| |
––––––––
I COULDN’T GET Angelique and her Escalade off my mind. Why the rush to get to Phoenix? Could she somehow be mad at me for the strange woman having come to the house or for my talking to her? How was I supposed to have known who was at the door? It could have been the mailman with a very important delivery. Was she upset because Tristan had shared their big secret with me? Why would she be? Their marriage arrangement was reaching the end anyhow. I had nothing to do with it. Tristan had been quite clear about that.
The two of them had a legally binding pre-nuptial contract. She would be his wife, on paper and in name only, for three years or however long it took to get her permanent green card making her a legal resident of the United States. Then they would get an amicable divorce, and she would receive a share of his father’s estate. Tristan said it was a matter of honor, honoring the memory of his adoptive dad by fulfilling the commitment Mr. Dumont had made to his bride-to-be before his sudden death.
I approached the point in the road where I either turned right and went home or kept going to the 51 and the office. With the way the day had been unfolding I was willing to bet that Tommy, my ex from hell, was still hanging around the Baker compound. I hit the gas and headed for the 51.
Desert Homes Realty looked busy, all the marked parking spaces occupied. If I had been driving my Fiat 500, I could have squeezed into the very end of the lot without blocking someone. But not with this—this hearse. Where would the new group of Realtors park if the merger moved ahead? After my second parking space scouting excursion, I ended up across the street. My cell chimed as I turned off the engine. Brenda. This ought to be interesting.
“Hi, Brenda, let me guess. You are calling because of Tommy.” Pause.
“Tommy? Why? What happened to him?” A sharp, alarmed cough.
“Oh, no. I don’t—I didn’t mean it that way. But I saw him driving to your place.” The last thing I wanted to do was upset Brenda.
“He’s probably raiding my pantry. He asked me for cash to buy food, and I told him all I could offer was what he could find. No money, just food. Anyhow, what did you say to Angelique?”
“Huh, Angelique? When?” I was still seated in the car with the engine off.
“What do you mean when? When she spoke to you earlier. She seemed pretty upset.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I had to tell her about this woman who came to her house while I was picking up the mail. Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Angelique.” What was wrong with me? I knew where she was, in Phoenix.
“I don’t know, probably having lunch with the latest arrival.”
“The latest what?”
“A skilled farrier. You know, those people who work on horseshoes or whatever it’s called. He needed an exception to the rules to be allowed to move in here, because he’s a little younger than the rest. He’s really good with dogs too. Dior has taken a liking to the fellow. And Angelique decided Leo, that’s his name, would be a great addition to the ranch. Hey, why are we even talking about this?”
“Hey, nothing, you started it. Accused me of upsetting Angelique.”
“Accused? Is everyone sniffing glue around here?” A loud noise, like something heavy crashing on concrete interrupted the conversation.
“Damn, Monica, got to go,” she mumbled and coughed again. Was she back to smoking? “That idiot dropped the pots we just washed.”
And poof, Brenda was gone. I locked the car and headed across the street, to the office.
“How did it go?” Was Kassandra’s welcome. Made me smile, she acted more like a big sister than the receptionist and mighty ruler of the office.
“Pretty good actually,” I said and meant it. “He needs more info about the property, but he seems serious about buying, and we had good chemistry.”
“How good is good?” Mercy, what was up with Kassandra? Then I remembered she was the one who took Greg Coste’s call and obviously remembered his voice. Plus, we didn’t get many calls. Most people did their searching through the internet.
“Let’s just say that he looks as good as he sounds on the phone.” I watched Kassandra’s eyes light up. This was going to be fun.
“Well, tell me more—tell me more. Better yet, let’s chat over a cup of coffee.” She headed for the kitchen. At what point should I tell her he was old enough to be my father?
Later, maybe.
Sunny waved at me from the back of the room, motioning me over. “Sorry, Kassandra, our chat needs postponing. The boss is calling.”
I followed Sunny to her private office with the glass walls, the room where my career as a Realtor had first begun.
“What’s this I hear about a casino night to introduce our people to Dale’s?” she asked.
“What? Sunny, he said something about it while we were in the kitchen, and by we I mean Kassandra and me. Two days ago? He mentioned hiring Brenda’s B&B to cater the event and have Kassandra do her tarot readings and donate the casino money to a charity. We thought he was joking.”
“Joking is not part of Dale’s vocabulary when it comes to business,” Sunny said.
I nodded. “Apparently not. You know Brenda is down in Tucson. Do you have a date in mind?”
“Not yet, there is time. Nothing will happen until we have all the legalities out of the way. I wanted to bring it up with you, so when you talk to Brenda you can mention it. Counting agents, assistants, and the rest of the staff, we are looking at around thirty-five people, give or take a few. You know how those things work.”
“That’s a lot of people, where are you planning on doing this? Outdoor, indoor?”
“Probably a combination of both, over at Dale’s place.”
“Is his house that big?”
