think paying the full asking price is the prudent way to go.”

  Oh Blaine, you idiot, now you’ve done it. First off, don’t ever cross a Finnegan, yet alone a hormonally challenged one. I lean into my husband and give him “the look.” You know the one that says, don’t you dare open your mouth under pain of death or you will regret it for all-time?

  Then I share a knowing glance with the countess before turning my attention to Blaine. “Blaine, are you or are you not representing us in this sale?”

  He bristles a bit and his face takes on a definite flush before answering, “Of course I represent you.”

  Then Victoria, bless her heart, appears to have had a thought, “You aren’t perchance the listing agent as well, are you?”

  Blaine shifts back and forth, looks at his shoes and mumbles, “Well, yes, yes I am.”

  Elliot seems to have grasped the significance of this and raises a supercilious brow in question. With a nod to me and a glance to his mother, he offers, “Why don’t I leave this up to you ladies?”

  God save the queen! He knows I hate Blaine and up to this point has felt my disregard was unwarranted. Now, he sees what a scum sucking worm he really is and is letting me have my revenge. As far as I’m concerned, this lets him off the hook for every birthday and Christmas gift for life. I’m about to have some fun.

  “Blaine,” I start, as sweetly and condescendingly as I can. “What percentage of the sale are you expected to get as both the listing and selling agent?”

  If Blaine was even one iota less egregious a human being, I might have felt sorry for him at this moment. His face turns bright red and he appears apoplectic. He clears his throat before answering, “Six percent.”

  I ask, “Have you by any chance only shown me properties you are the listing agent of?”

  Now it’s his turn to look indignant. “Not at all! I don’t know what kind of man you take me for, Mimi, but I’m not Machiavellian. I have shown you all the homes I’ve felt were right for you, regardless of who has the listing.”

  I believe him, dammit, but I’m not done with him. “First of all, Blaine, I have not given you permission to call me by my Christian name. I believe we settled on, Lady Fielding.” Watch out, I appear to be channeling Downton Abbey. I may have a real future in this countess business. In fact, Victoria looks rather proud of me at the moment. So I continue, “Secondly, you are not only representing us and the seller, but apparently yourself, as well.” Blaine looks like he’s about to throw up so I pause for a moment to give him the opportunity. “Therefore, I feel that you cannot possibly be giving us the best advice.”

  Blaine stumbles over his words, “Mimi, rather Mrs…. Lady Fielding, I’m not at all trying to take advantage of you, truly…”

  I don’t let him finish, “As such we are offering $5,200,000, not the asking price of $5,469,000.” Before he can interrupt me, I add, “And we are offering a Realtor fee of 4.5% instead of the standard 6%.”

  Poor Blaine seems to be absorbing the fact that if the seller takes our offer, his commission will be reduced by nearly $100,000. I can’t say I pity him too much though as he has brought this on himself. He seems to be wrestling with telling me to go take a hike and being grateful that he’ll still walk away with nearly a quarter of a million dollars for his month of work.

  After a few moments of consideration, our Realtor responds, “Of course I would be willing to reduce my percentage if that would help you out, but I don’t think the seller is going to take such a lowball offer. In fact, I think they’ll be insulted by it.” With a gleam in his eye, he adds, “And when sellers get insulted, they often refuse to entertain further offers from that particular buyer.”

  I’m about to yell my reply with an, “Asshole!” and a swift kick to the shins, when Victoria steps forward. “Blaine, I think you’re mistaken. I would direct you to present Sir and Lady Fielding’s offer with haste.” Then she adds, “Before my son and his wife choose to find another Realtor who would better suit them.”

  Go Victoria! I want to grab her in a bear hug and dance her around the pool but realize this might turn her against me for all time. After all, if I’ve learned one thing from the countess, it’s that she isn’t hip to middle-class displays of emotion.

  Blaine wisely chooses not to provoke any of us further and declares he will present our offer that very day. Trying to undo some of his earlier damage he manages, “There is a small chance they’ll accept it as it’s a cash offer with no contingencies.”

  Chapter 21

  I’m in the doctor’s office with Ginger when I find out the good news. I’m a home owner. I knew Elliot and I would get the house and have been trying to prepare myself for this moment. I’m torn between conflicting emotions. I have no idea how I am possibly going to adapt to such grandeur, yet I’m thrilled at the same time. I want to share the news with my sister but decide against it until after her appointment.

