by Elsa Kurt
Bruce, undeniably relieved to have gotten the better of the two jobs, catapulted to Mae’s side and took the tray from her. He sat her down at the table with a gentleness that was always more impressive when coming from a large man. He left her side long enough to grab a bottled water from the fridge. He pushed it into her shaking hands and told her to drink. She did as he said and took a small sip. From all the stories Keith had told him about Mae, he half expected her to swear or yell, but she was unnaturally quiet. Bruce started to wonder if she was in shock.
“Say something, Huxley,” he told her. Finally, she looked up with those big, round, grey eyes of hers and said, “Do you think it’s true?”
Shit. He froze. He knew it was true. Gina Byrd, Mr. Huxley, and Katrina would’ve been the only others that knew it. Keith Huxley’s extracted promise reverberated in his head. A promise made was a promise kept; that’s what he’d been raised to believe. Was it meant to hold even after death? Bruce couldn’t say. Regardless, the moment to speak had passed because the scrappy girl who had come in with Gina walked into the kitchen and was gawking at the gourmet appliances and long butcher-block island laden with food. Mae watched her. The resemblance wasn’t obvious, not at first. But then her gaze paused and slipped off Bruce and locked on Mae. It was the eyes, their resemblance. Nowhere else, but it was enough.
“You got any more of them meatballs?” That’s what she asked Mae. She had a husky little voice like she hadn’t spoken in a long time or like she’d been yelling for days. Bruce was willing to bet that it had more than a little something to do with exposure to second-hand smoke her whole short life. Mae stared at her with the same look she gave customers who helped themselves to the cookie platter at the café—like they had two heads or something. The silence—really only a second or two—stretched out and hung heavy over the kitchen. The dull murmur of guests continued in the other rooms as if nothing colossal was occurring.
“Hey, kid,” Bruce not unkindly said to her, “I think your mom left, so—”
“So, you’ve gotta go too,” said Katrina from behind him.
Bruce and the kid turned around and looked at her—him, grateful and relieved, her curious—but Mae kept her eyes on the child. Katrina’s eyes were darting between the half-sisters. She tried to look like she was in charge, but Bruce saw the beads of perspiration on her forehead. She walked around him and put a hand on the girl’s scrawny shoulder—not hard, but not exactly gentle, either—but the little shit ducked out from under it.
It got real quiet. The girl had moved over closer to Mae. Trina exhaled loudly and gave Bruce a look that said she wanted him to do something. He threw his hands out and shrugged. He certainly wasn’t about to manhandle the scrawny tike. He cut his eyes toward Mae. It was her house; she had to decide.
“Mae,” he said questioningly.
“What’s your name?” Mae asked the girl.
Bruce thought the kid wasn’t going to answer at first—she just looked at Mae with no expression—then, a mumble. Trina and Bruce leaned in when Mae asked her to repeat it. “Feather.”
Mae asked incredulously, “Your name is…Feather? Feather…Byrd?”
“Feather Anne Byrd. Gina’s got a fucked-up sense of humor.” She shrugged.
If Bruce had been taking a sip of his beer right then, he’d have spit the whole thing out. That was not the language he’d expected to hear out of a kid’s mouth. Despite the situation—or maybe because of it—Bruce started to laugh but then covered it with a cough when he saw no one else was as amused. Trina gave him a look that plainly said, Are you crazy, boy?
Then Mae surprised them all and dryly said, “Yeah, she sure does. I’ll pack you a container. You can take it to go. You tell your mother—”
She stopped there. Bruce didn’t know what she was going to say, none of them did, but whatever it was, she changed her mind. Instead, she filled up three containers full of food and sent her out the back door. “Go on now. I’m sure your mother is waiting for you.”
Feather Anne scoffed and said, “Oh, yeah, I’m sure. See ya around, sis.” Then she was gone. Somehow, they got through the rest of the day, but all three were in a fog. Mae’s head had to be spinning because she never even questioned Bruce’s presence.
A knock at the truck window startled Bruce. An angular man, brown and leathered and sinewy from years of outdoor physical labor, a smoldering cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, stared at Bruce. He rolled down his window and swore, “Shit, Brian. Don’t sneak up on a guy.”
