CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

"What's going on? What do you need?"

"What are you doing here?" Conn asks, baffled, as I let myself into his house and close the door behind me.

"You texted me."

"I asked if we could meet sometime. I didn't say right now."

"No time like the present."

"Uh-huh. How did you know I was home?"

As if I don't know his schedule. "The breakfast crowd has died down, the lunch rush hasn't started, and because it's Wednesday, you're here to give Harvey his every-other-day potassium supplements with his second breakfast. Obviously." I toss my purse and my portfolio onto the couch and look around. "I see things haven't changed around here. Pity."

"I know," he says. "You've been telling me that for years."

"It's been true for years. And what's that smell?"

"There is no smell, and you know it. I clean."

He's right. There is no smell. But it stinks in here all the same—of wasted potential. A property worth millions, and he's bringing down the value by keeping the shag carpeting, the cheesy plywood paneling, and that nasty-ass plaid couch. The marketer in me is weeping salty tears of frustration. "Do you realize how great this house could look with a little bit of updating?"

"It was good enough for my parents."

"This was all new when they moved in. In 1978. Now it's not even retro kitsch trendy. It's just tired. And way, way too plaid. Oh, the things I would do to this place…"

Crossing to me and leaning in like he's got the best secret in the world, he says, "Well, maybe now's your chance."

"What do you mean?" I squint at him suspiciously. He's way too close. Not that it's a bad thing. Conn Garvey is a six-foot-two hunk of he-man whose looks can knock women over at twenty paces. He's always had that effect. Not on me, you understand, but others. Lots and lots of others. Still, I can appreciate his attractiveness in a detached way, the same way I can admire a painting in a museum without wanting to run off with it and hang it in my living room.

He purses his lips, and I'm distracted by trying to figure out whether or not I like his new scruff. Honey-colored, with a hint of copper glinting on his chin, dusting his jawline and circling his lips. I wouldn't call it a beard quite yet, but it's getting there. I wonder how long he's going to let it go, and what it'll look like when…oh. He's said something.

"Sorry…can you repeat that?"

Conn draws back and shoots me an amused smirk. "Pay attention, Abbott. This is your big chance."

"For…?"

He drops into the leather recliner near the picture window. Mid to late twentieth century décor might be back in style lately, but not all the trends from the era were exactly wonderful. I put picture windows in that category. Why anyone would have a giant window that doesn't open looking out over the ocean is beyond me.

Conn's cat Harvey appears from out of nowhere and leaps onto his lap. He pets the geriatric longhair gray feline absently as he says, "I officially give you permission to get this place in shape. So you can list it."

"What?"

"I want you to sell the house."

I sink onto the couch. The coarse plaid fabric tickles the back of my knees. "Conn, no!" I whisper, horrified.

"Melanie, yes! You sell houses, so…make it happen."

"But…it's your home!"

"Come on. It's just a house."

"It is not just a house!" I can hear my voice getting more strident, but I can't manage to tone it down. "It's…it's…been your family's home for years!" Unmoved, he just looks at me, a small patient smile on his lips. I try a different tack. "It's beachfront in Abbott's Bay! You don't throw a place like this away!"

"I'm not. I'm asking you to sell it. Usually that means I get cash, and—may I remind you—so do you."

This is unheard of. Conn is breaking the unwritten code of Abbott's Bay lifers. Generations-old Abbott's Bay families know the value of their properties and would sooner die than give up their homes and land. I've seen residents with family histories that go back centuries flat-out refuse to sell to high-powered millionaires waving obscene amounts of cash in their faces, because you can't put a price on heritage.

Conn takes a breath and tries again, leaning forward while taking care not to displace the cat, as though he can get through to me if he gets a few inches closer. "It's okay, M," he says, using the intimate abbreviation of my name only he can get away with. "It's no big deal. My parents gave me this house and trust me to do what's best. I've decided selling is best."

I hesitate. Conn isn't an impulsive guy. He must have a plan, a reason for selling the house. Maybe he's going to use the money to buy—or possibly build—a nicer one. After all, this place is pretty damn ugly, outside as well as in. A squatty, angular, unpleasant-looking thing, its value comes from, as that hoary old real estate meme goes, "location, location, location." I wouldn't be surprised if whoever eventually buys it knocks it down and builds something better in its place.

But I don't want anyone else to buy it, whether they knock it down or not. Homely as the place is, it figured prominently in our childhood, with birthday parties and barbecues and other get-togethers here as far back as I can remember. I don't want Conn to sell those memories. I can't for the life of me understand what could be more important than keeping his family's house.

"Melanie," he says, "you're the best agent in town."

He's blatantly trying to butter me up. I'll let him, for now. "Damn right I am."

"We've known each other forever. I know I can trust you."

"Of course—always."

"So you'll do it?"

Reluctantly I whisper, "No."

I know what's coming next. Conn will either argue with me until the fishing boats come in for the night, or he'll turn on the charm. I can argue back, no problem—I've done it a million times before, from fighting over whether I was safe or out in a game of kickball to whether I've had too much caffeine (just the other day, in fact), and I can do it again. As for his charms, I'm immune. Comes from knowing pretty much everything there is to know about him…not to mention having seen him with chicken pox. That mental image neutralizes charm—let me assure you.

