The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (22 page)

Patty shakes herself and groggily rolls down the window. “Freaking tired. I stayed up all night and then, just to cover all my bases, went to the sunrise Mass. I've been waiting for you.”

There is the niggling question as to whether she stayed up all night with Todd, but I don't dare ask.

“Get in.” She leans over and opens the door.

I get in, leaving my gym bag on the sidewalk. Jorge, having made it as far as my front step, eyes us with suspicion. Once again I'm going someplace and not taking him.

Patty's car smells of fine leather, coffee, and mint gum—Patty smells.

“I wanted to make sure I caught you, but I didn't want to call and wake you up. So I parked here.” She covers a big yawn. “I think I know how you can buy the house today.”

This is my friend Patty. She never stops scheming. “Are you serious?”

“It might work. It might not.Todd's not so sure.”

“Todd?”

“Yeah, he hammered out the details with me until the wee hours.”

Therefore, she did spend the night with him.

“He loves you very much, Genie. He wants you to be happy and he's willing to do whatever it takes. Also, he feels guilty for blabbing to Nick about how Steve popped your cherry.”

“Thanks.” I love my brother, too.

Taking a healthy sip from her white Starbucks cup, she says, “All you have to do is stop by the house around eleven forty-five when Cecily's Realtor's showing it to a couple of doctors. Dress nice and keep your mouth shut.Todd and I will do the rest.”

“What's your plan?”

“I'd rather not say. It might be”—she pauses—“somewhat illegal.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Great. First I fake an engagement and now I'm scamming property. How the mighty have fallen. “If it's too much of a risk, we can forget it, Patty. I don't have to own this house.”

She plunks down the coffee. “Yes, you do. It's your destiny.”

“It is not my destiny.”

“Of course it is.Yesterday you ran into two people—Tracy, the real estate agent, and Nick—both with crucial information about the house.That's the Holy Spirit, baby.”

“No it's not. It's coincidence.”

Patty slaps her hand on my knee. "Oh, honey. There is no such thing as coincidence. I keep trying to tell you that. Everything, and I mean every little thing, happens for a reason.”

“It's nice to believe, Patty, but it's not true.”

“Yes, it is. The Holy Spirit is the most powerful force in the universe. Praise God. God is great!”

Okay, I'm not going to get in a religious debate with her on a Sunday morning in her Porsche. I will smile politely and wait until she's done giving testimony and then be on my merry way.

“Do you know,” she says, shifting in her seat to look at me, “that when I wake up in the morning, I say three things? I thank God for giving me another day to live on this planet, basking in His love and asking for His help in returning the favor.Then I say Jabez's Prayer.”

“I dread to ask.”

“‘Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain. Amen.' ” She crosses herself.“It's from the Old Testament, First Chronicles 4:10. I say it because it reaffirms for me that all I need is to do my best and trust in God and all will be well. He never lets us out of His sight, Genie. Never.”

“All right,” I counter. “If God never lets us out of His sight and wants us all to prosper, then how do you explain starvation and murder? How do you explain wars and AIDS and children in Third World countries who are slaughtered in front of their mothers?”

Patty slaps her steering wheel.“It's that damned free will.Why do you think I pray? So that He'll intervene once in a while.

Frankly, I just don't know why He doesn't take free will back.The world would be so much better off.”

“Also, more boring.”

“True.”

Patty and I sit there, staring at nothing, thinking about free will and destiny.

“What's the third thing?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“The third thing you say every morning before you get out of bed.”

“Oh, that.Yeah. Filing deadline. I pray that I haven't missed a filing deadline 'cause that could lose me a case. Man, the law can be one nitpicky bitch.”

I have known Patty for almost twenty years and still I haven't figured out how a ruthless lawyer who swears and drinks and sleeps around and breaks the speed limit whenever possible can also be such a devout Catholic.

When she's not praying or going to confession or attending Mass or donating wads of her personal income to charities, she's cursing the male-run, hierarchical nature of the Church to which she is devoted, body and soul. It's a contradiction I don't understand.