  Jonathan has been to every one of Ginger’s doctor appointments but couldn’t make this one as he’s visiting the New York office for a few days. He offered to try to get out of the trip, but Ginger told him not to be ridiculous, she would be just fine. The truth is she isn’t fine, she’s a nervous wreck. She told me on the way over that she expects to find out baby three is no more every time they step through the clinic doors.

  She looks positively terrified and painfully vulnerable lying on the table in her paper gown waiting for her ultrasound to begin. I try to take her mind off her troubles with humor. “Every time I put on one of those God awful things, I try to imagine a Parisian fashion show with emaciated models strutting their stuff up and down the runway.” No response, so I amp up my attempt, “You know with their hair slicked back, sporting giant diamond chandelier earrings, six-inch stilettos and peacock feathers for hats…”

  With the barest glint of a smile, my sister reaches for my hand and responds, “Only you, Meems. You are the only other person in the world, other than Jonathan, I’d want here with me for this.” I’ve spent the majority of my life under the false impression that my sisters were always trying to show me up with their perfection. Until recently, I thought my claim to fame in our quartet of sisterhood was that I had the prettiest feet. Of course now I have Edith Bunker and prettiest feet is off the table. Bunions are many things but pretty isn’t one of them.

  Muffy recently shared that my sisters view me as the heart of our family, the emotional rock. She explained I was the first one they all shared their news with, good and bad, because I was the one they could count on to care the most. To say she totally rocked my world with her declaration would be the understatement of the century. All these years I thought I was the family disappointment, the one that didn’t live up to the rest of them. It just goes to show our version of reality is often the farthest thing from reality.

  The doctor chooses that moment to come into the exam room. She’s all smiles as she announces, “Ready to take a look at the Becker triplets?” With no further ado, she squirts a glob of pre-warmed gel on Ginger’s tummy and begins. Ginger has her eyes closed and isn’t even looking at the monitor when the doctor asks, “Mimi, can you tell Ginger what you see?”

  In sheer delight, I answer, “I see three little squirmy worms wiggling around and three heartbeats!”

  Ginger opens her eyes and reluctantly looks before bursting into tears. “Oh my God, look at them!” Then to the doctor she asks, “Does this mean we’r
e out of the woods?”

  The doc smiles and answers, “We’re not totally out of the woods as multiple births can always result in complications. But if I were a gambling woman, I’d say you better set up all three cribs and prepare not to get much sleep for about six months.”

  Ginger seems to be playing out my “Shannon” scene with tears streaming down her face and her whole body shuddering in release of emotion. “I don’t care if I ever sleep again. I’m the luckiest woman in the whole world!” While I might normally fight her for that honor, I decide to let her win this one.

  The doctor reminds Ginger that triplets generally only gestate for 32-36 weeks and in order to keep them in the womb for as long as possible she needs to continue to take good care of herself. “Keep up your intake of fluids and remember to have protein at every meal.” She leaves after receiving my sister’s promise.

  Ginger and I decide to go to The Cracked Egg for an early lunch. She’s craving quiche and I’m jonesing for Belgium waffles. Once we’re seated and place our order, I share the news about the house. “Remember that house I showed you?” With a nod in the affirmative I continue, “Well, it’s my house now.”

  Ginger squeals, evoking looks of alarm from nearby diners and exclaims, “Meems, this is turning into the best day ever!”

  I concur. Ginger is no longer interested in my concerns over the size of the house. She promises to give me the number of her cleaning lady, as I have recently decided to quit fretting over the upkeep of my new behemoth dwelling. I’ve embraced the fact that I’ll need help and as long as said help doesn’t reside in servant’s quarters and wear uniforms, I think I might just be able to manage it.

  I share with Ginger that the house will close in thirty days as the sellers need to relocate to San Francisco ASAP so we’ll move in the day after. I confide, “I’m very excited, but I’m totally sad to leave my little nest on Mercer St.”

  Ginger laughs, “I bet Elliot’s glad to leave though.” Ginger is of course referring to the neighbor girls attempt to sneak into the house in order to catch Elliot in the shower. I have known Tiffany since she was in junior high and never thought her the sort to do such a thing. But now that she’s eighteen, full of teenage hormones and has recently fallen madly in love with my husband, I can see that she’s become a bit of a wild card. Elliot will no longer shower unless I’m home to protect his modesty.