Eva
Margot’s calls were always a bit thrilling to me. She knew this; I knew this. She never called to check in, to wish me a happy whatever, no small talk, no nothing. Unless she had something useful to say, I never heard from her.
So when she rang me before I went to Hillary’s and said, “Are you ready?” that silly, classic opening line that preceded something she knew I would love to hear, I simply sighed and said yes, as I always did.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Margot,” I laughed. I was always ready. I was always sure. Why did she persist with this odd tag of hers? Maybe this little peculiarity was why she wasn’t married.
“So the property behind Hannah’s? Two years ago, the owner considered subdividing a half acre. Talked to a contractor about putting up a cottage.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sounds like he didn’t want to take on the investment of building at the time, but…”
“Maybe he’d sell the half acre,” I said.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Let me ponder this,” I said.
But what I thought was, let me go over and eyeball that property. And while I was at it? Maybe I could snoop around and make myself useful for a change instead of just baking cookies and riding shotgun.
Terrible phrase, isn’t that?