“Big and then some. Kay drove me over for a meeting. His back yard is designed for large parties, I call it a Disneyland for adults.” She smiled. “Unlike Disneyland, no lines and no rides.”
“Sunny, can I pick your brain? I showed a listing today. It was a cold call on one of our signs, 8th Place and Glendale?”
She nodded. My broker was a caring genius who made it a point to familiarize herself with all our listings/sales. I knew that from the months I’d spent as her personal assistant.
I went on. “The interested buyer is looking for a house that could be used as a senior assisted-living place. The home needs work, but while he likes the location, he isn’t sure about the zoning laws or anything that applies to that sort of business. I volunteered to research the subject. Can you help me out?”
“I can do better than that. One of Dale Wolf’s agents specializes in that type of business. He sells homes for senior assisted-living and also for behavioral health wellness—substance abuse in plain English. I believe the rules are similar. It’s a very specific niche as real estate goes and very much in demand I’m told. I’ll get you the contact. You may want to familiarize yourself with that industry. With your aunt Brenda’s years spent working in those high-end retirement planned villages, she may be able to send future investors your way.”
I stopped myself short of reminding her that Brenda wasn’t really my aunt. “That’s great. Thanks Sunny.”
I went back to join Kassandra in the kitchen for coffee and gossip.
“He’s not on Facebook,” Kassandra said, getting the milk carton from our shared refrigerator.
“Who are you talking about?” I stirred my coffee.
“Sexy Mr. Coste, who else?”
“Wait, you went to look for the man on Facebook? And now you’re checking the back of the milk carton?” I chided.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. And no, not just on Facebook, I did a wide search, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. Maybe he gave you a phony name.”
“Why would he do that? I’m supposed to call him with the info he needs.”
“Maybe he has one of those untraceable cell phones, you know, what is it they call them on those cops show? Burners?”
“Really Kassandra. I’m sure he told me his real name. He’s from California. He flew in and rented a car at Sky Harbor, and he owns a place somewhere downtown where his mom, okay, stepmom and her sister live. Is that real enough? And by the way, he’s at least fifty years old.”
“So?”
“Would you date a fifty-year-old man?”
“No, definitely not.” We both turned around to see who spoke from the open kitchen door.
Dale Wolf. Damn. Blood rushed to my face, and my mouth refused to close.
Kassandra didn’t seem fazed at all. “It’s easy for you to say, Mr. Wolf. You’re married.”
“Happily married,” he said then turned on his heels and left.
“I didn’t hear the front door, did you?” Kassandra asked.
I shook my head. Open mouth and all. “Is he here often?”
She shrugged. “More often than I’d like, but no one asks my opinion, and he sometimes brings cupcakes to die for. He may be waiting for Kay to get here. They are still having meetings, discussing the legalese side of their universe. Let’s talk about something pleasant, how is your Frenchie doing?”
“Please, Kassandra, don’t call him that. I doubt he’s even French. You know Mr. Dumont adopted him after he married Tristan’s mom.”
“Oh, don’t hit the panic button yet. You’re too young to lose your sense of humor.” She emptied her coffee mug while I was still stirring mine trying to stop thinking about Tristan.
It happened every time his name came up. “Fever, Give me Fever.” Yes, that song summed it up neatly, and now I might as well go home because I’d have that song twirling in my mind for hours.
“Sorry, Kassandra. You know Tristan Dumont is in France, right? That’s why I went to collect their mail. The house is empty. Even Tache, Tristan’s mare, is down at the ranch.”
“Enough about men.” She yawned. I must be really boring. “What are you going to do about a car? You keeping the loaner?”
“Hell, no. I hate that thing. Just haven’t decided what to get, but one thing is sure. It will be a four-door sedan, something I can get in and out of without needing a step stool. And I’m thinking silver.”
“Okay, that’s a good start, you want a silver sedan. Now all you need to do is pick a brand. How about a Mercedes?”
“You’ll probably think I’m nuts, but I would like to buy American.”
“American what?”
“An American-made car.”
“Good luck, they are all built somewhere else.”
“Even the Fords and Chevrolets? So what’s that song about the American pie and the Chevy?”
She looked at me for a long time, and somehow her expression mellowed a little. That alone was a big deal when it came to Kassandra. She squeezed my arm. “What do you know? You’re just a big softie romantic. But, Monica, if you actually listen to the whole song, the Chevy has little to do with American pie. Regardless, I’m sure you are as good an American as most of us.”
“Even with my accent?” I joked.
“We all have some kind of accent, yours happens to be a little more... exotic. Now see what you did? I’m all shook up,” she said, lifting her blouse collar up, a la Elvis. And with that we both laughed. She went back to her desk, and I headed to my lonely cubicle to work on Greg Coste’s project and fantasize about Tristan’s quick homecoming.
I wasn’t going to accomplish much sitting there, daydreaming. I picked up my stuff and quietly left the building, winking at Kassandra on my way out the door.
