Chapter 15: Tina's Secret

I got home to an empty house and it already felt lonely. I was tired and saddened by the lack of laughter echoing from the rooms. I already missed Laura. I hoped, above hope, she wasn’t too rattled by the fire.

I did the mental geography. If she left this morning she should be somewhere near Albuquerque by now. (Though, I had to question the sanity of driving after a full graveyard shift and wished I had thought to say something to her before I left for work. But, then again, she was the most sensible person I had ever met, so I wasn’t so worried about her doing something stupid.)

I was rummaging through the refrigerator, reminding myself of the nutritional benefits of peanut butter and saltine crackers when someone rapped on the door. Looking up, I saw Matt staring into the home from the front window. I had a fleeting fantasy he might have been keeping an eye out to see when I was getting home. This pleased my sorry ego and I couldn’t hide the grin on my face as I approached the door.

“How’s it going?” He asked, lazily crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe. His blue eyes twinkled. It hadn’t escaped my notice. This was the third time this week he had made an effort to see me. I half grinned a response and invited him in, giving him a run-down on Laura’s impromptu visit to her father. He shook his head, “Laura has more guts than anyone I had ever met.”

“Considering you were a Marine,” I started. He nodded.

“Yep, even considering I was a Marine.”

“How was your day?” He asked, scooting himself on to the barstool and accepting a glass of water from me.

I told him about Amy’s visit at Price Bargains and the surreal pow-wow at Selma’s. And, after quickly running into my room and grabbing the folder Dee, Nancy, Roy and Sebastian had put together for me I showed him the details of our meeting. He leafed through carefully as if it was priceless heirloom instead of paper.

After he was done, I asked him the same, “And, how was your day?”

“I am so glad you asked.” He grinned at me. “I am looking to celebrate and hoping you would be willing join me.” He whipped out his wallet and took out a folded sheet of paper. Handing it to me, he said, “I saw my oncologist today. I made him write this down for me so I could stare at it whenever I wanted to.”

It said, “As of August 8, Matt Hayden’s cancer has been in remission for one year.” I looked up and couldn’t suppress my smile—which wasn’t nearly as wide as his.

“Only four more years until I am considered cancer free.” He supplied, looking radiant.

“Well, this is certainly great news.” I was hedging. In Shades Crest, I would have been the first to suggest going out and celebrating—which Matt did mention—I reminded myself. But right now my funds were extremely low and I didn’t feel like I could treat, or even hold my own end of the bill if I was invited out. I wondered if Matt would consider a picnic with peanut butter and jelly and bottled water as decent party fodder.

As if he could read my thoughts, he flashed me his drop-dead smile, which was almost as phenomenal as his backside. “I was wondering, Miss Cavanaugh, if I could take you out to dinner tonight?”

I felt the color creep past my ears, meeting somewhere near my nose. Wasn’t it just last week we had both declared neither was interested in dating? Again, listening to my thoughts, he added, “I couldn’t think of a friend I would rather share this news with.” Which, I am sure was a bold-faced lie, but my sorry ego enjoyed that too.

Matt took me to a Bronson’s Steak House in the Arrowhead area. The food was fabulous. The prime rib melted in my mouth. Matt had a beer, I opted for tea. As great as the food was, the company was even better.

Matt had grown up in Ohio and moved out here after being discharged because his wife’s family had lived here and Phoenix has a great cancer hospital. After the divorce, Marlene had moved out of state, but he was still on friendly terms with his former in-laws who lived a few miles away. In addition to swapping life stories, he scored bonus points by laughing at my corny jokes and telling a few funnies himself.

Here’s the thing about a great date—or in this case, let’s just define this as two friends having dinner. I don’t like the evening to end. It is always awkward. If I am having a great time, and he seems to be having a great time, in the past, it might end in the morning with an exchange of phone numbers or in one case or two an introduction of first names. But, now older and wiser, if neither has anywhere to be in the morning, would it be so wrong to invite him to sit on Laura’s porch swing and just visit for a little bit longer?

Did it suggest, as Mother used to carefully tell me, I wanted to do things, which would lead to a reputation? It wasn’t my intention, but darn it! I was having fun. Hell, sitting on the floor playing Scrabble would work for me if it meant we could hang out a little bit longer. It had been a long time since I found I could laugh so easily. Long before Preston. Long before college.

I was considering this when Matt stopped at a red light and leaned toward me. “You know what would make this night magical?” he asked in a sultry whisper. I looked at him, afraid any answer would be the wrong one—or worse, the right one. I uttered something non-committal. Matt picked up a stray strand of my hair and placed it gently behind my ear, letting the backs of his fingers caress my jawbone. He stared at me for a moment before he said in that same sexy voice, “ice cream.” His face broke into a wide grin. The moment was broken. I realized then I had been holding my breath and my libido instantly gone into mourning.

