My Sunday morning started off way too early. The night before, after Laura put the kids to bed, we sat on the front porch with a Price Bargain’s-sized bottle of wine. Our reality becoming sillier with each passing glass.
Matt came over at some point, giving some excuse about us being too loud. I recall saying something to him about his cute tush and Laura giggling uncontrollably. The details were blurry.
Now, after a few hours of sleep, I was woken by an obnoxious noise. Either my phone or my head was ringing. I decided both as I glanced at my alarm clock. Not even 8:00. Somebody better be dying. “Hullo?”
“Tina!” the way too perky voice said in my ear. I grunted, willing Amy to a painful death.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you? Oh my gawd. I am so sorry. I figured you would be up. I wanted to catch you before church.” Even with my colossal headache, I smelled a trap. I hadn’t given her my cell number.
“What’s up?” I said, fumbling with the bottle of aspirin I kept in my purse.
“My Mom heard from your mother that you got your real estate license—I can’t believe you didn’t call and tell me. I was thinking if you needed any help… You know, we could maybe meet up for Mass and lunch after like old times.” Even through my hellacious headache, I knew I was being set up.
For the first twenty years of my existence, I had seen Amy Schaeffer at St. Gabriel’s and then at brunch afterwards with our parents at Castlemoor Country Club. Except when forced to by our mothers, we never as much as said hello.
I looked around for a camera. If this was a joke, someone was going to pay. “There are no old times,” I said dully, becoming more thankful with each passing second to the person who invented aspirin.
“Well, we could start our own tradition. After all, I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”
I could. Several.
Amy continued. “Where do you go for church? I could meet you, or you could come to mass with me.”
Bingo. There was the snare.
“I go to Saint— Say, Amy, how long did it take you to become a million dollar producer?”
Amy belted out a condescending laugh, piercing through my hangover. “Well, I made it in eight months, but that was quite an accomplishment.” I did the math. Jet was right. It wasn’t a big deal. “So, tell me. How is it working for you? Is your team together? Tell me, who is your loan officer?”
I winced at “team.” I could see Amy and Wendy as best pals, practicing the subtle nuances of each script (not that I knew of any subtle or obvious nuances, but there probably are). “I am working with this guy, Jayson Tyso—“
“Jet Tyson! You are working with Jet Tyson?” Amy screeched. I pulled the phone away from my ear. “I can’t believe it. How, Tina? How? How did you get in with him?”
It is official, this was a prank and at some more sane hour, someone was going to pay dearly for this.
“Um… are we talking about the right person here?” Though, I had never heard of anyone else, ever, going by the name, “Jet.”
Still three octaves higher than her normally annoying voice, she said, “Of course. He’s a legend.” She said it the same way one might talk about some Hollywood starlet. “Tina, just how did you do it? I have sent him three loans and he has refused to even look at every one of them. Jet Tyson is like the best loan officer. He is known for how he can get loans done. He is, like, the best, Tina. I tell you. Everyone wants to work with him. You have just got to get me in.”
I listened in disbelief, absorbing this. The image of Jet playing invisible with Bruce and Buddy came to mind. “So, you’ve met this guy?” I asked tentatively.
Amy was quiet for a beat. “No, not in person” she admitted. “You really are working with him? Right?” She asked, skeptical. “You aren’t just pulling my leg. Because, Tina, it would be the meanest thing you ever did to me.” The meanest thing? Did she not remember Jeff Boxman?
“I met him Wednesday and had lunch with him on Friday.” And he came over and babysat my roommate’s kids Friday night so I could waste my time hanging out with my sales manager. “I just want to make sure we are talking about the same person here.”
Amy caught the bait. “You had lunch with him? I don’t believe it. Tina, you have just got to get me in,” she repeated. “Tell me,” she giggled like we were best friends sharing a close secret, “I hear Jet looks just like Orlando Bloom.”
No, more like a taller, skinnier Adam Sandler with longer hair. I rolled my eyes. “Oh, absolutely.”
She squealed something inaudible. “I hear he has a super-secret office and nobody knows where it is—but I think Scottsdale Aspen , Venice and Kauai . He is like, the Donald Trump of loan officers—just completely business savvy.” Her voice became breathy, “But, he is really picky about loans. And, I hear he only works with certain agents and everything has to be on his terms. So, like an endorsement from Jet Tyson will carry you far.”
Far from what? I don’t recall Laura even being the least bit impressed when I mentioned I found a loan officer to work with. Wendy’s reaction puzzled me. But, everything about Wendy was confusing.
Amy was still talking, “But, he is, like, the best. He can get any loan done—even for special people, if you know what I mean.” And as if she needed to define it, she stated, “You know, people in tricky situations.” I envisioned her describing Carl—and I wondered if her euphemisms would be similar.
“I hear he is like, magic,” she whispered with an awestruck tone. “I heard from the rumor mill Jet is very discerning with his team. So, no offense, I don’t understand why he would work with you—of course there is nothing wrong with you.” She added hastily. “It is just that you are new and everything.”