He sits back again, watching me thoughtfully while absently stroking his proto-beard. I'm fascinated by the movement of his hand. It's soothing. Like watching a cobra sway.

Finally he strikes. "Never mind. It's okay. I mean, I figured you'd be better than Eric—"

"Eric the Red?" I snap. He's pitting me against my coworker—the company's most cutthroat, albeit most unreliable, agent—and I'm falling for it. Dammit. "He'd set a ridiculous asking price and run off every potential buyer who made an offer even a hair under it."

"He does play hardball. Laura, then?"

"Our little weirdo who hasn't sold a house in three years? You do realize my father keeps her on staff with a base salary out of pity, right?"

"Then I'll call Maude."

A bridge too far. "Don't you dare."

"Well, who else am I going to go with? That's everybody in the office, unless I can talk your dad into taking listings again, which he won't. Should I go to Prime One?"

Ugh, the real estate agency with the stupid redundant name. He can't be serious. Everybody knows they survive on our castoffs. Abbott Realty is the only real game in town.

"Look," he continues, obviously struggling to remain patient, "I'm selling the house whether you're in or not. What's it going to take to convince you?"

I check my watch. "Buy me lunch." At the sight of his triumphant grin, I add, "That is not a yes. I'm just hungry."

Conn doesn't actually join me for lunch, of course. He's much too busy. The only time I'll see him is when he brings my food to my table. While I wait for my order, I bookmark different properties I think Hannah would like. Then I text her to let her know I'm ready when she is.

Deep Brew C is hopping for a weekday. Another group of people come in, blinking with the change of light from the bright sunshine outside, and Conn directs them to an empty table. He gathers up some menus for them as I see Ornette, the cook, put my food on the counter. I decide to help Conn out—mainly because I'm too famished to wait—and I get it myself.

"Hey!" Conn appears beside me and slaps my hand as I reach for a few extra napkins. "Quit that."

"Quit what?"

"The giant clump of napkins. Do you plan on bathing in the salad dressing or what?"

"What's the big deal?"

"Napkins don't grow on trees, you know."

"They kinda do, actually."

"You know what I mean. Put 'em back."

"Okay, okay. Sheesh."

I do as I'm told, but as soon as his back is turned, I sneak two or three and carry them back to the table under my plate. I realize paying attention to the number of napkins handed out is all part of DBC's sustainability practices, but come on. Whoever heard of a restaurant owner denying his customers napkins? Good thing he doesn't serve barbecue.

There's a text from Hannah waiting for me. I stuff a piece of lemon-and-herb grilled chicken into my mouth as I unlock my phone with my other hand. She's eager to look at houses too. Good. I tell her to meet me here in half an hour.

She's staying at The Windward B&B, which is practically on top of Deep Brew C, so I'm not surprised when she shows up twenty-eight minutes and fifteen seconds later. I'm still rooting around in my salad for the last bits of chicken and slivered almonds, so I gesture for her to have a seat while I finish.

"Conn has the best food. Have you had anything here besides his coffee? Because if you haven't, you should."

"Not yet," she says, slipping into the chair opposite mine. "This place looks really popular though."

"Oh, you have no idea. Wait till you see it during the tourist season. Crazy. You'll have to do at least three different wrestling takedowns to get to the counter for coffee in the morning."

"Well, if you find me a place with a good kitchen, I'll be making my own."

"I like your optimism. I promise the place you rent will have a good kitchen. Maybe even a gourmet kitchen."

I fire up my tablet and show her the different properties I have in mind, getting oohs for some and uncertain pinchy-face reactions for others. Fair enough. I can filter. I am here to serve. Just like the big guy over there.

"Hey, garçon? Refill?" I waggle my empty iced-tea glass at him. Conn nods and scoops ice cubes into a new glass. "So I'm thinking we start at the top of the list, high-end first…"

Hannah's not listening. Instead, she's resting her chin on her hand, staring at the bar. Or, rather, the figure coming around the end of the bar. "Must be nice to have a hot guy wait on you hand and foot," she murmurs in a dreamy voice.

I snort. "Oh, I pay. I pay dearly."

Just in time for Conn to hear me as he delivers my iced tea. "Funny, I have a running tab that says otherwise."

"Will you get off the tab thing? That's the second time you've mentioned it in two days."

"Because it's still there."

His deadpan game is strong. I can't tell whether he's teasing or actually wants me to pay my bill. I decide to ignore it altogether. "Conn, have you met Hannah Clement? Hannah, this is Conn Garvey."

"We have met," he says, "but not formally." Now he brings out his best, brightest smile for Hannah. "Welcome to Abbott's Bay."

"Conn short for Connor?" she asks, shaking the hand he extends, her cheeks going pink.

"Connacht, actually. Family name."

"That's very different."

"Just like its owner," I mutter.

"That's enough out of you, before I throw an apron on you and make you work off your outstanding balance. Don't think I won't do it."

Hannah and I watch him walk away. I'm rolling my eyes while Hannah barely blinks, she's so captivated by his backside. I scoop up my belongings and push my chair back.

"What do you say we find you a house?"