We ended up in his back patio. He on one lounge chair, me poised inches away in the other, my sandals flicked off next to the footrest, and both of us, gazing through the light pollution at the view of the few stars the city hadn’t stolen. I had no idea what time it was and was vaguely aware I had something to do in the morning.

“So tell me,” Matt started. He had been asking me more about the ridiculousness I had seen in my less than two weeks as a real estate agent. “What’s the draw?”

I chuckled, “The challenge I guess.” I looked at him, a bit sheepishly, “Besides, I need to pay off a few bills. I owe quite a bit of money.”

“What bills?”

His innocent question caught me by surprise. I looked at him in the dim light, ready to give a flip answer. Instead, the words came out before I had a chance to think about it. It was like I was in a stranger’s body listing to someone else tell a story I knew too well.

I looked down, studying my hands, afraid to meet his gaze. “First semester of my junior year of college I went to a party with some friends.” I started. I could feel him looking at my head, silently encouraging me to continue. “I was drinking amaretto sours—something I had never touched before or after. After belting back my fair share and probably everyone else in the East Bay’s fair share, I kinda made a bad choice and woke up the next morning in a strange bed.”

I struggled to tell the story silently haunted me for years. I found it strange even to my own ears. I told him everything. All of it. His opinion of me be damned.

I started by sharing what it was like to grow up in the public light. Being a politician’s child, I was required to act the part. Of course, this didn’t end when Daddy left office. My public Tina had better be squeaky clean. This was expected of Jimmy and me long after Daddy went into private practice, his name long forgotten by his constituents. Long after the cameras stopped flashing and long after Patrick Cavanaugh’s legacy entrenched into the history books.

Mother worked diligently training us how to behave. Mother worked hard behind the scenes fitting our life into the perfect mold—a mold she and Daddy created. She and Daddy were proud of. And, I was proud of them too. They earned everything they wanted out of life. They deserved their good name.

I explained to Matt about Mother’s preoccupation with perceptions and how I thought breaking the news I was pregnant to them would shatter their life. The news would be devastating in a way that only sounds ridiculous unless you grew up like I did.

Part of the luxury of growing up the way I did, was I never paid attention to my actions. Everything was fixable through somebody’s contacts. There was a price for it. And, it was a price my parents were willing to pay and one where I knew my place.

Until I was 20 I never gave much thought to this. I took for granted what I had, never thinking about what it meant to others. Now, I was faced with a challenge I never expected. I was faced with the responsibility of another life.

This baby was not a blessed event. I was knocked up. It wasn’t the union Mother had so delicately explained to me right after my twelfth birthday. It was drunken sex with a stranger, causing the egg and sperm to hook up, creating a small being. The innocent bystander to my frivolity. My pregnancy happened because I lived like I was invincible. The fact is, this wasn’t the first, second or third time I had played Russian roulette with my body. But, it was the wake up call.

When I found out I was pregnant, my world stood still. I was confused and never more alone than I felt at then. Consequences now mattered. I avoided everyone in my life, changing my courses second semester to include evening classes, hiding at the library instead of going home. I would make excuses for missing family obligations, assuring Mother I was attending mass on Saturday night with friends.

I hid the pregnancy under baggy clothes. And, while I didn’t see much of her, when I did, she cornered me. Mother would share her displeasure of my frumpy look, bribing me with a new wardrobe if I would just stop dressing like a slob. I didn’t dare tell her. I did everything I could to stay away, not wanting to face my parents, embarrass my family and confront the disapproval I deserved.

When summer came, I slipped off to our lake home in Tahoe and worked in the same resort I worked at every summer. I was relieved for a reason to get away from Mother’s prying eyes and continual nagging. When Mother and Daddy asked me to come visit on my days off, I was full of excuses and managed to avoid them completely.

I didn’t think about the pregnancy in the terms of a baby. I thought about it as an inconvenience I was hiding the best I could. It wasn’t until Tahoe that I started thinking of the ramifications.

I needed to figure out what to do. Originally, I was going to put the baby up for adoption. I interviewed three very sweet couples, all whom would have made fine parents. All of whom offered to pay my medical expenses.

But, as time wore on during my last trimester, I learned what women before me had learned. The baby was mine. I was going to be a mother. There was no doubt about my attachment. Adoption became a moot option. The bond between me and my child was set. One day, while showering I looked down to see a small hand push on the inside of my belly. Five fingers! I was breathless as I recognized the little hand belonging to a little person.

I became convinced I was having a girl and gave her a name. Elaina—after my grandmother. I never considered it might be a boy. I found when I said her name, she kicked, responding to my voice. It was our special game.

Living in panic mode, I had no idea what I was going to do once the baby was born. I suspected, once the initial shock wore off (Hi, I am back from Tahoe and here is your new grandchild!), surely Mother and Daddy would be thrilled to have a grandchild.

As much as fantasy played in my head, the other scenario seemed more likely. Mother being in denial about my bastard child. It wasn’t scripted into the carefully staged production she expected to be played out in Shades Crest’s society pages. And, improvisation from her daughter would never be tolerated.

