by Greta Boris
"Okay, I get it," Gwen said. "But I'm surprised it doesn't bother their husbands."
Maricela raised her eyebrows suggestively. "It's women who do the shopping."
While Taryn passed out maps to the homes they'd be previewing that morning, Gwen mentally ran through her schedule. It was going to be another busy week. As soon as Taryn dismissed the meeting, Gwen scooted out the door. She wanted to check her email before the caravan left. She had several inquiries about the Sailor's Haven property to return. A hand on her arm stopped her before she made it to her desk.
"Hey there," Lance said.
"Hi." Gwen's voice came out unnaturally high.
"Just wondering if you wanted to drive together. I have something I want to talk to you about."
Gwen noted Maricela was correct, he did have dimples. Pitching her voice a bit lower, she said, "I'm going with Maricela."
"Oh, well. Next time maybe."
"But you could come with us." As soon as she said the words she wondered if she should have checked with Maricela.
"That'd be great. I'll get my briefcase."
He walked away, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an athlete, leaving the spicy scent of his cologne behind.
"What are you staring at?" Maricela asked, coming up behind her.
"Lance is going to drive with us. That's okay, right?"
Maricela's eyes widened in surprise. "Us?"
Gwen shrugged. "He has something he wants to talk to me about."
"It's okay with me." Maricela threw her purse over her shoulder and walked out the front door, hips swinging.
Twenty minutes later they entered Coto de Caza through a manned gated. Gwen described Coto to her out of town clients as a wealthy community for equestrians and others who enjoyed the ambiance of Western country living. She always pointed out the stables, horse trails, and the general store with its period cracker barrels. Personally, she thought Coto was hot, dry, and over-priced, but then she preferred the beach.
The first listing on the tour was Caroline's—a faux farmhouse with dated decor. Gwen passed through several rooms filled with oak furniture and floral prints into a terrific kitchen. The kitchen was the home's saving grace. It was large and bright and had recently been remodeled with stainless steel counters and apple red appliances.
Caroline hurried them forward into a dining room sporting a truly terrible wagon wheel chandelier, out the other side, around a mauve carpeted corner, and up a winding staircase.
"Now this is the real selling point of the house," Caroline said as ten agents filed into the master bath.
The floor and the lower half of the walls were lined in pink Carrera marble. Rose wallpaper covered everything else. Bright brass fixtures sparkled like fool's gold under lush mauve towels. A swimming-pool-sized tub stood on a raised platform. It was one of the largest, most expensive, God-awful bathrooms Gwen had ever seen.
"Horrible." Lance mouthed the word from across the room.
Gwen nodded her head in agreement.
They walked through the master bedroom together. "I have a proposition for you," Lance said. "I don't know if you know this, but I used to be in construction. Behind this smooth exterior is a pretty handy guy."
Gwen waited, wondering what he was getting at.
"It might be too soon to talk to you about this, but I previewed your Laguna Beach listing before..." He let his words trail off.
"Right," Gwen said.
"Anyway, it needs a lot of work."
"Yup." Gwen felt a familiar bristle of irritation. Why was its condition the first thing everyone noticed? Whatever happened to location, location, location?
"I don't know if you have a budget, or if the owner wants to sell as-is, but under the circumstances, I think it would move faster and for a better price if the..." He broke off for a moment, like he was searching for the correct word. "If the creep factor was reduced."
Creep factor. Thank you, Lance. She'd just begun to warm up to him a teensy-little bit, but now she was reminded why he annoyed her so much. He was full of himself. She was about to tell him so, but he spoke first.
"I'd like to offer my services. With a relatively small budget, I know I could make some cosmetic changes that would improve first impressions."
"There's not enough money to pay you and buy supplies. Besides—"
Lance cut her off. "You misunderstand. I don't want pay; I want to list the place together. Fifty-fifty. It'll take a team to move that property. And, you'll be safer, having a man around. I could show it with you. Hold open houses with you."
