For the moment, Cole ignored them all, looking at Susannah instead. “We’re going to the Kentucky Derby,” he told her with a huge grin. “And then to the Triple Crown. There’s nothing—nothing—that can stop us now.”
OKAY, SO THERE WAS ONE THING THAT MIGHT STOP them, Cole was forced to acknowledge later that night. Or, at the very least, stop him.
“What do you mean there are no rooms left in Louisville?” he cried into the telephone as he poured himself a second celebratory brandy. “It’s a big city. There must be a lot of hotels.”
He heard his travel agent, Melissa, sigh on the other end of the line. Although her agency had closed two hours ago, he’d called her on her cell phone and dragged her out of a wedding reception to make his travel arrangements for his trip to Louisville at the end of the month. Hey, he threw a lot of business Melissa’s way, and she’d told him herself to call her anytime he needed her services. And hell, she had two other sisters who’d be getting married someday. It wasn’t like this was her only chance to be a maid of honor.
“There are indeed a lot of hotels in Louisville, Cole,” she told him, the statement punctuated by what sounded like the ruffle of some stiff fabric. “Hang on a minute,” she added. “I have to shift the phone to my other ear on account of there’s this big-ass bow on my shoulder that’s about to put my eye out. Yeah, sure I can wear this piece of crap dress again someday. Hah.” He smiled as he waited for Melissa’s voice again. “There, that’s better. But there are also a lot of out-of-town visitors in Louisville. Derby is the biggest time of the year for travel to that city. I’m telling you, there are no rooms left. Nothing. Nada. Nil. El Zippo.”
“What’s Susannah doing for lodging?” he asked, knowing Melissa handled her travel account, too.
“She’s staying with some friends of hers in Shelbyville. And their son in Lexington is going to share his apartment with Silk Purse’s exercise boy. But Susannah had to call in a couple of favors even for that.”
Cole blew out an exasperated breath. “Can’t you find a hotel for me in Lexington?” he asked. “That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s only what? An hour or so away?”
“Lexington is also full up.”
“Frankfort?”
“Full.”
“Southern Indiana?”
“Full.”
“How about—”
“Cole,” Melissa interrupted, “there are no rooms within two hours of Louisville. You should know better than anyone how important the Kentucky Derby is to the Thoroughbred industry. People make hotel reservations a year in advance for that. I even tried the fleabag motels. I’m telling you, there is nothing left, hotel-wise.”
Something in her voice made it sound as if all were not lost. “Hotel-wise,” Cole repeated, hopefully. “You say that as if there are alternatives to hotels. What? Like could I get a condo or something? That’d be fine.”
“There are no condos to be had, either,” Melissa told him. “But,” she added, just as he was opening his mouth to say more, “I can get you a house.”
“A house?” he repeated, having never considered such a possibility. Now that he did, however, he kind of liked the idea. There would be more privacy in a house. More freedom. More room to stretch out. Of course, most furnished rental houses sucked when it came to decor, but, hell, he wouldn’t be there all that often. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t lived in dumps before. Years ago, granted, but he didn’t mind slumming for a couple of weeks.
“Yeah, a house,” Melissa said. “Evidently a lot of the locals who don’t care about the Kentucky Derby—”
Don’t care about the Kentucky Derby? Cole thought incredulously. How could a person not care about the Kentucky Derby? Especially someone who lived in the same city where it took place every year? That was just…wrong.
“—will clear out of their houses,” Melissa continued, “and rent them out to people who can’t find hotel rooms or who just want the comfort of a house instead. A few of the houses that go up for grabs are pretty nice, too. Six and seven bedrooms, some of them. Stately old manors. Or new McMansions in gated communities. With country club memberships. Access to pools and golf courses. We’re talking massive luxury for some of these places.”
Cole perked up considerably. Now that was the way to spend time at the Derby.
“Unfortunately, those are all gone,” Melissa said.
Of course.