I figured the gossip around Shades Crest would be more devastating to her than the joy of having a grandchild. The fact is, people weren’t important to her. So, I braced myself for the choice I knew I would be making. And, there was only one answer: Elaina. College, my parents and all I had known were nothing compared to what I knew I had in store.

The day I went into labor, I was working at the gift shop when my water burst. One of the waitresses, Tamilyn, who had just finished her shift was kind enough to drive me to Carson City, holding my hand as I writhed in pain, begging God for the contractions to just stop.

Call it mother’s intuition or a gut feel. Even as we were driving out of the mountains into Carson City, I knew there was a problem. Tamilyn sensed it too. Instead of the labor and delivery entrance, she immediately pulled up to the emergency room doors, ran inside and said something magical, convincing the hospital staff to take her seriously. As the orderlies were coming out to get me, she helped me out of the car, kissing my cheek, touching my tummy, telling the baby to be good and she would call on me tomorrow.

The rest of that August day was a blur, I remember doctors and nurses not as people, but as shadowy objects, moving around me. Making decisions on my behalf. All the while someone with my voice was screaming, “Please tell me what is going on.”

In the operating room, the team of people were there to save the baby, but there was nobody for me. Oh how I wished, I had a friend that night.

Elaina was born with serious birth defects. She lived four hours—a miracle in itself. Everything about her was a miracle. Every moment of it was spent in my arms, me rocking her, telling her all I could, so she could absorb it and bring it to Heaven with her. I sat with her, refusing the truth I knew.

I held her until her last breath, telling her how lucky I was she had come in my life. The hospital priest came in, baptized her and performed last rights, mere moments before she left me.

Afterwards, one of the nurses who had assisted in the operating room came to see me in my hospital room. She held me tenderly, patting my hair, letting my tears saturate her shirt–the way I always suspected a mother would. All the while, I cried for my daughter. My Elaina.

I was doing a poor job of keeping my voice steady. I had already given up holding back the tears. They had been tucked into the same place as my story, “I made burial arrangements while I was there. I suppose I didn’t have to. But, my daughter deserved a proper burial. And, when I left, I got slapped with a very large hospital bill and the burial bill on top of everything else.”

I sniffed turning my hands in my lap, “In the four hours I held Elaina, I learned a truth mothers before me learned. My parents would have accepted me, Elaina or no Elaina. I never needed to go through my pregnancy alone. But, because I had gone so far, I never told them. I didn’t see a reason to cause them grief over a granddaughter they would never know. I didn’t tell them. I never told anyone.

“In those few hours I also had a moment of clarity. I came to fully appreciate my parents and their love and sacrifice. I understood what they had done because they were my parents. Everything every child takes for granted. I started examining the sheltered world I had and thinking about what I really wanted.”

I looked up at Matt, finally answering his question. “Here’s the thing. If I told my parents, the bills would have disappeared. But, she was my child. My responsibility. I owed her. My parents did a lot of really great things for me. But, this is something I needed to do myself. The debt incurred from Elaina’s birth and death is my own. I will pay it off.”

 He said nothing. He did nothing. I could feel his blue eyes on me.

Another tear. Damn.

I didn’t tell him how for months I kept to myself, brokenhearted over the child I had for less than one day. I floundered around the following semester, lost and grief-stricken. I was not able to function. Getting out of bed was a major chore. As much as I wanted to do something—anything. I had no idea how to begin.

Much to my parent’s horror, I dropped out of college my senior year in college and just worked part-time and lived at home, wishing I could undo all leading up to my heartbreak. But, I also couldn’t put into words how the experience—holding my child for four hours changed me from a girl to a woman. I became independent. I grew up and realized what my obligations and roles were to be. I became grateful for the financial safety net my parents had given me, but I also become increasingly aware it was no longer my net and I had to find my own way.

“Then I met Preston. He was a distraction. And for that I am grateful. But, I never loved him. And, I wasn’t all that saddened about him when I found out he cheated on me,” I said. “And, I never even told him about the baby.”

I looked at Matt. “How sad is that? The man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, didn’t even know.” I gave him a half-smile. “After the wedding was called off I instantly reverted back to moping—the way I did right after I lost Elaina. Not because of Preston, but because I felt stuck. A week after the breakup, my mother came into my room, telling me I needed to get out and she was tired of me feeling sorry for myself. She was heading some charity event fashion show and thought it would be nice if I could come and make an appearance—for her. Those were her words. It was then I came to realize no matter what, I needed something different. I needed to do it for me. Anything. I wanted a change. I wanted a chance to grow past the life of comfort and convenience. I wanted to make it on my own.”

I didn’t share with Matt the rest. Preston and I never agreed on children. He didn’t want them “at least right away.” But, I suspect he would never have given in. Also, Preston was the only man I had sex with in the past four years—and never once did he ask me where I had gotten my scar.

