Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, her jaw dropping. “What happened?”

  “Last night he told me he’s in love with the person who does the weather on the Six O’Clock News.”

  Suzanne gasped. “I don’t believe it,” she said again, this time shaking her head vigorously. “I just don’t believe it. Mitchell never struck me as being the least bit feminine.”

  “Feminine? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, all right. So you can’t always tell who’s the feminine one and who plays the man’s part.”

  “Suzanne, I’m not following you.”

  “You said Mitchell’s gay.”

  “I did not. I said he’s in love with someone else.”

  “Yeah, the person who does the weather on the Six O’Clock News: Ron Baines.”

  “Ron Baines is on Channel Eight. Mitchell is in love with the weatherperson on Channel Five: Chrissy Hemplewhite.”

  “Oh.” She sighed and knitted her brow yet again and patted me on the shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. How do you feel about it?”

  “Conflicted. Mitchell and I weren’t exactly the love match of the century. We should have split up years ago. But it’s a little scary to think I’ll be back on the market. Used goods and all that stuff.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ve been on the market so long, the USDA’s gonna stamp an expiration date on my forehead.”

  I smiled, but I knew that behind Suzanne’s quips was real desperation. She’d never been married and hadn’t had a boyfriend since she’d moved to Banyan Beach from New Haven three years ago. She was dying to find a husband and had come to Florida for just that purpose after reading an article in USA Today that said there were three times as many single men in the Sunshine State as there were in Connecticut.

  I couldn’t understand why Suzanne hadn’t found a husband. Except for her menopause obsession and the fact that she went a little heavy on the makeup, she had a lot going for her. She had a petite little figure, big green eyes, glossy dark hair, which she wore chin-length and stick-straight, and pearly white teeth. She was warm and friendly and didn’t mind paying her own way on a date, yet she couldn’t seem to connect with men.

  Not that she didn’t try. For a while, she spent Friday nights planted on a bar stool at Conched Out, a riverfront singles’ hangout whose Happy Hour attracted women in too-tight T-shirts and men who thought being called a redneck was a compliment. Eventually, Suzanne tired of Conched Out and moved on to the newer, far trendier Banyan Beach Grille, which was said to have a more upscale clientele. On her first visit, she discovered that the men who frequented the Banyan Beach Grille were, indeed, doctors and lawyers and stockbrokers, and she licked her lips in anticipation of finding a husband from among them. The trouble was, they already were husbands—two-timing, skirt-chasing married men who’d slip their wedding bands into their pockets and assume nobody would notice the tan line on their ring fingers.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Suzanne asked.

  “Just be my friend,” I said. “I’m going to need one.”

  “You can count on me,” she said. “Really.”

  I touched her arm. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “You know, in a way I’m glad you and Mitchell broke up. Now I’ll have someone to go man hunting with,” she said.

  I groaned. “I don’t think I’m in any shape for that,” I said.

  “Wrong. You’re in fabulous shape.”

  “I meant emotionally. I really need to sell a house, Suzanne. If this slump of mine goes on much longer, I’ll have a breakdown. My stress level has been off the charts.”

  “It’s your hormones,” Suzanne said with authority. “When a woman is almost forty, the menopausal process begins to—”

  “Would you shut up about menopause for once,” I interrupted.

  I was immediately horrified by what I’d said. Suzanne looked as if she were going to cry.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “I didn’t mean that. Between Mitchell’s announcement and my slump here at work, I’m feeling really out of control.”

  Her expression softened. “I understand,” she said. “We can talk about your hormones some other time.”

  “I’d rather talk about houses,” I said. “Have any hot new listings come into the office in the last week or so?”

  “Nothing ‘hot.’ Just that dump on Pelican Circle. You know, the Nowak house? The one with the nude ladies in the front yard?”

