“It is a booming real-estate market,” Marcy said. “I have sold more houses already this year than I sold all of last.”
She picked up a sheet of paper, glanced at it, put it back in the folder.
“I keep track of everything bought and sold in the last twelve months,” she said.
“Sold by you?” Jesse said.
“Sold by anyone,” Marcy said. “I like to keep track.”
“How’s your love life?” Jesse said.
R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
“Busy, but we could always share a moment,” Marcy said.
“Where are you with Jenn?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re still serious about her,” Marcy said.
“I am, and another woman as well.”
“And you’re serious about her.”
“Yes.”
“Which are you more serious about?” Marcy said.
“I don’t know.”
She put the folder away and took out another.
“Drinking?” Marcy said.
“Not bad, I’m drinking less than I’d like to.”
“Don’t we all,” Marcy said. “Want me to lock the office and pull down the shade?”
Jesse smiled at her.
“Rain check?” he said.
“Of course,” Marcy said. “What are friends for?”
“I think I know,” Jesse said.
Marcy grinned.
“Seriousness not required,” she said and shook her head.
“No Walton Weeks.”
“How about Carey Longley?”
While Marcy looked, Jesse walked to the front window of the small office and looked out at the narrow street that led to the harbor. The houses were close together. There were no yards. The front doors were separated from the street only by a narrow sidewalk. The street was too narrow to permit 1 5 8
H I G H P R O F I L E
parking, and as Jesse stood there, no cars passed. Two hundred years ago it must have looked much the same.
“No Carey Longley,” Marcy said. “I do have a Carey Young.”