"What I was going to say was, it's a moot point. The house isn't on the market. It may still be an official crime scene, for all I know. But either way, the owner hasn't contacted me."
Lance frowned. "How would you feel about letting me contact him?"
"Absolutely not." Gwen couldn't believe the temerity of the man. Let him contact her client? She strode out of the house toward Maricela's car. He followed her.
"I didn't mean to upset you. I thought maybe I could move the process along. You know, maybe the owner doesn't want to get a hold of you because he thinks you're still traumatized, or something."
"She," Gwen said.
"She?"
"The owner. She's a she."
"Okay, then maybe she thinks you don't want the listing anymore."
Gwen stopped and turned toward him. He had a point. It was possible Fiona thought the subject was too sensitive to raise. She examined his eyes.
His was a hard face to judge. It was too handsome. His appearance tended to distract her from the emotional cues she caught in plainer faces. She'd read somewhere that good character and intelligence are attributed to attractive people whether they deserved it or not, while homely people are assumed to be deficient. She didn't want to fall into that trap with him.
Lance appeared to be sincere. He didn't look dishonest, or shifty. "I'll think about it," she said.
After leaving Coto de Caza, the caravan headed toward the beach. The next listing was Lance's—a tasteful, four-bedroom in an older Laguna Niguel neighborhood. While Lance gave the tour, Maricela sidled up to Gwen. "So, how was your romantic dinner on Sunday?"
"Anticlimactic," Gwen said.
Maricela cocked an eyebrow.
"He drank a bottle and a half of wine then fell asleep on the couch." Gwen flicked a piece of lint from her skirt.
"Maybe things at school aren't so good," Maricela said.
Maricela was making excuses for Art, again. He'd worked hard to get a scholarship for Julissa so she could continue at St. Barnabas after Maricela's divorce. As far she was concerned, Art could do no wrong.
Gwen shrugged. It hurt to think about Saturday night. She'd bought a new, red negligee to surprise him, but by the time she came out of the bedroom to make her grand entrance, he was snoring.
She was as attracted to her husband as the day she'd married him. He'd aged well. His blond hair had darkened to a golden brown. He'd put on weight over the years, but it suited his well-muscled, six-foot-two frame—none of which was wasted on the soccer moms of St. Barnabas.
"I don't know, Maricela. Maybe it's our jobs. Maybe it's my age. Maybe he's found somebody else, but he's just not interested anymore. It's becoming routine."
Maricela took Gwen's arm and pulled her farther away from the group into a child's pink and yellow bedroom. "When Enrique was cheating on me, he brought me flowers, jewelry, talked about vacations. He was always telling me how beautiful I was, you know? It was all an act. He was covering up his guilt. Art's crazy about you, that's why he could just fall asleep. He has a clear conscience."
"One way to tell if your husband is having an affair is if he loses interest in sex. I read it in Cosmo."
"Yeah, or maybe he has the flu. I'm telling you, something bad happened at school. Julissa didn't get the whole story, but she heard there was an accident."
"Why wouldn't Art tell me something like that?"
"I don't know,
" Maricela said. "Maybe he didn't want to upset you."
Art hadn't said anything about an accident, but of course, she hadn't given him the opportunity. She'd stopped him when he'd tried.
"Are you two planning a major remodel in the second bedroom?" Lance filled the doorway.
"We were saying if you took this wall out," Gwen gestured to the wall that faced the tree lined street, "you could put in a drive through window and sell this place to Taco Bell."
Lance smacked himself in the forehead. "Why I didn't think of that?"
The three of them headed to Maricela's car for the last stop of the day. Maybe Lance was okay. The jury was still out. Gwen wasn't about to give him Fiona's number, but at least he'd come to her. It was possible other agents were already making plans to go behind her back. She wouldn't put it past John Gordon.