“He is good.” I said, playing her. “He even offered to teach me a few things about the trade.”
“SHUT UP!” she screeched. I moved the phone away from my ringing head and put it back just in time to hear Amy’s tone change. “Look Tina, can you get me a meeting with Jet? I know if I can just get in front of him, I can convince him to work with me.” Silence. “I will do anything. Name it.”
I wasted no time. “I want a client. And, a good one too. Amy, bring me a client—a motivated client and I will see what I can do. But, no promises. I can’t control Jet. Like you said, he’s like magic.”
Amy was quiet for a moment. Weakly, she said, “Ok. I will see what I can do. But, you will get me a meeting right?”
I promised to do my best and she said she would call me later in the week. Then, I flopped back in bed, not ready to face the world.
It was twenty minutes later when the phone shrilled again. “What?” I whined, figuring it was Amy.
“Christina, it is so nice of you to help Amy.” Mother gushed.
I didn’t fall for it. “You put her up to find out if you needed to worry about my immortal soul. Well, you don’t.” But I wasn’t going to church that morning anyway.
She threw the guilt bucket my way, “Christina,” she practically whispered, “Well, I guess we will be praying for you today.”
I rolled my eyes and prayed for patience—which as far as I was concerned was my obligation for this Sunday. I groaned a little louder than I expected. “I guess you will.”
“Don’t you get smart with me!” she snapped.
Shit. I stepped into Mother’s trap. “I expect some respect, Christina. We don’t ask much. It would be nice if you would honor our Lord.”
Mother couldn’t resist. Appearances included who saw me at Mass.
She took in a breath as I braced myself for round two. With my soul completely covered, I kicked myself for not being quick enough to figure out the next verbal fling. “It doesn’t take much to respect our wishes and call once in a while. Do you think I like hearing how things are going for you in Phoenix
I talked to Mother three times a week. She knew the major events in my life. But, the fact is, what I was doing now was too unfamiliar to her. Mother related only to the life I left behind. As far as she was concerned, I was just passing time. To me, I was standing on my own two feet.
“You are working at a grocery story and now you want to sell real estate. Is this what you plan on doing with your life?”
The sting spiraled through me. The subtext obvious. I hadn’t lived up to my potential. This wasn’t what she wanted. In my quest for independence, I inadvertently made her look bad. I wasn’t married (which she couldn’t possibly consider feasible under the circumstances, could she?) and I had changed from the dead-end job in Shades Crest to a duel dead-end job and a snake-oil saleswoman in Phoenix Dad dy put toward rearing me. Well, if they wanted a refund they would need to stand in line behind Carl, MasterCard and the State of Nevada
What was I supposed to tell them? Should I tell them about visiting Carl and slamming my check down on his desk before he can stick his hand up my skirt? Should I tell them their lives would be in mortal danger if I didn’t make my weekly payments? At what point was this of value?
Then it hit me. I realized, she felt me leaving home was a personal affront. As if I had walked out on the years of loving parenting, thumbing my nose at her as the door slammed behind me. The ultimate betrayal. Did she not think I knew how important a mother’s job was? Well, no, I reasoned. I guess she didn’t.
I had no way of explaining I left because I was grateful. Grateful for everything they had done for me. It was my job to live in Shades Crest and to act the part of the good, but jilted daughter. I was to hang around there, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the next pompous ass to come along and then throw me over at the last second, telling me what a spoiled rich girl I was. And, trust me; pompous asses were plenty in Shades Crest.
Two blessed hours later, I was woken by the sweet laughter of mother and children, as I heard Laura and the kids leave for the day. I knew they were going to the water park and later, a barbecue at some Hacienda employee’s home. Today, the house was mine.
It was time for me to get to work. I had picked up everything I needed for painting yesterday, tape, paper, rollers, brushes, pan, drop cloth, stir sticks and one gallon of Let Loose Lilac.
I looked around my apartment, not sure where to begin. Truth be told, I had never painted anything before. How hard could it be? At home, if I wanted my room changed, Mother just called the interior decorator and two weeks later, volia! A professional redone room in the most modern colors and style, and I was no worse for wear.
I scanned the room, looking for the easiest wall to paint. The south wall held my outside door and the small air conditioning unit. And, it was a smaller wall, because the bathroom and closet were on that side of my apartment. The west wall was where the kitchen and door to the house resided. Another small wall, but lots of intricate spaces because of the kitchenette counter and cabinets. My North wall looked good. Nothing there except the dresser and the head of my bed. and the East wall had the big picture window. My drapes and my bed lay in front of the window. The North wall won by default.
Moving the furniture out of the way was easy enough. Laying the drop cloth was a cinch. It took some doing with a butter knife, but I got the outlet covers off. It was then I realized I needed ladder.
I nosed around Laura’s house and storage shed. No ladder. A ladder struck me as a masculine toy. Something a man’s man would own. So, off to hunt down Matt. On my way across the street, I reviewed our visit on Laura’s front porch last night. I stopped dead. Mortally embarrassed, hoping there was a way I could disappear before he saw me. No luck. Matt was outside, arms crossed and grinning at me.