“Sorry, boss. We’re, uh, done for the day here. Fat Chris is gonna come back in the morning for the dumpster.”
“Fat Chris? Why isn’t Skinny Chris doing it today?”
Brian Donavan jerked his head back like a turtle into its shell and grimaced in a way that made his face crinkle like an accordion. He rasped, “One guess.”
“His old lady again? Jesus Christ, those two. She’s crazy, and he’s stupid. Well, whatever, as long as it gets done. Roof looks good. You guys did all right. Am I gonna be pissed when I go around back?”
“Nope, you scared the shit out of them last week. They ain’t fuckin’ up again for at least another two weeks.”
They both laughed, Brian’s turning into a wet cough. Brian was good people; he’d worked for his dad for more than fifteen years and took to Bruce with no trouble, even though the older man had triple the experience than the younger one.
“Yeah, well, for their sake I hope not. Where’s your truck?” Bruce looked around.
“Ricky’s got it. Fucking carburetor. I’m walking back.”
“Bullshit, you are. Gimme a minute, then I’ll bring you back.”
Brian tipped his baseball cap and said, “You’re a good man, Moose.”
Ten minutes later, they were heading back into town. They made small talk—the weather, the Red Sox, the Pats—then Brian casually said, “Hear there’s a fella in town that’s gonna write a book about Chance. That so?”
“Seems to be,” Bruce said tightly.
“Hmm. Hear he’s spending a lot of time at Mae’s too.”
“Yep, he is.”
Bruce turned up the radio, and Bob Seger belted out something about night moves. Brian got the hint, and they rode in silence but for the music. Bruce tried not to care, he really did, yet he found himself blurting, “So, what else you hear? About this guy, I mean.”
“Ah, well, probably the same you’ve heard.” Bruce shot him a skeptical glare. “All right, all right. I may have heard he’s going to be staying at Mae’s house while he does his writing stuff. And that they seemed pretty chummy, but I’m sure it’s just idle gossip. You know how women are.”
“Just the women, huh?” Based on what Bruce had seen over the years, the men were just as bad, if not worse. If women cackled and cawed like hens, then guys definitely crowed and clucked like roosters when they got ahold of a tasty morsel of information.
“So, you met him yet? The writer?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what? I don’t know, he’s a guy. Old,” Bruce realized that William Grant was probably Brian’s age and amended, “older. He pays too much attention to Mae. I can tell you that much.”
“And you don’t? Settle down, kid. I’m teasin’ ya. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
Bruce grunted in reply, and they drove the rest of the way in silence. After dropping Brian off at his sister’s, Bruce took the long way around town to get to his dad’s house. He might be able to postpone the visit, but he couldn’t avoid it all together.
“Coincidence that the long brings me past Mae’s house,” he muttered. Bruce was rewarded with the sight of Mae walking up to her sidewalk…and punished by the view of William Grant walking companionably beside her. He didn’t slow down or call attention to himself, but Mae turned anyway. Their eyes met, and she gave a friendly wave. However, her eyes held his in wary surprise. Bruce half-heartedly returned the wave and kept driving.
&n
bsp; Chapter 10
AVOIDANCE AND CONFIRMATION
Miles pulled into his parking space, the nose of the black Mercedes nearly touching the signpost that read: ‘Reserved for Miles Hannaford, Broker.’ He loved that sign almost as much as the one that hung above the door of his building. Hannaford Realty in gold-colored script—Lucinda Calligraphy, he chose it himself—below that, ‘Where Dreams Become A Realty.’ He often had to point out his little play on words, most people were so unobservant.
Brianna was already there, leaning impatiently against the passenger door of her custom color—“It’s called cashmere,” she told anyone who’d listen—Limited Edition Jeep Grand Cherokee. Her hair and nails were salon perfect, her outfit—cream-colored, wide leg linen pants and breast-hugging, robin’s egg blue blouse—like something off a Saks 5th Avenue mannequin.
“Hey gorgeous, waiting long?” His eyes were on her breasts.
“Eyes up here, asshole. Yes, I’ve been waiting long, long enough to notice that you spelled ‘Reality’ wrong. Look, you forgot the ‘i.’ Nice job,” she scoffed.