“Besides,” she continued, “the houses that go up for grabs are only available for the two or three days surrounding the race, and I know you and Susannah are planning to be in Louisville for a couple of weeks. So I did some calling around after you called me, and I found a guy who specializes in Derby rentals. He said he could guarantee me a house for the two weeks preceding the race in an area called the Highlands, which, according to him, is a very nice neighborhood, parts of which are very upscale. And lucky for you, Mr. Real-Men-Don’t-Cook, he said there are lots of restaurants within walking distance of just about every street.”
“Walking distance,” Cole repeated distastefully. She called that lucky? Nobody in southern California ever walked anywhere. That was even more wrong than not wanting to be in Louisville during the Kentucky Derby.
“Anyway, I’ve got the house on hold if you want it,” Melissa said, “and I think you should grab it. I sincerely doubt you’re going to find anything else. Certainly not for two weeks. You really came down to the wire on this, Cole.”
“Very funny,” he replied, though he had to admit that the racing metaphor was apt. He really should have booked a hotel the minute he realized Silk Purse had even a tiny chance of winning Santa Anita. He just hadn’t wanted to jinx it, that was all. Booking a room before having the win in their pocket had just seemed like the perfect way to ensure Silk didn’t win.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
“Don’t you want to know how much it’s going to cost or hear about the amenities?” Melissa asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I need a place to stay. Whatever you have to do to get this house for me, do it. At this point, I’ll take what I can get.”
Two
LULU FLANNERY SCRIBBLED ANOTHER INSTRUCTION ON a hot pink Post-it note and slapped it onto her cable remote control, trying again to recall the precise moment when she’d lost her mind. Oh, right. Now she remembered. It had been the second her friend Eddie told her she could get five thousand dollars for renting out her house the two weeks before Derby. It had been bad enough that she’d succumbed so quickly—and easily—a few months ago when he told her she could get fifteen hundred renting her place out for three days. Now she was agreeing to do it for two weeks.
Greed. It was a heinous little bugger.
However, at some point during the frenzy of housecleaning she’d performed over the last two days to leave the place spotless for whoever would be staying here for the next two weeks, she’d begun to have second thoughts. And then third thoughts. And then tenth thoughts. And then one hundred and fifty-seventh thoughts.
Everything she owned was in her little Highlands bungalow. All her personal, intimate…stuff. Sure, she’d locked up what few valuable items she had—valuable being a relative term, anyway, since they were mostly relative to the term worthless. The actual cash value of Lulu’s valuable possessions probably only totaled around four hundred dollars. But the sentimental value she carried for things like her grandmother’s pearl choker and earrings and her mother’s autographed photo of Dean Martin—even though, alas, it was autographed to someone named Buddy—far outweighed any monetary value that might be assigned such things.
That was beside the point.
The point was that Lulu was about to rent out her home to a total stranger who had no vested interest—financial or emotional—in it. Hence the flurry of note-writing she’d undertaken since waking that morning. She’d wanted to make sure her unknown guest or guests didn’t abuse or misuse—or, okay, use—the things she didn’t want them using. But she’d done her b
est to be polite when saying “Mitts off,” and had taken great care in just how she phrased her instructions.
The note on the cable remote, for instance, said, “Remember, there are no more late fees at Blockbuster, and it’s only four blocks away. Walking is so good for your heart!” The last thing she needed was to be billed for a bunch of pay-per-view movies she didn’t even get to watch herself.
“It’ll be fine, Lulu,” Bree Calhoun said as she tugged closed the zipper on the bag Lulu had packed for the two weeks she’d be spending with her best friend. “Remember, Eddie said there’s a thorough screening process that all his clients have to go through. He’s not going to let some jerk rent your house. He’ll only rent it to the finest of families.”
Lulu threw her a disbelieving look. “Please, Bree. If it meant collecting a commission, Eddie would rent my house to the Manson family.”
Bree made one of those okay-you-got-me shrugs. “Five thousand bucks is five thousand bucks,” she said. “Even after Eddie’s commission, that’s like six months’ worth of mortgage payments in two weeks’ time.”