  I rolled my eyes. The Nowak house on 46 Pelican Circle was a long-running joke in town. It sat on a prime piece of waterfront property and the houses on either side of it were in the million-dollar range, but it was dated and cramped and incredibly tacky, not to mention way overpriced. Its owner, a contentious old bastard named Victor Nowak, had built the house in the 1950s and then made it a shrine to unspeakably bad taste. The floors were covered with avocado-green shag carpet, the walls with gold vinyl paper. The rooms had low ceilings and tiny windows and were jam-packed with bad sculptures of nude women. Out on the lawn were more nude women—six statues in all. Several people in town tried to get the Zoning Board to coerce Mr. Nowak to remove his “art” in the name of common decency, but he argued that he was within his constitutional rights and could decorate his front lawn however he wished. When he finally put his house on the market, his neighbors celebrated. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been a single offer on the place. Not in three years.

  “Wasn’t it listed with Century 21?” I asked Suzanne.

  “Yeah. And before that, with Coldwell Banker. Nobody can sell that place. It’s a turkey and Nowak wants $700,000 for it.”

  “Obviously, he’s out of his mind,” I said. “Whose listing is it?”

  “Frances’s,” said Suzanne, referring to Frances Lutz, one of the other realtors in our office.

  “Why would she take a listing like that?” I said.

  “The house is a ranch. Frances never turns her back on a ranch, remember?”

  I laughed. Frances Lutz weighed three hundred pounds and didn’t like to move if she could help it, which meant that climbing stairs was out of the question. As a result, she dubbed herself Home Sweet Home’s “ranch specialist,” hoping she’d never have to show a house with more than one story.

  “Whoops,” said Suzanne after checking the time on her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I have a closing in fifteen minutes.”

  “A ‘closing,’” I sighed. “Now there’s a word that’s dropped out of my vocabulary.”

  “Come on,” Suzanne urged. “You’ll get back in the groove. You’re too good an agent to be down for too much longer. And besides, you’re a blonde now, with a body to die for. I don’t know how you managed it in such a short time, but if you weren’t my friend, I’d hate your guts. Luckily, you are my friend, and I hope you sell a house. Today.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” I said.

  I spent most of the morning on the phone, trying to drum up business—with few results. At around noon, I was planning to run out and get a sandwich, when Deirdre Wyatt walked toward my desk.

  Deirdre was a thirty-two-year-old former beauty queen who had represented our state in the Miss America Pageant but lost to Miss Minnesota. Still smarting after nearly a decade, she blamed her loss on the fact that a Southerner had won the crown the previous year. The rest of us blamed her loss on the fact that, for the talent portion of the pageant, she had chosen to twirl a baton.

  I smiled as she approached my desk. A strawberry blonde who wore conservative little cotton dresses and pale pink lipstick, she appeared to be the very essence of virginal purity, except for her occasional truck-driver language. She wasn’t the swiftest real estate agent in town but she didn’t have to be. She got her listings the old-fashioned way: she put out.

  “Barbs, could you do me a teensy-weensy favor?” she said in her breathy, babyish, Marilyn Monroe voice. I always expected her to go “Boop-boop-eedoo” at the end of every sentence.

  �
��What’s the favor?” I asked, surprised that she hadn’t commented on my dramatically altered appearance, then remembering that it was Deirdre’s appearance that interested Deirdre. Maybe she didn’t like the idea that there was another blonde in the office.

  “I’m supposed to be on floor duty until three,” she said. “But I’ve got to meet with a gentleman at twelve-thirty. He’s thinking of listing his house with me. Could you cover for me, Barbs? Just for an itty-bitty couple of hours?”

  You’ll have to trust me. I am not the type to be called Barbs or Babs or even Barb, but I allowed Deirdre her nickname. What she called me was better than what she called Althea Dicks, which was Dickface. Behind her back, of course.

  “Sure, I’ll cover for you,” I said, knowing that Deirdre would do the same for me. She was actually a very nice person once you got past the baby talk. Besides, who was I to stand in the way of a listing? Or a tryst?

  “Thanks, Barbs. You’re a sweetie.”

  She patted me on the shoulder and was about to run off when she did a double-take and came back to my desk.