“No, it’s supposed to—never mind. Here,” he tossed her the keys which she caught awkwardly, “let yourself in. I got some stuff in the trunk I gotta bring in.”
He didn’t really need to bring in the signs in the trunk. He was stalling. The thing was, Brianna was hot, no question about it. Hell, she was even hotter now than she was in high school. But Ricky was a good guy. And he was built like a house. Not that Miles lacked in any physical capacity. Shit, he was a God damn specimen. Twelve percent body fat. He ran a seven-minute mile, benched two-forty, and was half an inch shy of six feet. Not to mention his full head of thick, wavy, sandy-blond hair. Yes, Miles Hannaford was a fucking specimen, all right. There was a long line of satisfied ladies to attest to that. Including Brianna, who’d come back for more. Which was the problem.
He’d thought their hook up—hook ups—were nothing more than two old friends letting off some steam, having a little fun. Then Brianna went all kinds of crazy. Calling him every day, showing up at the office. Jesus, she even brought him muffins at an open house. That was when he knew he had to set her straight. However, Brianna Baker was scarier than her super-devoted and super-big husband, and making himself scarce hadn’t worked out so well. Then when Mae asked him about the kid, he knew he couldn’t avoid her anymore. He needed to know.
“You’ve been avoiding me, Miles. Why? Don’t be a fucking chickenshit, either. I mean, I thought we had something here. Are you fucking Rosalind Waterman? Just tell me if you are.”
Brianna had hit him with a stream of questions and accusations before the door had even closed behind him.
“Jesus, Bri. Calm the fuck down, will you? I wasn’t avoiding you. I—I’ve been busy. Like, so busy. Four closings this week, listing the Jenson property, drawing up contracts for—”
“Answer my question, Miles. Are you fucking Rosalind Waterman?” She’d crossed her arms across her chest and squeezed so that her boobs half spilled out of her top.
Distractedly, he said, “Rosabelle.”
“What?” Brianna spat the word out, looking at him as if he’d gone mad.
“It’s, uh, Rosabelle, not Rosalind,” rousing himself to focus, he added in an insulted snip, “and no, I’m not fucking her. She’s afraid of her own shadow, for God’s sake. One look at the Magic Miles package and she’d have a heart attack.”
“Okay, so you’re a pig, first of all. Second of all, do you hear what you’re saying? You’re basically saying to me that you would fuck her if she weren’t scared of—of…you’re an asshole, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. Twice now, by you.” Miles was getting sick of her crazy routine. Fucking women, man. “I don’t get you, Bri. You’re the one who said, ‘Hey, let’s have a little fun,’ remember? You came on to me. ‘No one has to know,’ remember saying that? Or how about, ‘No strings attached?’ I mean, what the fuck, Bri?”
And just like that, Brianna Baker started to cry. The ice queen veneer was just that. Under his breath, Miles muttered fuck and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk and handed it to her. He patted her on the shoulder, which she took as an invitation to fall against his shoulder in not-so-delicate sobs.
In between each burst, the barely decipherable sentence fragments came out. “…I just thought that we…” Then, “He’s always working, and I’m always alone with…” And, “…why don’t you want me…”
Miles waited her out, murmuring platitudes and patting her back, all the while checking the clock on the wall. He had an appointment in forty-five minutes. Finally, she composed herself with a shuddered sigh.
She dabbed at each eye, sniffed once, and straightened. Her icy veneer returned so fast it made Miles step back. Coolly, she said, “I don’t know what came over me. Obviously, this has to end. We can’t keep…you know.”
Miles’s relief was palpable. However, there was still one nagging question, the one he’d like to say Mae put in his head but had wondered it himself a time or ten.
“Bri? I gotta ask you something. It’s crazy, I know, but is—”
“Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’m glad we had this talk, Miles. I feel like we really just, like, brought clarity to this…situation. Closure, right?”
Miles blinked rapidly for a second. It was such a quick turnabout from a few minutes ago that he thought maybe he’d imagined the whole scene. Brianna’s red-rimmed eyes and nose confirmed it, though. His eyes narrowed at her, she looked everywhere but at him. Miles Hannaford was a lot of things—vain, chauvinistic, shallow—however, he was not stupid. Brianna was hiding something.