“So,” I said, with a half-hearted smile, “There’s a few bills.”

Then, the wave of emotional exhaustion hit me, knocking me back into the moment. I always knew there would come a day when I shared this story. My biggest fear being the person who heard my burden would coddle me. Or worse, reject me because of my mistake. And, nobody—nobody—could possibly know what loosing a child is like unless it has happened to them.

To Matt’s credit. He did nothing. He didn’t reach out to me. He didn’t tell me what a tramp I was. And he didn’t say, “I’m so sorry,” which would have caused the precarious dam of tears to break. He just looked at me. And, as silly as it might sound, it was the most comforting thing he could have done.

Finally, he broke the silence. Standing up, he reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. “We need that ice cream,” he said.

Chapter 14: Wednesday

My shift at Price Bargains seemed about four hours longer than normal. Amy stopped by about ten minutes after my shift started. I just finished passing out energy drinks to my regulars—a group of power-walking seniors who came by daily to get in their exercise and mooch breakfast at the same time. “Energy drink,” of course, loosely translates from marketing lingo to highly caffeinated soda pop, probably causing some of them to up their heart meds.

Amy started to reach for a quarter-filled Dixie cup. “Tina” she whined in her most obnoxious, nasally way, “I just knew you would be here in your other job. Real estate is hard for you, isn’t it? But I hope Mr. Daniels called you. He said he would.”

I told her yes, thank you, Mr. Daniels had talked and it looked like I had a listing.

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? Already?” I nodded, making a mental note to analyze her obvious surprise later. “So,” she said, “You are going to get me in to see Jet then right?”

I was afraid of this. “I already talked to him.” I said, which was true. He just wasn’t interested. But, the anxious look on Amy’s face made me feel a smidgen (and only a smidgen) sorry for her. She was truly intent on meeting Jet. And, I got the impression she held him in higher esteem than the Jimmy Choo leather and suede slingbacks she had on (and one thing I knew about Amy was she was a slave to her shoes). She gave me a pitiful look, so I threw her a bone. “He said he would get back to me.” Which was also somewhat, sort of, kinda true.

“Oh Tina! Thank you,” she gushed, coming behind my demo cart and giving me a full-body hug, sucking the life out of me. “You will let me know? Or should I call him?”

I took a breath, quickly rationalizing. Fibbing to Amy wasn’t the same as actually telling an outright lie. “He or I will call you. He is busy this week.”

At my break, I called Laura on her cell with no results. Laura worked hard to keep the Hacienda after Charlie was busted. She never complained—ever—about anything. She worked diligently, making the best life she could for her boys. Her mother and step-father, thank God, have been beyond supportive.

She didn’t know she was pregnant when Charlie was arrested. And, according to Laura, he just dealt, he didn’t use—which I thought at the time she told me this was pretty bizarre for Laura. She’s so down to earth. Being in denial just doesn’t seem to come naturally for her. Anyway, Charlie had been sitting at the Sweet Shop, enjoying their prize-winning Buffalo chicken wings (and most likely a lap dance), when he was set up by a Phoenix narc. He pled guilty and got five years. Laura divorced him, emphatically telling me the divorce had been a long time coming. If it had been me, a long time or not, I would have dumped his ass for just hanging out at the Sweet Shop.

I zipped over to Metro Realty Pros immediately after my interminable shift, leaving another message for Laura, wishing her a fun trip, before walking in the door.

“Hey” Val said to me in the friendliest tone she could muster.

Surprised, I responded, “Hi Val. Is Wendy in?” Val, who was wiped out from all of this chumminess, nodded and pointed down the hall. Before stepping into Wendy’s office, I strolled into the bullpen to say hi to Roy, Nancy and Dee.

Dee was on the phone when I got back there, and Roy and Nancy were busy telling about their weekend trip to San Diego to Sebastian, another agent who graciously had given me his extensive credentials. I began to suspect it was part of the rules of real estate sales. “Hi I am Mary Smith, Accredited Residential Expert, Qualified Buyer Ambassador and million dollar producer.”

All of my new colleagues occupied, I scribbled a quick note to Dee about my Friday meeting and left it on her desk before strolling into Wendy’s office. Wendy glanced up immediately with a questioning look on her face. I tried to contain my excitement. “I have an appointment Friday to list a home.”

She didn’t hide her astonishment. “Congratulations.” She said with more cool than I thought she had in her. “Are you prepared?”

“No, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Wendy motioned me to sit in the empty chair. The seat cushion looked like it still had an imprint of my butt from last week’s training. I began telling her about my cold calling, but opted not to explain where I got my list of potential names.

Wendy didn’t care anyway. “So, do you have a listing presentation?” she asked.

