Chapter 13: Tuesday

I woke up Tuesday morning to my phone ringing. “Tina this is Mr. Daniels. How are you?” I looked at my clock. After six a.m., but not by much. What was the time difference in Michigan? He didn’t wait for my reply. “I wanted to let you know I got hold of the locksmith yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want to disturb you though, so I waited until today.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I thanked him and assured him I would look at his house and tell him what it he could sell it for by the end of the day.

Three hours later, Dee and I were sitting in my car in East Phoenix in front of a 1951 dilapidated home. Weeds were the only vegetation growing in the sparse yard. I was reminded of old westerns where the tumbleweed sadly rolls across the vast expanse. In this case, no self-respecting tumbleweed would be caught dead in a place like this. There was an old mattress and a bowling ball and some broken beer bottles in the driveway. The front walk had been bombed by a pigeon squad.

The exterior of the house needed, at minimum, a coat of paint. But, it looked like it would be happier being scrapped and rebuilt. The locksmith had graciously given me the keys. With a smirk, he assured me he locked the place up. And now I realized it just didn’t matter. The front window was missing. The other two front windows, presumably bedroom windows, were broken and the front door itself had bands of rotted duct tape around it, holding it together from where it had been kicked in on more than one occasion.

“Did you bring a camera?” Dee asked, holding one by the strap around her index finger. I shook my head and she started snapping pictures.

We walked over the threshold, wary of anything we might find. The good news was we weren’t going to find anything. There was nothing left. The carpet had been ripped up, exposing squiggly glue lines on the concrete. In the kitchen there was a pipe sticking out of the wall where a sink—if there had been one—would be. In fact, not only was there no sink, but no counters, no cabinets, no stove, no light fixtures. Dee, who had been wandering the back of the home, came up behind me, snapping more pictures with her digital camera. “Well, they left the pottys but nothing else.”

I groaned.

The back yard was surrounded by a four-foot chain link, with oleanders flanking the sides. The ground was the hard barren earth, mirroring the front yard. Except back here, along with a variety of debris, there were three dead cars. Directly behind the property was a vacant lot looking out on to

Thomas Road

. Dee pointed to the lot. “I believe that space is used for a weekend flea market.” Great.

I strolled around to the side yard, mouth agape, wondering how the hell was I supposed to sell this dump. As I was walking back, I noted the patio posts were rotted, thinking it didn’t make a difference at this point.

Dee suggested we drive the neighborhood looking for other houses for sale and checking their curb appeal. Everything we saw was clean and in decent condition. “Not to worry,” She said. “There is a buyer for every house.” I wondered briefly who would buy a house al a carte?

After stopping to get the pictures processed and grabbing a couple bottles of water, we were back at the office. Walking past Val, we got the thumbs up signal. The bullpen was busy with a handful of people using the place. In fact, I saw more agents working—that is, using the computers and on the phone—than I had seen in the past week. We put our things down at one of the open desks and beelined to the vacant computer where Dee showed me how to pull up comparable properties. “Now the work begins.”

She wasn’t kidding. I ended up talking to two appraisers (thank you again Jet), asking their take on a house missing the guts. Then, I went to some home improvement Web site, trying to figure out how much it would cost to put a kitchen back together.

Dee cautioned me to try to make the kitchen fit the neighborhood and not to put the fanciest and best into the house. “Think mid-range appliances,” she said. It struck me as odd that not only was I thinking top of the line, but Dee seemed to know it. Mother’s kitchen never saw anything resembling Kenmore. Reading my mind, she patted my shoulder, “Common rookie mistake.”

With all my facts, figures and my 3 x 5 color glossies at my fingertips, I gathered up my courage and called Mr. Daniels. “This is Mr. Daniels…” the voice mail started. My lucky day! Leaving a message, I alluded to the chaos I found, hoping it would be motivating enough for him to call back soon.

It was noon when I headed home, already exhausted. I hadn’t seen Laura or the boys in two days. I was having Bruce and Buddy withdrawals and was looking forward to leg hugs and their sweet laugh.

Pulling into my driveway, my phone rang, “Christina.” Mother said, and I knew something was amiss. “I was thinking, maybe you could come home for Thanksgiving. I could ask Marie to make your favorite sweet potato pie.”

“Mother, it is August. Why are you calling?” I asked, testily.

“I just need to make plans. It is never too early.”

Oh yes it is! “I am pretty sure I won’t be able to come. Price Bargains is retail. The day after Thanksgiving is a big shopping day.” I shook my head at such an obvious ploy. I had just been sucked into this conversation and didn’t see it coming.

“That job of yours—”

Remembering Sunday, I sighed. “I miss you too. Can we talk about this some other time?”

Her tone softened. “Maybe you could come home sometime sooner. Thanksgiving is a long time away.”

“I will see what I can do. Hey! Guess what? I have a new client. And,” I added with a bit of drama, “He’s an investor.”