  “Hey, you look different,” she said, giving me the once-over. “It’s your teeth, right? You had them capped or something?”

  “No, Deirdre,” I said, amazed at her lack of observation. “But thanks for asking.”

  “No, thank you. For taking my floor duty. Now have fun, huh, sweets?” she said, and hurried out of the office.

  Fun. I wouldn’t exactly call being on floor duty fun. Not anymore. When I first became a real estate agent, I looked forward to being the “duty cutie,” as Deirdre called it. When you’re the one who’s answering the phones and manning the desk, you’re the one who gets all the call-ins and walk-ins and before you know it, you’ve sold a house. But after I went into my slump, I began to dread floor duty because I’d sit by the phone, hour after hour, and the only calls I’d get would be wrong numbers.

  I moved over to the desk by the front door of the office and no sooner did I sit down when the phone rang.

  “Home Sweet Home. This is Barbara Chessner,” I said, trying to sound perky.

  “Good afternoon. I’m calling about one of your company’s listings,” said the man, who had a deep, resonant, radio announcer’s voice that was distinctive and familiar at the same time.

  “Which listing?” I asked, grabbing the MLS book and flipping it open.

  “It’s a house on Pelican Circle. I was driving by it and saw the Home Sweet Home sign.”

  “You mean 46 Pelican Circle?” I asked. Could somebody really be calling about the Nowak house?

  “I don’t recall the street number,” he said politely.

  “Were there statues on the front lawn?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I’m interested in the house in spite of the statues, not because of them.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice and it made me smile. It was a smooth, velvety voice, warm and melodious and friendly.

  “How much is the owner asking?” he said.

  “Seven hundred thousand,” I said and braced myself for a kiss off.

  But the caller didn’t kiss me off. “Seven hundred thousand sounds pretty reasonable, considering the location,” he said.

  “Pretty reasonable? What planet are you—” I stopped myself just in time. This honesty bit was getting old. It was one thing suddenly to be able to express my anger constructively. It was quite another to blurt out insulting and obnoxious remarks to potential customers. I would have to be careful from now on. Very careful.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “I was about to say that the house is fairly priced,” I said, trying not to choke on my words. “Waterfront property is very scarce these days.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “I’d like to see the house. Naked ladies and all. Could you show it to me?”

  “I’d be delighted, Mr.—”

  “Bettinger. David Bettinger.”

  David Bettinger. It didn’t ring a bell. Must be new in town, I guessed.

  “When would be convenient for you?” I asked, barely able to suppress my amazement. I couldn’t get over the fact that somebody—anybody—wanted to see the Nowak house! I couldn’t wait to tell Suzanne.

  “How about this afternoon,” said David Bettinger. “Say, around three o’clock?”

  “That sounds fine. Of course, I’ll have to call the homeowner to make sure it’s all right with him.”

  “I understand. Why don’t you call him and call me back,” he said, then gave me his telephone number.

  I tried to reach Frances Lutz, the listing agent, but only reached her answering machine. I assumed she was home but not picking up the phone, as was often the case when one of her beloved game shows was on TV. The woman was as addicted to “Wheel of Fortune” as she was to Hostess Twinkies.

  When I couldn’t contact her, I called Mr. Nowak directly. He said that he wouldn’t be home at three, but that it was fine to show the house as long as we were careful not to touch his nude women.

  I dialed Mr. Bettinger’s number with the good news.

  “It’s all arranged for three o’clock,” I said. “Why don’t we meet at my office and drive over to the house together?”

  “Sounds perfect, Barbara.”

  I loved the way he said my name. Bah-bar-ah. It sort of rolled off his tongue, like very rich ice cream.

  “I look forward to meeting you, Mr. Bettinger,” I said, and meant it more than I can explain. There was something about his voice, about the way he spoke to me, that inspired visions of long, decadent dinners and walks along the beach in the moonlight and—

  “David,” he insisted. “Please call me David.”

  “Of course. David.”