I shook my head. I intended to ask her if there was one Metro Realty Professionals had. “Well, I was wondering…”

She cut me off, not masking the discouraging sigh as anything but. “Tina. You will need your own listing presentation. Listing presentations are as unique as you” She put up a palm, stopping me from asking the obvious. “To produce your listing presentation (she said “listing presentation” in a way to evoke maximum awe), you will need a laptop computer. You own one of those don’t you? Also, you will need a yard sign, lock box and listing forms—which will be kept on your laptop. You can print them out at you’re appointment on Friday. It will evoke confidence for your client.”

“About that—” and before I could explain, no, I did not own any computer, much less a laptop, and surely agents before me had gotten along swimmingly without them for decades past, nor was there a legal or practical means to get one in the next two days, nor did I have the foggiest idea where to get the aforementioned yard sign and lock box. I silently swore at Wendy. Why did she wait until now to mention this?

Our conversation was interrupted by my ringing cell phone. And, so did Wendy’s. Wendy made a gesture for me to answer mine as she picked up hers.

“It’s Dee. Just go along with anything Wendy says and get over to Selma’s as fast as you can.” She clicked off.

Wendy’s call lasted about ten seconds longer, with her assuring the caller she would take care of whatever crisis had emerged.

“Excuse me.” Wendy said with as much authority as she could command, replacing the receiver. “There is an urgent matter I need to take care of. Why don’t you come by tomorrow afternoon,” Wendy said. I agreed, and high-tailed it out of the office.

When I got to Selma’s, Dee, Sebastian, Roy and Nancy were sitting at the corner booth in the back. Roy had his laptop out and the other three were converged around his computer looking at something. “Hey guys.” I said, tentatively.

Nancy jumped out of the booth, pecked my cheek and hugged me, with Dee at her heels. “Great job!” Nancy said.

I looked dumbfounded, which caused Roy to chuckle. He answered my look. “That would be great job on your listing appointment. We overheard you mention it to Wendy.”

Dee moved over to make room for me. The same waitress from two days earlier put a glass of water in front of me. “We had Val call Wendy and tell her the copier is jammed.” I raised an eyebrow. “Well, it was jammed,” she looked around for reassurance from the group.

“Especially after you put a bunch of double stick tape on a piece of paper and ran it through.” Sebastian muttered approvingly.

 “Anyway,” Dee continued, pleased with herself. “You have a listing presentation and probably need to know what to do.” She rubbed her hands together and nodded to Roy. Let’s get started. What’s the address?”

For the next two hours, Dee, Roy, Nancy and Sebastian tediously coached me. They started by Roy pulling up the tax records for Lillian Field’s property, which she and Mr. Fields had bought in 1975. They ran market comparable properties for everything on the market currently in the area. Sebastian, who excused himself to the adjacent booth, took the list of properties in the area for sale (Roy had printed them out for me) and started calling the owners setting up appointments for me to review the competition tomorrow morning.

At this point, Nancy and Dee slapped down the appropriate listing forms required by the powers that be. They laboriously reviewed them with me, highlighting everything I learned in real estate school a month earlier. I should mention, when I say “highlight” Nancy used four different markers, color-coding different clauses and giving me tips on how to present these forms without causing Mrs. Fields a one-way ticket to visit Mr. Fields.

Sebastian returned to the booth after a bit, “We start at 11:30 tomorrow morning.” He looked at me and added sheepishly, “I hope you don’t mind so early.” I shook my head, in awe. It would never occur to me to review the competition.

Nancy took all the forms I needed, plus the tax records, plus the comparable properties, plus the market comparables (they had decided we would discuss price after I reviewed the competition) and put them in a manila folder. “I bet Wendy fed you a silly line about needing a laptop computer.” She said with a smile.

I explained my brief meeting with Wendy and Dee broke out in a fit of giggles. “You know why she won’t work with you don’t you?” I looked at her, curious. She chuckled again and inched a little closer. “Because, you got Jet Tyson on your team.”

This drew a more astonished look as well as another cluck from Dee. “She is jealous. Do you know what an honor it is to get Jet Tyson to agree to do a loan for you?” Apparently, I didn’t, because the four of them were looking at me with unabashed admiration.

“Um, a couple of questions about that…”

“Wendy told us yesterday you were working with him. She was saying you were going to be the top agent because you had assembled the ‘finest team’—her words—but she kept on about how she was so impressed at your progress. She said you had had top people working for you.”

Sebastian cut her off, “Translation? She was hopping mad and wasn’t about to have you work with him when she has been begging him for years to do her loans.” I quickly drew a parallel between Wendy and Amy. Definitely, I decided, Wendy’s aura was just as screwy as Amy’s.

“I heard Wendy even offered him whatever it would take just to make sure her loan went through—if you know what I mean.” Dee said, whispering that last part. “And, he still refused.” It surprised me. After all, “Wendy” might constitute as a nature name?

“Um… Have any of you actually done any loans with Jet?” They all shook their heads. I took it as a lead in to my next inquiry. “Um, so, have any of you ever met him?” Negative. I did an internal sigh.