Lance was right about one thing; she shouldn't wait around for Fiona to call her. She'd been procrastinating. Her feelings about the property were complicated. But no one ever got ahead by allowing emotion to dictate their actions. She'd call Fiona as soon as she returned to the office.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day Art pushed open the glass doors of St. Barnabas and was hit by a hot blast of wind. The Santa Ana's blowing in from the high desert brought unseasonable heat. It was a phenomena Art never grew accustomed to, even after living in Southern California for most of his adult life. One day you were wearing jackets and sweaters, the next you were sweating in shorts.
"Art." A voice stopped his descent down the school steps. He turned to see Lorelei Tanaka standing just outside the doors. Her fall of black hair, usually shining and smooth, blew in thick strands around her face.
He smiled. "What's up?"
"Just wondering how things are going with Brian McKibben. If you've heard anything. I was going to call his mother. Let her know I'm here when he's ready."
As school counselor, Lorelei would be responsible for helping Brian readjust to classes, rearrange his schedule, or find a tutor if necessary.
Art walked up the stairs to stand next to her. Several high school students congregated on the lower steps, and he didn't want his conversation translated into tweets and texts. "That's nice of you, but I think it's premature. He's in a coma."
"God. That's terrible. A lot of the kids in his class have come to my office to talk it out. They're so upset." Her pretty face looked pained.
"It's funny how different people react. Emily won't talk about it. After the initial tears, it was as if it never happened. I'm a little concerned."
"I wouldn't worry too much. We all process in our own way. She'll talk about it when she's ready." She gave him an encouraging smile.
"You actually caught me on my way to the hospital. I planned to visit after work yesterday, but Brian was rushed into an emergency surgery."
"Oh, no. What happened?"
"I don't know the details. Hemorrhage or something. I guess I'll find out."
"Olivia must be devastated," Lorelei said.
An image of Olivia Richards, doubled over with sobs, formed in his mind. He shoved it away. It was too painful to contemplate. "I'll tell her you asked about Brian."
"I hope they throw the book at the driver. People are so irresponsible. They race through neighborhoods and expect pets and kids to jump out of their way," Lorelei said, her voice indignant.
"It was hit and run. Only one witness, but she didn't see much. Brian came around a corner on his skateboard and shot out in front of a pickup. The police think the person may have been drinking or on probation. That's why he, or she, didn't stop."
"How could someone do that?" Anger made her dark eyes darker.
"It's beyond me," Art said.
Lorelei paused for a moment, then said, "I hope you're not being too hard on yourself."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I am, in part, responsible for this. I shouldn't have suspended him. It was a mistake."
"You did it for his own good. Donald Pratt would never have agreed to extend his scholarship if there hadn't been consequences."
"In part. But I also did it to protect my chances of keeping this job."
"I don't believe that. You're the most selfless man I know." She put a warm hand on his arm.
The hot, dry air felt suddenly claustrophobic. Art became aware of his shirt clinging to his back, the bead of sweat trailing down his spine. Lorelei was sensitive and lovely, and he'd known for a long time she had feelings for him. Maybe it was her size—she was tiny, smaller than most of the high school students—that made him dismiss the signals as if they were nothing more than a schoolgirl crush. But Lorelei was no schoolgirl. She was a brilliant woman in her thirties with a Masters in Psychology.
He'd allowed a friendship to develop between them because it was convenient. She stepped in where Gwen wouldn't. He wondered now when the relationship had crossed the invisible boundary line from coworker to something more and why he'd never noticed it before. Gwen would say this was another sign the job had become too important.
"You don't know me as well as you think." He removed her hand from his arm, gave it a squeeze, and trotted down the steps.
#
Ahead lay the tremendous, concrete disk that always reminded Art of an alien spacecraft out of a 1950's sci-fi movie. The fountain's cheerful sound used to bubble across the parking lot. Because of the California drought of recent years, it was now quiet and dusty. The winds whipped past him blowing bits of dead leaves into its empty waterspouts.