The horror of last night crept in before me, as I realized what I had done. Please Lord, please tell me I really didn’t announce to Matt I wanted to fall to my knees and pay homage to his magnificent body while massaging his firm ass. Oh please, tell me that is not what I said. As the picture became less fuzzy in my head I realized… Shit!
I did a one-eighty, and in two paces was back at Laura’s driveway. The hell with Let Loose Lilac. Or, maybe I could stack a few chairs on top of each other to reach the top of the wall.
“Hey Tina.” Matt called from his front porch. I paused before pivoting back around on one flip flop. Facing him, I did a casual half-smile finger wave. Please, please let him not remember. I could feel my face burn with humiliation.
“Hi. I gotta run.” Literally.
I was back to my apartment door when he caught up to me. “What’s up?” he said, grabbing my arm, with an amused grin. “Good morning,” he amended. Now, even his eyes were laughing.
“Morning.” I said pleasantly, feeling my cheeks burn and hoping I sounded normal.
Matt rocked back on his heels, still smiling. “I am surprised you are up so early. You were pretty tanked up last night.”
Ignoring Matt’s amusement, I asked, “Is there any chance you could loan me your ladder?” I explained to Matt about painting the apartment.
Not five minutes later, Matt opened my door. “Knock knock.” He walked in, a folding ladder on his arm. “Where do you want it?” He asked, looking around.
I motioned to a blank space on the floor. Matt set the ladder down. Picking up the paint, he raised his eyebrows, “Let Loose Lilac? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No” I said too quickly, turning away from him right. I certainly told him enough last night. “Thanks for the ladder, I will bring it back when I am done.”
He didn’t take the hint. Matt pulled up a chair from the dinette set, drumming his fingers on the table. He watched a moment. Then said, “You don’t have a lot of experience painting do you?”
I raised an eyebrow. Matt didn’t wait for a response. “You haven’t covered the baseboards—unless you are letting loose on them too.” I did a silent groan. “And, I am just curious, how do you intend to open the paint can?”
Again, he didn’t wait for me to answer, but instead got out his multi-use pocket knife and pried open the can. “Quite purple” he said as we peered into the can. Grabbing a stirring stick, he gave the paint a few quick swirl. “Mind if I take this?” He asked, shaking off the excess paint from the stick. He grinned and raised his eyebrows. His voice deepened, “It reminds me of you.”
“Oh puleeze. When it dries, I will even autograph it.”
“Thanks” he said, rising from his seat. “See you in a while.”
Painting ended up being more fun than a chore. Except for the prep work. The taping alone was annoying. I was being extra careful to tape the floor, as to not get any drops on Laura’s carpet. But, I hadn’t considered the idea one gallon of paint wouldn’t cover the wall. I came to this sad conclusion, as I rolled on my purple paint. The wall was bigger than it looked. And I wasn’t skilled at painting. The new wall color was uneven. I had gone over some of the areas two or three times, and now I was low on paint with one quarter of the wall finished.
As I was figuring out what to do next, the door opened, “Doesn’t Laura want you to keep the doors locked when you are home?” Matt walked in, not waiting for an answer. In each hand was a gallon of paint. “I brought you a present.” He said, holding up the paint cans.
What Matt had brought was primer, more purple paint and a few other painting supplies. “What you first need is primer. It will make your color even,” He instructed, pouring it into the into a new paint tray.
Two hours later, the north and east wall of my apartment were the perfect shade of Let Loose Lilac. Painting, it turns out, was therapeutic. In the time it took me to color my walls, I had released Amy’s manipulations and Mother’s surprise hostility.
Now, I was hungrily eating kung pao chicken and laughing with Matt. We had jumped in Matt’s pool after we were done, cooling off. He had suggested the pool, I had suggested Chinese.
“So tell me,” he asked after polishing off his egg roll and chasing it with his glass’s last bit of milk. We were sitting on opposite ends of his couch, with the classic rock station playing in the background. “How’s real estate?”
I finished chewing, considering my answer. Before I found the right words, laughter found me. “It is…” I considered. “surreal.” I told him about Wendy and going out Friday night, and my buyer presentation with Dale. I told him about my lunch with Jet on Friday—when I realized most of what Wendy wanted to teach me had nothing to do with selling and nobody was as impressive as they think they sound.
I told him about Amy’s almost hero worship over the elusive Jet. “I don’t get it. I met this guy. He isn’t discriminate about loans. He just works when he wants to. It’s like he is a connoisseur of free time.” Matt nodded, listening to me go off.
The rest of day was spent watching movies and hanging out in Matt’s living room. I could feel the chemistry between us, but he wasn’t moving toward it, so I figured I shouldn’t either. I was keenly aware in the past my affections always got me in trouble. I was also keenly aware he had announced only days before he was off the market. After all, I had made my opinion of Matt clear enough the night before. I ended the evening with a warm thank you and a warmer lingering hug.
Let him lead this, I thought, regrettably as our embrace broke up.
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