Good point, Lulu thought.
“Plus,” Bree added brightly, “you get to enjoy the pleasure of my company for two weeks. Not to mention all the luxuries of Casa Calhoun, including, but not limited to, my vast collection of Orlando Bloom DVDs and all the Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches you can eat. Life just doesn’t get any better than that.”
Lulu smiled. It would be fun bunking with Bree at her apartment, she had to admit. It would be like when they were kids having sleepovers. Except this time they could stay up past midnight watching TV without their parents yelling at them to go to bed, and they wouldn’t have to sneak sips of Cella Lambrusco from the bottle in the refrigerator door. After all, it would be so much more mature and tasteful for the two of them to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in their underwear while drinking Bellinis.
“Just let me leave a few more notes for my prospective renter,” she said, “and then we can drop off the keys with Eddie.”
Bree shook her head with enough emphasis to send her long black hair flying. “Lulu, you’ve already left about five hundred notes. Your prospective renter is going to have trouble finding the coffeemaker as it is.”
“Oh, the coffeemaker is off-limits,” Lulu said as she nudged an errant russet curl from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. Unfortunately, it fell forward again, refusing to be contained with the rest of the dark auburn mass she’d tied back with a scrap of black fabric. Her T-shirt, too, was black, and short enough to keep coming untucked from the waistband of the faded jeans that rode loosely on her hips. “I stuck a note on it saying it was off-limits, too.”
Bree rolled her Caribbean blue eyes. Like Lulu, she wore jeans and a T-shirt, though hers was dark red and sported the logo of her favorite brand of beer. “You can’t have the coffeemaker be off-limits,” she said. “That’s inhuman. We the people are entitled to the pursuit of life, liberty, and a cuppa morning Joe.”
“I don’t think that’s in the Bill of Rights, Bree.”
“Well, it sure as hell should be.”
Lulu sighed. She supposed her friend was right. Which probably meant…She screwed up her features a little as she said, “So then I guess I should take the Post-it note off the fridge, too, huh?”
Bree gazed at her blandly for a minute. “I think you’re missing the point here, Lulu. When people rent a house, they kind of expect to have use of certain amenities. Like, say…oh, I don’t know…the appliances. I mean, it’s one thing to lock up your jewelry and bankbook. But whoever’s renting the place, to the tune of twenty-five hundred dollars a week,” she added meaningfully, “is going to expect the use of the kitchen from time to time. And the bathroom,” she added when Lulu opened her mouth to speak again, obviously anticipating what would come next.
With another sigh, Lulu spun on her heels and made her way across the hall to her only bathroom, tugging off the note she’d stuck on the door there. Bree, who’d followed her, shook her head again, more slowly this time, but smiled. “Maybe we should do a final walk-through, just to be sure there’s nothing you forgot.”
Reluctantly, Lulu nodded. And she did her best to keep her mouth shut as Bree removed the sticky notes she had placed prominently on not just the remote, but the television, the CD player, the cabinet holding her dishes, the pantry, and the back door.
“I just painted the deck,” she said by way of an explanation for that last.
“And you have a beautiful backyard that whoever’s staying here will doubtless want to enjoy,” Bree told her. “Especially in the evenings. Our evenings are lovely this time of year.”
“Whoever’s staying here will probably be going to parties in the evenings,” Lulu pointed out. Parties were, after all, one of the main reasons people visited Louisville during Derby.
“Then you won’t have to worry about them using your deck,” her friend replied. “And you can wash the dishes when you come home,” she added, “and the sheets and towels and anything else that might get cooties on it while someone else is staying here. It’ll be fine, Lulu,” Bree said again. “Anyone who can afford to drop that much money for two weeks’ lodging will behave responsibly and take care of your things.”