“She’s mine, isn’t she? The kid. She’s mine, not Ricky’s.”
Brianna paled, then her face flooded with color. Her guard fell for a split second, and Miles saw the answer in her panicked eyes. Then the veil went up again. She swiped her purse off the chair and blustered, “You’ve lost your mind, Hannaford. Straight up lost it. No, Cassidy—that’s ‘the kid’s’ name, by the way—is not yours. She is mine and Ricky’s. You know, Miles, maybe you should go fuck Rosalind, excuse me, Rosabelle. Hell, you should marry her. Have a kid of your own or something. I don’t care what you do. Just leave mine alone.”
Just then the door opened and the Villeneuves—his appointment, twenty minutes early—walked in. Their smiles faltered as their eyes traveled from Miles to Brianna. “Ah, I’m sorry, we’re early…we could come—”
“No, not at all. Come in, Mr. and Mrs. Villeneuve…and little Miss Villeneuve. Have you met Mrs. Baker? Her husband owns Baker Autobody. Out on Route 1? Best in town.”
“Only in town,” Brianna added wryly. She remembered herself and plastered a big, icy smile on—one that didn’t reach her blue eyes. “Welcome to Chance. I’m sure you’re going to love it here.” To Miles, with her smile frozen in place, she cooed, “Miles, so good chatting with you. Ricky and I appreciate all your help listing our house. I look forward to working with Nora in the future—that’s his Number One agent, Mr. and Mrs. Villeneuve. Have a lovely day, everyone.”
She breezed out the door before anyone could say another word. They all watched Brianna’s hip-swaying progress out the door, including the Villeneuve’s little girl, who pointed and said, “It’s the White Witch.”
Her mother quickly and apologetically said, “We’ve been reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.”
“Hmm, accurate. Well, then,” Miles said brightly, clapping his hands together. “Let’s have a seat and see what you’re looking for, shall we?”
For an hour and a half, the couple listed, explained, and described what they thought they were—maybe, sort of, kind of—looking for while their daughter colored with big chunky crayons on a notepad Miles had given her. It was the same thing that nearly every couple came into a real estate office looking for. Something big, but not too big. Three bedrooms, maybe four—either for children or guests. In Pedro and Marisol Villeneuve’s case, it was for the additio
n of twins to their family of three—a fenced-in yard, a quiet street, and because Chance was a coastal town, something by the shore, but not right on it, as that would be too expensive.
“But if there was something close,” Marisol leaned forward and said with a hopeful smile.
“Marisol,” Pedro mildly warned, “remember what we talked about.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she replied, waving a hand at him. Then she spoke in rapid Spanish, shooting apologetic side glances to Miles.
Miles smiled benignly and busied himself with the stack of papers on his desk. The moment to let them know he was fluent in Spanish had passed; saying so now would only cause embarrassment for his almost clients. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before, anyhow. She complained that they were approved for more than what he was willing to spend. He said they needed to stay within a comfortable range and not go crazy just because the bank approved them for it. In the end—whether Pedro Villeneuve knew it or not, his wife would win that argument if she decided to dig her heels in. The woman always did in these situations. Hell, apparently, they won in all cases, because they held all the cards. If they decided to end a conversation, it ended. If they didn’t want to answer a question—a big fucking question too—they didn’t answer. If they—
“Mr. Hannaford?” Pedro and Marisol stared at him expectantly.
“Sorry, ah, yes. So, something close, but not too close…hmm. You know, I think I have a couple places I can show you. Nora won’t be in until noon, but I’ve got some time now if you’d like to see them?”
There was really only one place he had in mind—it was the one he’d intended to show them all along, no matter what they said—but he tossed in a couple more showings for comparisons. Old realty trick. It had six bedrooms, three baths, an in-ground pool—fenced in—and a gourmet kitchen and sat on an acre of land. Not to mention a three-bay garage, half court, an in-law apartment, and was a mere ten-minute drive to the resident’s only beach. Always show them the best first, then nothing else will compare. Another realty trick.