“Oh wonderful Christina!” she gushed. “I knew you could do it. An investor? That is great.” I rolled my eyes at Mother’s fickle turn-around. Investors were a different breed. Investors were the type of people she approved of. Now real estate was a good vocation. I promised to call later in the week, thrilled I could give her something to brag to her friends about.

My door had a sticky note attached, “Babysitting tonight? M” I blushed, happy Matt had thought enough to drop by. I scribbled a quick “Yes!” and popped it on his door. Better than e-mail—if I had a computer.

I hadn’t been in my studio five minutes when Laura knocked. It was one of the interesting things about our relationship. She knocked on my door, but I always walked into her house. She told me to come in, saying she would never hear me knocking anyway. I returned the request, but she shook her head, “It is your bedroom.” And kitchen, and living room.

“Hi, are you home for the day?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I need to go in a little early.” She added hastily, “I can call my mom if you want.” I assured her, it wouldn’t be necessary.

She waited a beat, trying to find the right words. “Look, I don’t care if Matt comes over. I know him. But, please don’t bring strange men over when I am not here.” She had a pleading look. Embarrassed, I looked down. I was about to apologize about Jet when she continued, “It isn’t because I don’t trust you. It is just, just, well, I would rather first meet anyone who comes in my home and meets my kids. I hope you understand.” I did. It was her home and her children.

“If it would be ok, I think Matt might come over tonight. He left a note on my door.” I said, blushing.

Laura grinned, “He’s sweet on you,” she sing-songed. My face went red thinking back to Saturday night’s wine-induced confession. Her face went blank, but the mischief stayed in her eyes, “Don’t fight it. But don’t bang him until the kids are asleep either.”

Tuesday night, Matt played with Bruce and Buddy while I went through the obituary list. I had tried a few different approaches, but settled on not telling them I knew there was a recent dearly departed. Jet had recommending cutting to the chase. “I know your aunt Matilda died, do you know what will happen to her property?” He said, coaching.

Jet was the type, I decided, who did better being blunt. I went with the there-is-someone-in-my-office-who-might-have-a-buyer-and-might-be-interested-if-you-had-something-to-sell approach. So far, it had netted me several rude comments and even more hang ups.

“You never give up.” Matt chuckled, listening to my last sad attempt to captivate a potential client. I was close.

Frustrated, I looked at my list. My plan was to call 15 people each night or go until I had set one appointment, whichever came first. I counted. I was on number 15. Hallelujah! One more hang up and I would be done. I dialed, resolved to finish this.

“Hello?” came a voice at the other end.

I introduced myself, launching into my quick explanation for my call.

“I have a condo I’ve been thinking about selling.” I waited a second to make sure I heard her correctly.

Yes, I had. Mrs. Fields had recently laid to rest Mr. Fields of sixty-six years. Which, I knew because I read the blurb in the paper. She had been toying with moving to San Antonio to be closer to her grandchildren (Angie, Leslie, Clark and Candy the obits read). And, when could we meet to look over her home? We set an appointment for Friday at ten. I got off the phone and turned around to be greeted by eager faces.

“So?” Matt asked. I gave him a thumbs up and was bombarded by hugs from the three men in my life.

I found Laura’s home inviting. It was cozy, warm and eclectic. The furniture was worn and mismatched. There were scratches on the wood work and dings on the walls—even though you wouldn’t find a speck of dust anywhere. The crayon art was proudly, but haphazardly, displayed on empty spots on the wall. Mother would have cringed at the diverse décor, never equating down home doo-dads and Lego sculptures as comfortable.

Bruce and Buddy were as much fun and as different to my world as Laura was. And, I found them as interesting and fascinating. They were unpredictable, sweet and showed unconditional love to anyone. Their family outings consisted of early morning walks to the park. The boys lived for these adventures. It was such a different world than the one I grew up in. Watching the affection Buddy and Bruce showed the people in their life moved me. They had no idea how modesty they lived.

Because of Evan’s unabashed doting and probably to some degree, Matt’s influence, the twins weren’t overly wild and undisciplined. Laura worked hard to do what she could to make up for their lack of father. She didn’t date and was in no hurry to find a replacement for Charlie. She had lamented how she hoped Charlie would be ready to embrace fatherhood as soon as he returned to the free world. However, from what Frieda had confided in me, Charlie was a piece of work. As Frieda lovingly explained, was part of “Laura’s brief wild past.”

There weren’t many people in Laura’s life, but they were quality. For the most part, she kept to herself. For all Mother emphasized appearances and would look the part, Laura was the opposite. She had nothing to prove and acted the part.

With all of the creative chaos I saw with the boys, my childhood was significantly different. Our life was orderly and we were expected to look and act as children of a public figure. Jimmy and I had days filled with activities such as scouts, tennis and swimming lessons. We took finishing classes and we could conduct appropriate small talk by the age of five. We had a house keeper, gardener and part-time nanny.

