Open House

by Ruby Lang

  She kept watching him as if trying to figure him out, and for some reason her scrutiny made him blush.

  He ducked his head. “They certainly keep trying.”

  Ty had enough to deal with emotionally when it came to his own fractured family—he wasn’t about to allow the gardeners to get too close, no matter how many welcoming lures they sent out. Not that this stranger needed to know that. The garden was his place to relax, haul some dirt, make pleasant conversation. That was it.

  He said abruptly, “So, I believe we have plots available, volunteer hours if you’d prefer that. What are you most interested in doing here?”

  She was definitely not meeting his eyes now. Had he been too curt? She fiddled with the strap of her bag before finally looking him full in the face. “Actually, I’m not really looking to join, per se.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s no problem—” He was blushing again. What the hell?

  “It sounds wonderful, but—”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s not like I’ve really committed—”

  “That’s not it. It’s because I’m here to help sell it. I’m here to try to sell the lot.”

  Chapter Two

  Later That Day

  It was a short subway ride up to Magda’s mother’s apartment in Inwood for Sunday dinner. By the time she let herself in with her key, the place was buzzing with chatter of her older sisters and their families.

  “It’s Magda, and she’s dolled up,” Flora yelled as she came to kiss her younger sister on the cheek.

  It was funny that Magda was the one who often showed up at dinner wearing her fancy business-lady attire; her sisters Flora and Alma, both in capris, were attorneys and probably had more claim to those tailored suits. Flora headed a nonprofit in Brooklyn and Alma worked in family law in New Jersey. Her older sisters were polished and driven, and they had cute kids. And she, the baby of the family—a full nine years younger than Flora—was single. Her sisters and mother saw that as a problem that needed solving, but she was fine with it. It was harder not to compare herself with her older siblings in other ways; while they’d established themselves, she’d taken a more meandering path, accepting odd jobs, dropping out of grad school, out of culinary school. If she were being honest, after today, she was feeling very much like she wanted to drop out of real estate brokering, too. But she couldn’t. All of that student debt wouldn’t let her.

  She decided to avoid her siblings for now and went into the kitchen to kiss her mother. “It smells good in here, Mamí.”

  “You’re going to have to help me. But go and change out of those good clothes before you start.”

  “It’s fine. I can put on an apron.”

  Her mother made a face and pushed her firmly out the door.

  Magda sighed. It was sensible—her mother was kind but no-nonsense. She was a family doctor, widowed before Magda was born, and she was used to being listened to by everyone. Because really, they should. She was also practical and never threw anything out, so Magda went to one of the old bedrooms and found an old T-shirt from high school and a pair of track pants that had probably belonged to Flora. When she entered the living room and dining room to say hi to the rest of the family, she realized she was now underdressed—or at least that she looked more like one of her nephews, even though she’d be turning thirty soon.

  She slipped into the kitchen and took up a position beside her mother, chopping up onions, and after a while, she noticed the kitchen was too quiet and her mother was simply watching her. Never a good sign. A barrage of questions would likely soon follow. Magda said a little self-consciously, “All that culinary training has got to be for something.”

  “Were you at Byron’s house today?”

  “I was. No bites.”

  “You’ll sell it,” Mamí said with her usual confidence.

  She had plenty to be self-assured about. Magda, not so much.

  “I’m pretty sure none of the people who saw it today were interested. I don’t understand. It shouldn’t have been this hard to unload. It’s beautiful. It’s in a great neighborhood.”

  “Byron has always been difficult. He insisted on meeting buyers before going into contract like he was some sort of one-man co-op board. He didn’t like this buyer because he said he’d block up a fireplace. He didn’t like that one because she wanted him to pay for a new washer and dryer. Ariana would’ve told him to get his head out of his behind.”

  “He changed all the light fixtures anyway. But if Tía were still alive, she and Uncle Byron would still be living there and he wouldn’t be selling at all.”

  Ariana had died nearly eleven years ago when Magda was still a teen. But Magda remembered how she’d teased her grumpy husband, and how much he’d adored her.

  Mamí nodded. Magda knew her mom was sad about her aunt. She’d been close to Ariana the way Flora and Alma were close. “If he gives you any trouble, send him my way.”

  Magda sighed. “I can handle him.”

  She couldn’t run to her mother or sisters every time something went wrong—which seemed pretty often with her. Easier to change the subject.

  “I got a new commission today.” Technically Keith had gotten it for her. “It’s an empty lot”—not so empty—“near Byron’s house.”

  She careened on. “That area’s really coming up these days. It’d be a great opportunity”—or it would have been if it weren’t stacked against her—“to put up apartments, or a house. Something really sleek and modern.”

  Her mother lifted a lid and stirred carefully. “That’s wonderful, baby.”

  “It is.”