  “Until three then,” he said in his deep baritone, which sent pleasurable little vibrations up and down my spine and made me reluctant to hang up the phone.

  But I did hang up and, when I did, I looked down at the doodles I had scribbled on my pad while we’d been talking. I had, without realizing it, written “David Bettinger loves Barbara Chessner” inside a big, dopey heart!

  Why on earth did I do that? I asked myself. I didn’t even know the man, never mind that Mitchell had only been out of my life for a few hours. What was I doing fantasizing about a customer I’d never laid eyes on? Was I that hungry for affection? Or had I written David’s and my names in that heart because I was compelled to do it? Because something made me do it?

  I ripped up the sheet of paper and reminded myself that I was a professional real estate agent who had better start concentrating on business if she wanted to make this deal. Still, I couldn’t help wondering if David Bettinger looked as good as he sounded and whether my luck was finally about to change.

  Chapter 5

  I had never met a man like David Bettinger, but then the men in Banyan Beach weren’t exactly the cream of the crop.

  The good old boys I’d grown up with tended to be rather limited; their idea of a big career was bagging groceries at their neighborhood Winn Dixie. And the men who’d only recently moved to Banyan Beach tended to be either retirees or golf addicts. Which explains why I’d ended up with Mitchell Chessner.

  Mitchell was different, more ambitious than the other locals. He spoke in complete sentences. He read The Wall Street Journal. He had goals. Unfortunately, what he didn’t have was a personality.

  David Bettinger, on the other hand, was so charming that I wondered if I’d conjured him up—as comic relief. When I first saw him, I actually started laughing.

  He was ridiculously handsome, like something out of a cartoon: lustrous golden hair that curled up the back of his collar; a strong, square jaw; an even, lightly tanned complexion; gleaming white teeth; and deeply set, mesmerizing brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes. He was fortyish, I guessed, and in terrific shape. He was tall—six feet or so—with broad shoulders, slim hips, and an absolutely flat stomach. There wasn’t even a hint of a paunch beneath the white cotton polo shirt t
ucked inside his crisp khaki slacks.

  And when he smiled…Well, picture Robert Redford doing his Hubbell Gardner act in The Way We Were. David Bettinger’s smile was even more implausible. And then there was The Voice. Deep, baritone, velvety smooth.

  “So you’re Bah-bar-ah,” he said, shaking my hand when he arrived at Home Sweet Home at five minutes of three. “It’s nice to put the face with the voice.”

  “For me too,” I said, trying not to fawn or gawk or appear awestruck. The trouble was that David was awe-inspiring. He gave off something—a presence, a power, a magnetism, something that made you reluctant to look away from him. He had an aura of absolute deliciousness, and standing next to him was like standing next to a six-foot-tall bar of imported white chocolate. It was hard to keep my tongue in my mouth. He was that rich and creamy and decadent. An indulgence.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said, gesturing for David to sit in the visitor’s chair opposite my desk. “I’d like to jot down some information before we go and see the house.”

  “Fine,” said David as he lowered himself into the chair, then crossed his legs. I could feel his eyes on me, assessing me, appraising me, appraising my voluptuous figure which, as recently as the day before, hadn’t been so voluptuous. “What would you like to know?”

  I pulled out a blank file card. “Well, let’s see. I’ve got your name and phone number, but I’ll need your address, in case I want to mail you a brochure on some of our listings.”

  “It’s a temporary address,” he said. “I’m renting a house on River Road. Sixty-three River Road.”

  River Road. Very upscale, I thought as I noted the address on the file card.

  “Are you new in town?” I asked.

  “Yes. I just moved up from Palm Beach,” he explained as he ran his fingers through his hair, which seemed to emit little glints of light, as if it were a halo. “I’m renting until I find my dream house.”

  “Well, let’s hope that 46 Pelican Circle turns out to be that dream house,” I smiled, trying to picture David Bettinger living in the Nowak house. It was like trying to picture Prince Charming in a Winnebago.