Lulu told herself to listen to her friend. It wasn’t like she had a lot of priceless antiques or anything. Her house was a two-bedroom, one-bath bungalow from which she had managed to squeeze out a third bedroom in the attic, and it still had some scarring on the hardwood floors and plaster that was chipped in places. But she’d been refurbishing it by herself for almost a year now, and she felt responsible for the place in a way that was almost maternal. She just couldn’t tolerate the thought of some stranger inhabiting it who didn’t care for the house the way she did.
“But what if the renter is someone who has bad karma?” she asked her friend now.
Bree patted her hand. “Your fierce dogma will protect the place.”
“What if the renter is full of negative energy?” Lulu asked.
“Your positive attitude will overwhelm it.”
“What if they do something to mess up all my excellent feng shui?”
“You can ask your chi about that if it happens.”
“What if they break my glass?”
That, finally, seemed to stump Bree. Because it was an important consideration. Lulu made her living—barely—by designing and creating art glass. Her home was full of her work. The more exquisite—and expensive—pieces, she’d carefully packed away and taken to her Main Street studio. But there were too many for her to remove them all.
“If they break it, they bought it,” Bree finally said. She handed what was left of the Post-it notes back to Lulu. “Make a note of that and put it in a prominent place. And then we need to get the keys to Eddie. He said your prospective renter is arriving at five o’clock. And don’t worry,” she added as Lulu penned the last of her notes for her guest. “Whoever stays here will feel right at home. I’m sure they’ll love the place as much as they would their own.”
LULU’S FRIEND EDDIE RAFFERTY WORKED FOR HOT Properties, a three-person agency he’d started with his brother and his partner that the trio ran out of Eddie’s shotgun house in Phoenix Hill. A big chunk of the company’s income was made during the weeks prior to the Kentucky Derby, thanks to their success in renting out private residences, like Lulu’s, specifically for that event. When he wasn’t renting out houses to out-of-towners for that first Saturday in May or selling real estate to locals, Eddie was dressing like Liza Minnelli in her Sally Bowles persona at the Connection downtown, belting out “Cabaret” and tap-dancing with an elegance and finesse Lulu would have envied, had she had any desire to dance on stage in platform shoes before hundreds of people.
Which, of course, she didn’t. Not just because she was more comfortable in her Birkenstock knockoffs, thank you very much, but because the thought of being in the limelight that way frankly made her want to break out in hives. In fact,
being in the limelight like that had once made her break out in hives. Years ago, when she’d been interviewed at a local craft fair for some puff piece on the news, back before she’d realized how much she didn’t like being thrust into the spotlight. Now that she knew she didn’t handle attention well, she avoided it. Of course, that resolution had come too late for the tens of thousands of viewers who’d seen her bloated like a rancid pufferfish on live, local, late-breaking news and were probably still plagued by the nightmares.
Anyway, it was just as well Lulu had chosen the career path she had, cloistered away in her studio where she could create beautiful glass and sell it, both there and from her website online. That way, she had minimal contact with the outside world, and there was little chance anyone would take much notice of her. Certainly, hardly anyone ever stopped her in the grocery store anymore and said, “Hey, aren’t you that pufferfish girl who was on the news that time?”
Because it was rush hour by the time the two women arrived at Eddie’s house, Bree couldn’t park on the street, so she offered to circle the block while Lulu ran inside, relinquished her keys, and signed the rental agreement. Unfortunately, Eddie had a client with him when she entered, so she stood just inside the front door and waited for him to finish.
The entire front of the shotgun house was a glassed-in porch that the business partners had done a passably good job of turning into an office. What walls there were had been painted an inoffensive taupe, the wood trim an even more inoffensive white. The concrete floor had been painted with a faux mosaic, and the late afternoon sun spilled boisterously through the wide frosted panes of the jalousie windows. Charcoal sketches of local landmark homes—completed by Eddie’s partner Devon—dotted the walls. There was a desk situated at each end of the wide room, both comfortably cluttered with computer paraphernalia and paperwork. Eddie had his blond head bent over his work at the desk nearest Lulu, but the other one was vacant as the workday drew to a close.
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