  She did not feel wonderful. Magda could still feel the accusing stares of everyone in the garden as word had spread. She’d intended to be discreet, get the lay of the land, maybe take a few pictures for reference. But she didn’t want to deceive old ladies and she didn’t want to be a jerk to Tyson, the man who’d shown her around. She’d noted how the tips of his ears had turned red when Mrs. Espinosa had trilled the word single; he’d jammed on his hat as if he knew he was showing those colors. Maybe he knew how vulnerable he looked despite the strength and rugged clothing. He’d looked at her with big brown eyes that had absorbed every word she’d said—and she knew she couldn’t contaminate the waters with dishonesty. She couldn’t lie to someone who was that much of an open book. It didn’t help that she also found him distractingly attractive, with his lean body and long fingers dirty from digging in the earth. She’d tried not to notice the taut cording of his forearms as he’d turned to casually help a fellow gardener, but she was all too human.

  “Let’s hope some of the places they build will still be affordable for people who live there,” Mamí said carefully. “It’s a great neighborhood. Your uncle’s family was there forever and everybody seemed to know everybody else.”

  Magda thought of the easy chatter of the gardeners. “It still seems that way.”

  “Well, it would be a pity to lose that kind of community. But of course, that’s not really your responsibility.”

  It could be. But she was never really held responsible for anything, was she?

  She didn’t say anything more. But Magda knew that later her mother would be relaying everything to her sisters. They all sat down to dinner shortly afterward and for a while, Magda could relax and concentrate on the familiar taste of bistec frito. Soon, too soon, her brothers-in-law were on the couch, and she was sitting with the little ones—of course, they weren’t so little anymore. She had pulled the besitos de coco closer to her and was picking them off one by one while watching Seb, her youngest nephew, play “ThinkRolls.” He held the game out to her a couple of times because he was a good kid, but she held up her hand and pleaded sticky fingers.

  “You can wipe them on my shirt, Tía.”

  Her sisters were still at the table with her mother laughing together about something, their heads
bent together. She heard some names, some words in Spanish, and tried not to eavesdrop on their every word like she had when she was younger. It had always been this way with them. When she was a child, they could stay up later with their mother. When she was a teen, they could come back home and take their mother aside for serious conversations.

  She knew that sometimes they talked about her.

  She glanced at Seb and then down at her own threadbare old shirt. Then she deliberately swiped her fingers on the hem.

  The two shared a smile.

  “Sebastian!” Flora hurried over to them with a napkin. She scrubbed her son’s face, the iPad screen, and then she turned to her baby sister and scrubbed her.

  Then, to add insult to injury, she bustled off with the dessert.

  “Hey,” Magda exclaimed indignantly. But her sister laughed and said, “You’re welcome, Nena,” even though Magda had definitely not thanked her.

  She knew Flora would take her aside later, and Alma would call her during the week. They’d both be encouraging. They’d both have advice. She had sisters who loved her and told her they supported her no matter what she did, especially when what she did was screw up. She was drowning in their indulgence. And if she was frustrated that their expectations of her were so low, well, that was her own fault for never finishing anything, wasn’t it?

  “Magda,” her mother called as the kids started to troop toward the door yelling their goodbyes and accepting kisses. “Do you want to see if your sisters want some of the flan? And make sure you put your stuff back in the fridge afterward.”

  Glad to avoid the flurry, she went to the kitchen. A fleet of plastic containers stood ready on the counter, waiting for her sisters to transport leftovers home. Her mother had already portioned everything out and started to clean up, of course. There was little for Magda to do. Mamí assumed Magda would probably be spending the night, judging by the way she’d bundled Magda’s smaller bag of leftovers in the fridge. It would be easier to stay. Her apartment was in Brooklyn. At the time it had seemed like a good idea to get some distance from the family, but it was proving to be inconvenient since so much of her business was uptown in Manhattan. She could spend the night, then zip down to her office and get an ad together for the lot. She had her suit and her iPad. It would be less of a hassle to spend the night at her mother’s.

  In the end, maybe it was easier to give in to expectation.

  * * *

  “I guess I’m just surprised to find out that my older brother, rule-follower extraordinaire, has been helping a bunch of people illegally squat on land,” Ty’s sister Jenny said, stretching out on Ty’s couch.

  Ty gestured with his chopsticks. “I am going to protest every single word in that sentence. Starting with you saying you were surprised, because you aren’t—you’re clearly amused. Moving onto the part where you called me a rule-follower—”

  “You’re an accountant. It’s your job to make people follow rules and not ordinary ones, either. You work on their taxes,” Jenny said. “Taxes are the ultimate in rules.”

  They were eating cheap American-Chinese takeout on Jenny’s night off from making “authentic” haute Chinese. Whenever it was Jenny’s choice, she gravitated toward greasy and fried. Ty had no objections.

  “Excuse me, I optimize the taxation experience, while keeping in mind that they do help the greater good,” Ty said. “But back to what you said. I also protest the way you said I was abetting squatting. It’s occupation by people from this neighborhood who have an interest in keeping it safe and clean. They saw a problem in the community and they took steps to improve it.”

  “Ri-ight and they don’t benefit from it at all. It’s all altruistic and they don’t cart off big bunches of herbs and they definitely don’t sell them for a profit.”

  “I doubt they’re growing enough cilantro to make a dent in the local economy. Although there is usually a lot of zucchini. You can’t even give it away.”

