Outside The Lines:: Third Person Narration (8 page)

He said slowly, “Okay.
 
Maybe they keep that one for themselves.
 
Family visits, loaners to friends.”

“So all this income came from a single property?” she said, slightly incredulous. “It averages to almost a million a year, Johnny.
 
Doesn’t that seem high?”

He shrugged. “It’s waterfront, there’s a dock attached. That matters to boat-y types.”
 

“And you’d know all about boat-y types,” she muttered, thrusting out her hand to take the papers back.

But he didn’t give them back.
 
He set them down on the table and began flipping through them.
 
After a moment, he reached out and grabbed the table lamp from the table beside them and flipped it on too, then leaned down for a closer read.
   

The light cast his face in bright light and shadow. His jaw and cheeks now had more of a seven o’clock shadow. His eyes moved back and forth as he worked, and he slid a thick index finger slowly down the page as he went. For some reason, this made her face flush. She looked away and saw his lips were moving slightly, silently. He was reading the words and numbers aloud to himself. A faint fullness stretched out her chest, right over her heart.
 

Probably relief at being taken seriously.
 

Juliette didn’t have a lot of experience with being taken seriously, but she had a whole lot of experience with relief, pursuant to enough near-misses and almost-disasters to last a lifetime. Juliette and relief were old friends.
 

It usually came as a cold-blooded thing, miniature icicles melting through her veins, followed by a general deflation from the inside out, as if she’d been punctured, filled with air then released, leaving behind a flattened, two-dimensional being like in some old sci-fi movie.
 

She wasn’t familiar with a fullness-around-her-heart feeling.
 

“When are these leases up?” he asked, still looking at the papers.

She swung out her hand in a vaguely triumphant gesture. “That’s another thing.”

“What’s another thing?”

“I have no idea when the leases are up, because there are no lease agreements.”

He looked up. “Mrs. B didn’t give them to you?”

She shook her head.
 
“As far as she knows, there are none. They’re recorded as pre-paids, but Mrs. B doesn’t recall ever seeing any actual, signed lease agreements. If there were any, she said the judge would have them. Or Dan.”
 

He went still.
 

The room had darkened considerably since they started working. The little runner lights made tiny amber dots through the darkness of the hall, a miniature golden runway. Through the windows, electric white light spilled in from the slopes. On the mountains beyond, the bank of clouds had moved over the resort, and fat snowflakes were drifting lazily down.
 

More silence, floating down like the snowflakes.
 
For a moment, all Juliette could hear was a low white noise of some heater or fan in a distant room, and the occasional shout or squeal from people on the ski slopes outside. Inside, there was nothing but the sound of her breathing and Johnny thinking.

“No lease agreements,” he said quietly.

She nodded. They looked at each other.
 

“And I noticed something else,” she said, a bit tentatively.
 

“Of course you did,” he murmured.
 

She couldn’t tell if it was an insult or a compliment and she didn’t care. She smelled something fishy and started reeling it in.

“If these are pre-paid leases, why do the payments come in such a funny way? Such a bumpy schedule. A bit here, some more there. If it’s a pre-paid, then pre-pay it. If it’s not, then pay when you reserve it or take possession. But why pay six hundred thousand dollars for pre-paid, then pay another hundred thousand a month later, then another couple hundred thousand six months later, then another…. I don’t know, it’s just odd. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

He didn’t share his thoughts on this. He stayed quiet, waiting.

“And that initial payment, Johnny?” she went on slowly. “It came in when the place was just a shell, four years ago.”

“Okay.”

“Who pays a hundred thousand dollars for a condo without furnishings?
 
Or running water?”

His gaze was fixed on her, unwavering and unreadable. She couldn’t tell if he was thinking about what she’d said, or deciding which window to throw her out.
 

Then he shoved his chair back and unraveled to his feet in a single fluid motion, slid his phone off the table and walked off without a word.
 

He crossed the empty room and stopped in front of the huge bay windows.
 
The front of him glowed in the lights from the lifts.
 
It highlighted him in stark light and deep shadow, like he was on stage.
 
He put a hand to his ear and turned sharply away.
 

She heard a faint masculine rumble as he began talking.
 
She couldn’t make out the words.

She turned away too and decided that, while Johnny called whomever he was calling to loom them into submission, she was going to give Mrs. Billings a call.

Chapter Six

MRS. B seemed happy to hear from her, and waved off Juliette’s apology for calling so late in the day.
 

“Not at all, my dear, I’m just sorry we’ve caused you all this additional work,” she assured Juliette in her dreamy voice.