We knew we were privileged. Mother and Daddy often told us how lucky we were compared to most children—not Shades Crest children, mind you. We had opportunities beyond trips to Disneyland. Our vacations took us to every corner of the Earth. Growing up, if we weren’t jetting to Tahiti or visiting the Serengeti, we were weekending at our lake home in Tahoe.

Being part of the elite had given me the ability to do what I did without adverse results. I had been cocooned from consequence. My teen years consisted of parties where booze flowed freely and drugs were easy to get for those who wanted them. Our parents were either naïve to our activities or turned their backs to anything not fitting their world.

Three days after I walked in on Preston, I had swallowed any shred of pride I went to see him. “Why?” I asked. What had made him unfaithful? Why had he betrayed me? Us? Our future?

The man I thought I loved, quickly ended my fantasy. His words were smug and sanctimonious as he sneered, “Because I couldn’t see myself living such a pristine life. I can’t stand thinking I would be expected to live in the shadow of your daddy’s bank balance. Have you ever done anything without them?” I protested and he cut me off with venom in his voice. “Why don’t you just run home to daddy and he will make it all better.”

I found it amazing he felt his upbringing was somehow so different than mine. I walked out, trembling with hurt and anger. He was wrong about me. I wasn’t the kind of person he described. And later I realized if I ever had told him my secret—the secret I had kept from the man I had planned on spending the rest of my life with—it might have made a difference in how he treated me that day. If I shared my secret with him, I never would have discovered the truth about the kind of man he was.

Safety and security were why I left home. I needed to prove to myself I could be like anyone else. Preston’s words had rung more true than I wanted to admit. Even though I moved away, I knew I would always be welcome back. That is the beauty of family.

But now I had another family. They didn’t replace the ones I left behind. They enhanced it. I was touched at how quickly Laura invited me to her world. Thinking nothing about who I was, where I came from or what I could offer her. She didn’t care my father had been senator of California for twelve years. To her, I was just Tina.

On nights when Laura worked, I slept on the formal living room couch until she arrived, only moving to my apartment when she would wake me. So, when I woke up Wednesday morning, dazed and still taking in my surroundings, I was unsure where I was. It took a moment to register. In the doorway was Laura, haloed by the morning’s light.

I was surprised. Her shift ended at midnight. And, Laura never looked unkept. Today she looked like hell. Her braids long gone, her hair mussed, falling in her face. Her clothes were dirty and her skin smudged.

“Hey,” I said sleepily wiping my eyes.

Laura gave me a grimace. “I need a shower. I feel like shit.” She turned down the hall, walking away from me. Calling over her shoulder she said, “Lock the door please.”

Twenty minutes later, Laura emerged, clean with wet hair. I handed her a mug, the aroma from my special stash of Jamaican Blue Mountain blend wafting up. “Mmmmm…” she said taking in the smell. “Thank you.”

“So,” I started.

Laura was a private person. It seemed personal to pry—though I kept reminding myself she was five hours late.

She sipped her coffee, not saying anything. I waited a few more minutes, slowing drinking my coffee. It seemed like forever before she reacted. “Froot Loops?” She asked, pulling down a bowl.

I shook my head, sticking out a palm. “I’m good.”

“The Hacienda caught fire last night. It burned down,” she said casually, the way she might mention she was thinking about stopping by the store and buying a pair of shoes. She poured her milk and took a bite before making eye contact. Not waiting for a response, her eyes were distant, voice monotone. “It started in room 106—which was supposed to be vacant. The fire marshall said it was suspicious, but they were still investigating when I left.” Another sip. “Nobody was hurt.” She ended as an afterthought.

“Holy shit.” I muttered.

Laura didn’t seem to notice. “I need a vacation. I think I am going to take the kids and go away for a bit.”

“Where are you going? How long will you be gone? Why?” Hell, I thought, I sound just like Mother.

She paused, scooped a spoonful of cereal and washed it down with the end of her coffee. I instantly refilled.

“Thanks,” she said about the coffee. “I am going to visit my dad in Cheyenne. The boys haven’t seen him in a while. It will be fun. I will be gone a few weeks.” Another sip. “And, I now have some free time.”

“What about the Hacienda?” I was nonplussed. Did I just miss something? Her business just burned down. It must be shock.

For the first time that morning she shot me a small smile. “Insurance will take care of the mess. And, Jay—you met him right? My handyman? He will take care of the clean up. I need a break.”

I looked at her. I realized I had never thought of Laura as human. She was nothing sort of miraculous in my book. She was solid. Nothing bothered her. Nothing got to her. Her problems always seemed to run off her back. I liked her because she was tough, durable.

I had watched her managing the Hacienda, running it while her idiot of an ex was sitting on his ass in jail. She handled the books, the staff, the supplies, the payroll. She raised her boys by herself. She kept an immaculate home. There was always food in her refrigerator. Her bills were paid. Her life was orderly. It had never occurred to me she might need time away from her precision life.

I nodded, “I need be at Price Bargains at nine. When are you leaving?”

“Right after the boys wake up.