“What’s he like?” This came from sensible Roy of all people! The four of them leaned in, anxiously looking at me, expecting me to give a detailed explanation of a high-society celebrity and suave man, not the beach-bum volleyball playing horn-dog I met (who had some innovative ideas about finding prospective real estate clients).

I proceeded cautiously, not wanting to spoil the image Jet had worked so hard to portray. “He’s pretty down to earth.” Sebastian did a disbelieving laugh. “Really, he is! He plays professional volleyball and does the loan thing more as a hobby from what I can tell. He even is the reason for this listing appointment on Friday—which by the way, I can’t thank you all enough for helping me with.”

I took a sip of the iced tea, which had miraculously appeared at the table for me some time earlier, before telling them about how he was the one who suggested I call obituaries. I neglected to tell them I truly suspected Jet had pulled the obituary idea out of his ass during our phone call Monday as way to detract from the Amy conversation.

Roy let out a belly laugh, with his precision-cut white hair moving precisely with his head.

“Genius!” Nancy exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

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.

Chapter 12: Monday

I walked into the office Monday to find out, thankfully, Wendy wasn’t in yet. Val, who maintained her obnoxious demeanor with little effort, didn’t volunteer any information about Wendy’s whereabouts. “Do I look like Wendy’s personal secretary?” She sneered.

“Oh Val, get off your high horse. I need to see her too.” I whipped around to the voice behind me. A pleasant woman around 45, brunette, petite. She was cleaning her sunglasses on the edge of her blouse. “When will she be in?”

I missed Val’s snide retort, instead searching my mental file cabinet for the woman’s name. Reading my mind, she extended a hand, “I’m Dee Whittier. You’re new here?” Not waiting for an answer she said, “It is a tough business. Here is my card if you need anything or have any questions, feel free to call me.”

I read it, “Whittier buying or selling think of Dee! Your agent for life.” She had the decency to look embarrassed. “Wendy.” I nodded, fully understanding. “What does yours say.”

I handed her one on my cards. “Expert for life. I guess she wasn’t at the top of her game the day she ordered my cards.”

I walked past the conference room, Wendy (door closed) and Ira’s offices (open with Ira on the phone, gesticulating wildly to accentuate some point to his caller) to the bullpen.

Waiting for Wendy, I parked myself at one of the vacant desks and went to work doing more reading. Selling real estate killed a lot of trees. Essentially, if someone wanted to sell or buy land, a house, apartment complex or a business, some thousand papers were signed. There was a form for everything. If the seller had a swimming pool both parties signed a form. If there was a question about the drinking water, a form was signed. If there were concerns the property in question was over a potential flight path of the space shuttle or would somehow negatively affect the scarlet breasted warbler’s natural habitat, a form was signed.

     I spent the evening before at home nursing my teenaged crush, reading, re-reading and comprehending as many of these forms as I could cram into my brain. I finally felt I could summarize the gist of the fine print to even the most savvy client. I loved it. It was the first productive task I had done to get me closer to a commission. And, it didn’t require watching another cheesy video with Don Kublensy.

Wendy told me on the day she walked me around, agents in the office were unproductive. “Wasting your time sitting around the bullpen means you are not out there, actively pursuing leads.” It made sense at the time. Today, there were several people in the bullpen. Some on the phone and some on the computer. Roy and Nancy were in the corner, telling a riotous story. Their audience, three other agents, were hanging on every word.

I was jolted by a beep through the intercom system. I wasn’t the only one. The noise interrupted the mood. The folks talking to Roy and Nancy abruptly walked away. A few others picked up their files and scattered, like rats taking shelter when the kitchen light is flipped. “Wendy” Dee whispered. “Val sent the signal.”

I looked at her, silently, questioning. “I’ll explain later.” She patted my shoulder. “Call me later we will get some coffee this afternoon.” With an air of confidence, she walked over to Wendy and said pleasantly, “I need a moment if you can spare it.”

     Wendy started our orientation session by asking me if I had made any progress over the weekend. I answered. “Oh yes, yesterday I read through most of the contract forms—”

She cut me off, “That is very nice, but terribly unproductive.” She was her usual chirpy self, but underneath I sensed impatience. “I mean,” she said with a simper, “How did you do with your leads this weekend? Did you follow up with members of your team, asking them if they had any leads for you? Did you practice your scripts? Did you contact your sphere?” I shook my head, self-conscious. I didn’t really think it was time to contact my sphere. After all, I sent out my letters just a few days earlier.

She sighed, letting her impatience show through, keeping her tone upbeat but firm, “Did you drive by homes where people are selling them by themselves to see if they were ready for representation?” I looked at her, confused. I didn’t recall her suggesting this one before today.

“You are reading your Metro Realty Pro manual aren’t you? It has all this in there.” She turned around, pulling a white three-ring binder off the shelf. Flipping it open she said, “see? Right here.”

I looked down where her finger dropped. The page read, “Making For Sale By Owners See it Your Way.” I said nothing. I hadn’t opened my book since Thursday.