Mrs. Billings reminded her of an oil painting come to life, or an old jewelry box, something almost ephemeral, barely in this world. She loved old things, things from another world, and had even recently opened her own antique shop, where Mrs. B seemed more comfortable than the modern world she seemed to barely inhabit.
 
She was kind and accommodating and not the sort to question a powerful husband when he suggested, “Let’s get you a rental property.”

But why would he suggest that?

Because it brought in over three million dollars in the past four years. Which was okay. It was just a lot of money. And Juliette wanted to know why.

Even though, as Johnny had pointed out, it wasn’t her job.

“Did Johnny bring you the papers I brought in, dear?” Mrs. Billings asked.

Juliette began pacing. “He did. In fact, I’m with him now, and—”

“Oh good.” Mrs. B’s voice brightened, sounded more present. “He spoke quite highly of you.”
 

Juliette stopped short. “He did what?”
 

“Spoke highly of you. He was reassured when I told him we were using you.”

“Was he?”
 

“Yes, he was. You were on a very short list of his.”

“A list?” Juliette said suspiciously, sliding her hand along the edge of the bar as she resumed pacing. In her experience, lists were unpredictable beasts.
 

“The list he gave us of possible referrals, dear.
 
You are aware that Farrah is not a divorce lawyer by trade—she is a friend, an art lawyer—and when Johnny suggested we get a second opinion on Dan’s valuation, he felt it might be helpful to also make a few recommendations, which I thought very kind,” she went on in her perfumed voice.
 

“So,
Johnny
recommended the second opinion?” Juliette said, slowing to a stop. She faced the bar, put her elbows on it.
 

“He did, and then provided us with referrals. There are so many charlatans out there, and then, when you find a good one, they are often so busy. Our case is a small one, you know, although large enough to us, and a referral can help so much. Imagine my surprise when you were on Johnny’s list. I told him ‘what a coincidence.’ And it was. ‘What a coincidence,’ I said.”

“Is that what you said?” Juliette echoed, and bent down, let her elbows slide out and stared down the length of the dark bar. “How many people were on that list, Mrs. B?”

“Two, dear, just two. I admit, Farrah was leery of accepting any recommendations from Donald’s people of course, but the judge trusts Dan, and I trust Johnny, and he recommended you, which was most reassuring.
 
I have found that when you find someone you trust, you stick with them.”
 

That seemed like a terrible operating principle to Juliette.
   

She pushed off the counter. “Well, Mrs. B, that’s sort of what I’m calling about. I was wondering, do you have copies of any other documentation from the LLC or the rentals? Anything at all?”

“I don’t think so, dear. I brought you everything I had.”

“Yes, I know, thank-you.
 
I just…I wondered if maybe there was something the
judge
might have had, rather than
you
.”
 

Silence.
 

“If maybe there was some place he stored things, say, in his office or something.
 
Somewhere…private?” she finished lamely. She was asking Mrs. Billings to consider the places her husband might have hid things from her. Hurtful at best, insulting at worst. Even in the midst of a divorce.
 

“Absolutely,” Mrs. B said without hesitation. “In his study. Behind that awful painting. There’s a safe.”

Juliette started getting excited, until Mrs. B got to ‘safe.’
 
“Oh,” she said, deflating.
 
“Oh well, okay then.”
 

“What did you want me to look for?”

“Well, ma’am, the safe is going to be locked, so—”

“I cracked the combination years ago, dear.
 
What was it you wanted, particularly?”

Juliette stared at the phone.
 
“Rent rolls or lease agreements, ideally. But I’ll take anything related to the property.”

“Will do. Shall I scan them over to you?”

Juliette took the phone away from her ear and stared at it.
 
“Do, do you know how to scan, ma’am?”
 

A beat of silence.
 
“Who does not?”
 

She smiled.
 
“Scanning would be perfect. And thank-you. We’re working as fast as we can.”

“Just do the best you can, my dear.
 
That’s all we any of us can do.”

They hung up. Juliette stared down at her feet for a second, then looked up to find Johnny’s gaze on her.
 
He was pacing the wall of windows like a tiger, his body flashing between light and dark shadow. Her belly gave a hot, swoopy sensation.
 

Ridiculous. What was her belly doing that for? Johnny would finish his call, come back over and say, “Got it,” or “Get over it,” either of which would be followed by, “I’m leaving now.”

Which was right and wise and smart and about time.
 
Couldn’t wait. In fact, she would suggest it herself.

Then she’d make the long drive home, alone, through darkness, having not skied, having not got a life, having not done anything different from what she’d been doing for years and years.

It was like she was an arrow, aiming for regret.