I don't ask; I just accept.

Chapter Seventeen

I arrive at the Peabody Road house at 11:45 on the dot.

Already, there are a bunch of cars parked at the dead end— Patty's Porsche, Todd's pickup truck, a Lexus (which must belong to the Realtor since it's a statute Realtors in this area must drive Lexuses), and a late-model Volvo. Probably the doctors'.

Everyone's inside and I have absolutely no idea why I'm here or what Patty and Todd want me to do.Take a risk, I think. That's what.

The Realtor is already showing off the house's features when I walk in. With great arm flourishes, she gestures to the marble fireplace and then to the high ceilings, emphasizing the space and gushing about the southern exposure and hardwood floors, the excellent schools and unique privacy.

There is no sign of Nick.Then again, why would there be? He knows every inch of this house, including the upstairs, his home.

Meanwhile, a couple I'm assuming are the doctors are behaving as if they, too, know everything. He is snapping gum and nodding rapidly, motioning with his hand for the Realtor to get on with it.The woman isn't even paying attention. She's punching numbers on her cell. Might be checking a page. Or maybe that morning's crossword puzzle.

While . . . Patty.Wait! What's she doing?

Patty is in a very suburban Dolce & Gabbana miniskirt and pink, sleeveless cotton top, the exact outfit someone like Lucy would wear to an open house. Her hair is in a bouncy flip and held back with a black headband and she is dripping with diamonds. A diamond tennis bracelet. Diamond studs. Her to-die-for Tiffany watch with its diamond face and, of course, her new diamond ring.

The Realtor clears her throat expectantly. "If you're here to bid on the house, please get a form. Right now, we're entertaining only preapproved applicants.”

Geesh. I'm not preapproved for anything except the five thousand credit card offers I get each week in my spam folder. The male doctor regards me over his half-glasses as if he, too, is well aware that I'm an imposter.

“She's with me,” Patty says, grabbing my hand. “We're together.” Between the jewelry store and this showing, we're going to get a rep. We're going to have to start buying purple cars and rainbow license plates.

“Excuse me, Sheila,” the male doctor says. “But can we cut to the chase? My wife and I are on a very tight schedule and I think all of us here are up to speed on the house's features.”

“Are we?” asks Patty. “I'm not so sure. There are a few questions I'd like answered before we move forward.” And from her tote, the one that carried the infamous bottle of tequila on that infamous night we forged the Sleeping Beauty Proposal, she produces a long white legal tablet jam-packed with a question on each line.

The doctor groans and I'm tempted to object as well. I've seen Patty in this mode. She can drag out a cross-examination so long even the most ardent plaintiff is moved to settle—or commit suicide, whichever comes first.

“My first question concerns the percentage of lead in the window paint.” She clicks her pen. "Now, my preliminary research shows that most houses in this neighborhood were built at the turn of the century, which means that all of them likely were painted with a lead-based primer.

“As you may know, by law a house cannot be sold unless the paint is no more than six hundred parts per million lead.This raises the issue of—”

“I don't care if it's solid lead. I'm going to take down all the walls anyway,” the doctor barks.“I'll offer ten grand above the asking price.”

He's going to gut the place. He's going to rip out everything and start over. Now, I absolutely cannot let him get it, even if he is offering more money than Nick and I could amass together.

Sheila says, “You realize you're going above your original bid, Dr. Norman.”

“So I can seal the deal. What time is it, Sandy?” Dr. Norman nudges his wife, who looks up from her cell, startled. Tetris. Definitely Tetris.

“I dunno.Twelve fifteen?” Sandy doesn't seem too concerned.

More important, she doesn't seem to care.

Patty and I quickly exchange looks. One of the benefits of having a long-term friend like Patty is that our communication often doesn't require words. She's thinking what I'm thinking, that Sandy's not gaga about the house. I'm as sure of this as I'm sure Patty's going commando.