Wendy sat back, quiet for a moment. “Tina, it seems to me, you aren’t terribly serious about your career. I know Ira thinks you have potential. But, the way I see it, you’ve had things handed to you way too long. This of course is just my impression.” She added quickly. “But, in any case, I don’t think you are ever, going to learn a thing about selling real estate as long as you are attached to me.”

Was she serious? Attached to her? I met with her four times—five including today. “It is just…” She paused, then waved a hand dismissively, “It seems you need some tough love. If you really are motivated to sell—and be successful—you will need to find your own way. I can’t do it all for you.” She paused, with a pursed-lipped grin.

She waited, letting the gravity of her statement fall on my shoulders. I waited too, wondering if I had heard her correctly. Was she really dumping me? After all, orientation was supposed to last three weeks. “I, of course, am always available to you as a resource. And…” another pause, “If you think down the road you would like to pick up where we left off, you let me know. But, you obviously just aren’t motivated to learn the ins and outs of a successful sales career.”

“I got lucky!” I said into the phone when Jet picked up.

“Why wasn’t I there?” He asked. Ignoring his comment, I told him how I had been let go as Wendy’s apprentice. I related to him Wendy’s bizarre conversation.

“How do you feel about it?” He asked.

“I think I was supposed to be upset.”

“Well, it looks like it worked out. Because I have an assignment for you.” He stopped, “You still want me to help you right? Because if I need to give you tough love, let me know.”

I did indeed want his help. It had to be better than memorizing stale conversations. My heart raced, at my first real attempt to go forward with my career. Then, he gave me my assignment.

“You are kidding.” I said sarcastically.

“I don’t kid.” He replied.

“I wish you would,”

“Let me know how it goes. I want to hear back tomorrow. Ok?”

“Um, Jet? One more thing.” And I gave Jet the highlights of my bizarre conversation with Amy. “She wants to meet you and have you do a loan.”

“I like to keep a low profile.” He said after a moment. “I like being the It Guy.”

“It Guy?”

“You know, the one everyone wants to invite to their party. The elusive one everyone has to know and be their friend. The cool guy. The man of mystery.” I rolled my eyes. He continued. “I know who Amy Schaefer is. I talked to her on the phone a few times. Her aura is all screwy.” I wasn’t sure I disagreed, but first I would need to know what a screwy aura looked like.

“She has issues, you know.” I knew.

“I am not sure I can work with her right now. I’ll need to check my charts.”

“Charts?”

I could hear him blowing out a breath, “Yea, like making sure our planets are in alignment. That sort of thing.”

After making Jet promise he would check to see if there was any possibility in the next millennium the Venus and Pluto might match up, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I could tell Amy I tried.

As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. “Is this Miss Cavinagh?” the low voice on the other side said. After assuring the caller I was indeed, he continued, “My name is Mr. Daniels. Amy Schaefer gave me your name and said you might be able to help me.” My ears perked up. Partially out of self-defense and partly because I was astounded Amy kept her end of any bargain. “Amy said you were a good agent—though it is hard to believe you might be skilled as her--she is an expert. But, she suggested I give you a call.”

It turns out Mr. Daniels has several rental houses in the greater Phoenix area. And, through circumstances he didn’t feel necessary to divulge, he would like to liquidate them (apparently investor-speak for sell them). Right now he has one house where a tenant moved out of yesterday and he wants it sold fast.

“What do you think it is worth?” he asked.

I assured him I would be happy to run the sales comps and get back with him after I saw the property. “Yea, about that. I don’t have a key. I am calling from Detroit. I need a locksmith to go over there and change the locks.” He waited, expecting me to jump right in.

“When did you call the locksmith?” I asked.

“I didn’t. I don’t know one. I was hoping you might know one you can contact.”

I assured him I did (thank you Jet’s business card file). I offered to set up the locksmith. “As soon as I get a key I will go over and let you know.” I said. The conversation quickly flitted away but I felt ten feet tall.

Dee sat across from me at Selma’s Sandwiches, a simple shop where the prices outshone the cuisine. We were in a tattered booth, the where the under side of the table housed a small ecosystem. The place was strangely crowded for such a dive. Dee had been an agent for twelve years. She was a million dollar producer, but quickly dismissed this honor, assuring me it was no big deal.

“Anyone can be a million dollar producer in today’s market.” She took a sip of her tea. “So, how’s orientation with Wendy?”

I gave her the run-down on today’s tough love speech.

Dee gave a strangled laugh. “Ah yes, she does it to everyone. The way it works is you are supposed to come back immediately, rededicate yourself to real estate and be more eager to learn. She is testing you. She is waiting for you to come back, contrite and ask for absolution.”

I swallowed a bite, nonplussed. “Why? Does that even sound sane to you?”