  Jenny waggled her eyebrows. “So you’re saying that, like dick, zucchini is abundant and low value.”

  “I—I’m going to ignore that lesson in supply and demand capitalism.”

  “Big words.”

  “And I’m going to add that they don’t grow enough to keep themselves fed, much less fuel some sort of underground urban farm economy like you’re suggesting.”

  Jenny pouted. “I was really digging the idea of your running a vegetable cartel.”

  He knew Jenny was baiting him, but he couldn’t seem to stem his earnestness. “We’re not trying to do big business. It’s small. Tiny. But the gardeners benefit. Everyone gets something. That’s the point.”

  “Everyone except the landowner.”

  “The person who owns it does well by not owning a rat-infested garbage hole.”

  “In the end, if they want it to be a rat-infested garbage hole, it’s their right.” Jenny held up her hand. “You can’t protest that. That’s a true statement.”

  “Yeah. But—”

  “Here we go.”

  “Why would the owner want it to be full of junk and rodents, when it isn’t? It’s worth more money this way. But more important, it’s beautiful.”

  “Dad said we were going to get more conservative as we got older, but somehow I don’t think that’s happening with you.”

  Ty grumbled as he got up to help himself to more beef with broccoli. “You are dampening my fire.”

  He sat down again and started chewing, only to stop when he noticed that Jenny was quiet. “What?”

  “I don’t mean to, you know. It’s fun to make fun of you. But I’m glad that you’re so stressed out about this.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, I mean it. The last few years have been hard, with Ma’s cancer, and Dad selling the house and moving back to Taiwan, and well, everything in the world the way it is. The garden has been good for you. Making all these new friends has been great.”

  “We’re not really friends. Besides, you teased me for being nice to old ladies. Which they are not, by the way. There are lots of people of different ages and from different backgrounds there all the time. I didn’t latch onto the gardeners as a substitute for Mom if that’s what you’re saying. I’m very detached, very objective.”

  He sounded a little defensive, even to himself. “This situation has me a little riled, that’s all.”

  “I know. I know. Maybe I’m jealous, even. You have this whole community. All I have is work.”

  “I don’t really.”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. I don’t get attached anymore. My point is that I’m glad you’re taking an interest. You’re not sitting stoically getting it done, like what was happening with us, with Dad, three years ago. You’ve even got a whole new wardrobe for the garden—like, Henleys and hats and cargo shorts.”

  “The cargo shorts have lots of pockets. It’s practical.”

  “Practical. Right. You’ve been dressing up for the ladies. And now you’re all fired up—as you put it—to defend them. It’s like you’re undergoing some sort of superhero make-under. It’s sort of great.”

  “Well, I don’t feel wonderful about having to do it. I liked it the way it was before. I enjoyed not being angry and worried.”

  Maybe enjoyed was too strong a word, but all the feelings he had now were definitely too much at once. He’d never stopped to think much about the garden having an owner and neither had anyone there, it seemed, until that real estate broker, Magda Ferrer—he’d been sure to find out her full name and which brokerage she worked for from Mrs. E—had shown up with her suit and her smile. He could picture her even now; coming through the gate of the garden, and while recalling the rush of wonder, he could feel the disappointment. She’d seemed so intrigued by the garden, so interested in talking to him; it turned out the whole time she’d been gathering information, casing the joint, like some sort of fem
me fatale.

  He was an idiot.

  His beef with broccoli was congealing at the bottom of his bowl.

  “This is crap,” he said.

  “You could always cook for me.”

  He got up and began closing up the takeout containers. “I want you to take some of this home,” he said. “You don’t eat enough during the week. And okay, it’s not the healthiest but—”

  Jenny rolled her eyes.

  He picked up the dishes and went to the kitchen to wash up.

  He chose one feeling to deal with: his worry, and followed that. Mrs. Espinosa’s son was supposed to be doing a search to see who the owner was, but even if they turned up that information, what could they do? The gardeners had dispersed quickly after Magda Ferrer had made her announcement, and later that evening, the worried texts started appearing on his phone. They ranged from panicked questions about whether they should dig up their plantings and move them to their stoops and balconies, to suggestions that they form a human barricade against the oncoming bulldozers. Mrs. E had messaged him to say she might go down to Magda Ferrer’s office to give her a piece of her mind, and he had convinced her to at least postpone it until they had more information.

  Well, at least Mrs. E wasn’t trying to set him up with Magda Ferrer anymore.

  He agreed to attend a meeting for the next evening to figure out what they could do even though he wasn’t really a member. It was probably going to be chaos, but Mrs. E asked him and he couldn’t say no to her.

  “Follow the money,” he murmured to himself. “That’s what we’re going to have to do.”

  From behind him, Jenny clapped.

  “Yes. You’re even spouting taglines.”

  It was his turn to roll his eyes at her. But at least she was following his advice and packing up the leftovers to take home.

  “I’m just trying to think things through,” he said.

  He followed her out to the hallway.

  “My brother the L.L. Bean superhero,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.