The lobby of Mission Hospital was cool and hushed. Art asked for Brian's room number at the information desk. Before it was given, he heard a familiar voice. He turned to see Brian's mother, Olivia Richards. She sat in a glassed-in waiting room off the lobby with a small crowd surrounding her. Apparently, the family had gathered after hearing about last night's surgery.
She was a pretty woman even with eyes red from crying. A man with brown hair the same color as Brian's—only his was raked into angry spikes—stood stiffly beside her. Art thought he must be her ex-husband, Davy McKibben. His eyes were swollen also, but it appeared to be more from drink than tears. Art had heard this was his solution to most of life's difficulties, hence the divorce.
Art had no idea how he'd be received. He was, after all, the one who'd suspended Brian. If Brian had been safely tucked away in his classroom on last Friday afternoon, he wouldn't have ended up under the wheels of a pickup truck.
"Olivia," he said when he got close.
Their eyes met. Tears sprang into her eyes. Art stood, still, waiting for an accusation. Several moments passed, then in a swift movement, she left the couch and stood before him.
"Art." She took both his hands in hers. "Thank you for coming. It means so much to me."
Relief washed over him. She pulled him into the group and made introductions. Art nodded to Olivia's mother, Sarah Richards, and to Mike McKibben, Brian's paternal grandfather. He'd met them several times at school events.
"How is he?" Art asked.
"Stable," she said.
"Good." Art's tongue tied in a knot. "Good." It was all he could say.
Olivia returned to the couch and sat next to her mother. Sarah was a tiny, sweet-faced woman, and the author of a series of children's books featuring a scalawag of a puppy named Brian the Bloodhound.
Art knew the stories well. Emily adored them. The dog was allergic to flowers, but he loved their scent, so his nose was always stuffy. Stuffy noses are no good for finding things, including the way home. He managed to make it there safely in every book but not without plenty of adventures.
"I named the bloodhound after Brian because our Brian was always wandering away," she said as if she were continuing a conversation that had begun before Art arrived. "As soon as he could walk, he took off running." She squeezed Olivia's hand.
"I shouldn't have left him," Olivia said and rested her forehead on her other hand.
Mike McKibben spoke in a gruff tone. "Get that out of your mind,
Olivia. I've been sending patrol cars out after that boy since he was three years old." Mike had been an investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Department before his retirement.
Olivia groaned as if in pain.
"Now, I didn't mean it that way," Mike said, alarmed. "I just meant Brian has an adventuresome spirit."
"Trying to keep him in the house is like trying to keep in a cat that's used to roaming. They're always looking for an open door," Olivia's mother said.
Olivia's ex-husband patted her shoulder. She pulled away from him and withdrew her hand from her mother's. She huddled in the corner of the couch, wrapped in her own arms and her grief.
When Art was a kid, he'd shot a dove in a tree outside his bedroom window. Not on purpose. He was messing around with his new BB gun and never saw it until it hit the ground.
He scooped it up and ran for the vet. The BB had broken the bird's wing. Unbelievably, it had lived. He fed and watered it for weeks, and one day it flew away from the shoebox nest on his windowsill. That same feeling, guilt mixed with crazy hope, filled him now.
A shrill voice disrupted the quiet scene. "Olivia, Mike, I'm so sorry." Amy Partridge from the PTA stomped across the lobby toward them.
Olivia rose.
Amy bustled over to her and air-kissed her cheeks. "It's terrible. Just terrible. How is he?"
Olivia explained in more detail this time. Brian had a few broken bones, but brain damage was the doctor's biggest concern. The night before the swelling in his head had reached dangerous levels. After releasing the pressure, they placed him in a medically induced coma to give him a chance to heal. It remained to be seen how he would function when he was backed off the drugs.
"This could have been any of our children," Amy said. "It's a perfect example of why we have to create safe drop off and pickup routes at school. The way it is now, it's just plain dangerous."
Anger rose like bile in Art's throat. Brian was nowhere near the school when the accident happened. He couldn't believe she was using this situation to push Donald Pratt's pet cause. He opened his mouth to say so, but a hand on his arm stopped him.