“She thinks this shows her if you are truly serious enough to learn the Metro Realty Professionals way.” Dee rolled her eyes. “Her level of sanity is one of the reasons nobody in the office likes her. Most everyone—anyone who is good—just blows off her training. She has some sort of warped impression that her tough love lesson makes for better agents because they are then ready to learn if they really want it.” She took another swig of her drink following it with a swipe of her mouth with the flimsy napkin.

 “Did she tell you everyone in the office is rivals yet?” Not waiting for a reply, she leaned forward, “Don’t believe it. The agents in the office will always be happy to help.”

I practically choked on my potato salad. I gave her a quick rundown on my admonishing for talking with Roy and Nancy.

She let out a giggle. “That’s why we pay Val to sound the alarm when Wendy comes in the office. Wendy thinks if we are competitors, we will be better agents and it will increase our sales. Wendy actually discourages us from talking in the bullpen. Most of us work at home or just go in when she isn’t there.”

“The buzzer was an alarm?”

Dee explained, “Val gets twenty dollars from each commission from every agent. What this pays for is freedom and information. Such as bypassing Wendy with any leads that might come into the office or finding out if there are any changes in policies or commissions to even letting everyone in the office know when Ira and Wendy come in,” she said. “It is a small price to pay. You will want to make sure you take care of Val.” I nodded, wondering if Val came up with this extortion practice herself.

“Why does Ira put up with this? Doesn’t he know what is going on?”

“Wendy is his wife. I think his fifth actually.” Ah hah! “So,” Dee said changing the subject, “How is real estate going so far?”

“It looks like I have a potential client.” I said, barely containing the excitement I felt since Mr. Daniels called. I told her about the poor man’s situation and how I found a locksmith for him.

Dee shook her head. “What?” I said.

Before she could answer, my phone rang again. “Get used to it.” Dee said, motioning me to answer, as I made a face at my phone for interrupting my visit with my new friend.

It turns out it was the locksmith. He couldn’t get in touch with Mr. Daniels and wouldn’t hand over the keys until he was paid. I told him I would see what I could do and one of us would call him back.

I explained about the locksmith to Dee, while dialing Mr. Daniels. Dee grabbed my arm. “This is a big red flag.” I dropped the phone to my side and raised an eyebrow. Dee lowered her chin and put her fingers up to her temples, like she was doing a psychic reading. “This guy—your client—is going to tell you his credit card isn’t handy. And, would you please pay for this little errand and he will pay you back.”

She looked up, dropping her hands. “Even if he does pay you back, you are establishing a bad precedent. You don’t ask your mechanic to swing by the grocery store and pick up something for dinner during his test drive? That’s the problem with real estate agents. They whore themselves out. We must raise the bar here. If you do this one time for him, he will always expect it.”

Three minutes later, lo and behold! Mr. Daniels was telling me he had left his business credit card in his other wallet, and would I please be a dear and take care of it. His bookkeeper will immediately cut a check for me.

 “Mr. Daniels, I can appreciate your position,” I started with as much honey as I could drip from my voice, “but you certainly wouldn’t ask your doctor to fill up your gas tank so you can make it to your appointment. I am more than happy to wait until tomorrow—after you pay the locksmith—and take a look at your property then.”

During his silence, I held my breath, fearing I just lost my first client. I should never trust Amy.

“I will call you back.” Without ceremony, Mr. Daniels hung up.

I slumped back into my booth, looking at Dee, hopeful. “You did the right thing.” She said in the solemn voice.

As we parted, Dee gave me a quick hug, reassuring me clients were always out there. “And, if he does come back, I will be happy to help you review the house.”

I had an hour before my shift at Price Bargains. Jet’s assignment loomed over me like Damocles sword. I couldn’t believe I agreed to this. In some ways, this was more disturbing than Wendy’s orientation.

I whipped my car into the public library’s vacant parking spot rethinking the viability of Jet’s hair-brained idea. Jet assured me this would work. And, it was defiantly unconventional. “You need to fish where everyone else isn’t,” his words ringing in my head. I managed to drag myself into the media center, asking for back issues of the Arizona Republic.

Forty minutes later I had photocopied the Republic’s obituaries from the past six weeks. Jet’s idea was to call the survivors who had recently lost loved ones and ask if they, by any bizarre coincidence, might have property they were considering selling.

“The older the person who died, the better.” He coached, “usually family members don’t want to be bothered remodeling the 1950s kitchen and replace the turquoise carpet. They just want their money. It is a sure thing.” The idea had less appeal than toenail fungus. Lucky for me, I had to scoot to work, so darn! I wouldn’t be making these calls today.

Chapter 11: Sunday

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 or Sedona. He meets all of his clients at really expensive restaurants. And, he has homes in 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. As long as I showed up and picked up the Sunday bulletin, I would increase the likelihood of minimizing my time in purgatory and the gossip squad in Shades Crest would be sated.

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 from Rene Schaefer? Rene Schaefer!” She said this as if my boring life made the front page of the tabloids. “I should hear it from my own daughter!”

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. Shameless professions, not worthy of the money she and Daddy 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.