“Put this house under contract by twelve thirty and I'll personally chip in an extra one percent to your commission,” Dr. Norman declares.

Sheila laughs slightly and says, “Dr. Norman. That's not necessary.”

Though we all know damn well it is.

“Is this water damage?” Patty rocks back and forth, causing a tiny, almost imperceptible squeak in the flooring.

“I don't think that's water damage,” Sheila snaps. “That's just what you get with an older house. Now, about that offer—”

“Really? It certainly smells like there might be water damage.”

We all sniff. It could be my imagination, but there really is a vague scent of rotting wood.

“It does seem a bit . . . damp,” Dr. Norman observes.

Patty says, “You know, you're right. Almost like mold. Does this house have a mold problem, Sheila?”

That captures the attention of Sandy, who pauses from aligning her digital bricks to comment that mold makes her cough and that she's highly allergic to all sorts of spores as well as bees and certain varieties of berries.

“Could be black mold.” Patty opens her eyes wide in alarm. “That shit will kill you dead.”

It's appalling, Patty's hyperbolic redundancy.

As if on cue, the back door to the kitchen opens and Todd tromps in carrying a huge tool chest and wearing a leather tool belt, work boots, even a yellow hard hat.The works.

“Howdy!” he hollers. “Don't mind me. Just finishing a patch job.”

Todd never says
howdy
and he never wears a hard hat if he can help it—certainly not for a patch job.

Clearly annoyed, Sheila excuses herself to have a private chat with my brother in the kitchen. I'm sure Todd's not supposed to be here, though he's doing a superb job of acting confused, taking off his hat and scratching his head. I actually hear him say, “I got my orders.”

Sandy tugs at her husband's sleeve. “Do you think there's mold?”

“No.” He sneers at Patty. “This woman's just trying to queer the deal.” Then, realizing his politically incorrect faux pas, says, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Patty replies politely.
Cough.

Oh, she's good.

Cough.
It's a tiny feminine cough.“Excuse me.” Patty points to her throat. “Just a slight tickle.”
Cough.

Patting her on the back, I inquire, "Is it the dust?”

“I don't think so.”
Cough.
“It's the kind of cough I got that summer in P-town.That summer of the red tide.”

“Brevetoxins,” Sandy gasps, herself releasing a contagious cough. “Similar reaction to the molds. Remember that vacation we took to the Outer Banks?” She coughs again. “It's deadly.”

“You're imagining things,” her husband says.“Coughs are psychologically contagious. Everyone knows that.”

Patty, still coughing, gestures to Todd. “I bet he can tell us if there's mold.”

“Good idea.” Sandy deposits her cell in her purse and, moving like a warship, glides toward the kitchen.

Dr. Norman gives us a dirty look and follows.

“I have a question,” Sandy says to Sheila and Todd, who are in the middle of a confrontation.

Sheila holds up a finger.“In a moment. We're finishing up and then we'll go over the terms of the contract. It's right here on the kitchen table.”

“Is there mold?” Sandy addresses Todd. “I'm asking you because you've been doing work here.”

Todd shuffles his feet. “No, ma'am. There's no mold. Not in this house.”

“There. Does that satisfy you, Sandy?” Dr. Norman asks.“Now, let's go back—”

“Not on this floor, but in the basement, absolutely,” Todd interjects. “Tons of it. Black stuff in all the corners. Hard to see with a naked eye, but you can't miss it once you get your nose in the cracks.”

The three of them stop. I don't dare make eye contact with Patty. Nose in the cracks. Where does he come up with these lines?

“In the basement?” Dr. Norman is incredulous. “Why? This house is at the top of a hill. It's not even near any water.”

“It's one of them stone basements. You know, dug out. All these houses on the streets, the ones what haven't been refinished, are crawling with mold. Course it's a bitch to remove, even if you do finish them off.You could tear it down to the foundation and never be rid of it. No, sir.”