She was peering at the brooch through a magnifying glass. “I’m taking my granddaughter swimming this evening, I bet you the beach is packed. I’ll give you ninety bucks for it.”
I blinked. She looked up, and I tried to compose my face in a normal way.
“Really, you don’t think—” I paused. “I’m pretty sure it’s Victorian.” Standing there next to an oversize television set, I sounded ridiculous even to myself.
“Ninety bucks,” the woman repeated, and she seemed a degree less friendly. Surely she had heard countless stories of financial woe; flintiness was a quality that would serve her well.
I took back the brooch. “I’d like to think about it.”
“Offer’s good till eight tonight. After that, bring it in, and it gets reappraised.”
“Thank you for your help.” And then, because I didn’t want to seem desperate or resentful, because I didn’t want to
desperate or resentful, I added before I stepped outside again, “Enjoy swimming.”
I CALLED NADINE
from my kitchen, and when I’d identified myself, she said, “How’s tricks?”
“I feel terrible doing this,” I began. “I’m so sorry, especially after how hard you worked to help me find the right house, but can we retract the bid? We can, right? That’s legal? And the seller just keeps the earnest money?” I had put down five hundred dollars for this—not nothing, but a good deal less than a down payment and a monthly mortgage would be.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Nadine asked.
What I felt most aware of in this moment, far more than the loss of the house, was the social awkwardness of reneging on a person who’d been good to me. Equally powerfully, I felt a fear that I wouldn’t be able to renege, that it was already too late.
“Alice, everyone has second thoughts.” Nadine sounded upbeat. “Here’s what I want you to do. Make a list of your concerns, and we’ll go through them together and see if they check out. Buying a house is a big step, but I know you’ll be happy as a clam.”
“I can’t buy the house,” I said. “Something has come up.”
“Are you worried about the inspection?” Nadine asked.
“It’s not this house. I can’t buy any house.”
For a long, excruciating moment, Nadine was silent. Then she said, “You know, there are some nutso clients out there, but I never thought you were one of them.”
“I’m sincerely grateful for your help,” I said. I did not consider telling her the reason for my change of heart—it would have been a violation of my mother’s privacy—but I decided that later in the week, I would write Nadine a note. That would make the situation at least a little better. “I’m wondering if there’s a penalty besides the earnest money. Do I need to pay you any sort of fee?”
“Nope.” Her voice was cold in a way I had never heard. “You’re free to walk away. All you gave was your word.”
I WAS IN
my apartment working on Babar—he wore a papier-mache green suit and red bow tie, a yellow papier-mache crown—and I was delighted with how he’d turned out, except for the not insignificant problem that the weight of his trunk made his whole head fall forward, as if he were asleep. My solution was to attach a weight to a string around his neck; the weight, which in this trial run was a can of chicken noodle soup from my cupboard, would be hidden behind his back, but unfortunately, the string was still visible and looked like a very small noose. Maybe a better solution, I thought, would be to attach some sort of wire loop to the back of his head (I could set him against a wall so the children wouldn’t see it) and then to run a hook from the wall to the loop. As I considered all this, there unfolded in my mind a simultaneous consideration of Charlie Blackwell and how he hadn’t called yet and how, if he didn’t call at all, it would be insulting—it would show he hadn’t really been interested in me, he’d just been hoping to spend the night—but it would also make things far simpler; I wouldn’t have to explain to him why we couldn’t see each other again. Either way, I had decided not to say anything about him to Dena. To confess would be indulgent, an attempt to absolve myself more than to enlighten her. As my brain skipped among Babar and Charlie and Dena, the phone rang and my heart seized a little (
), but when I answered, it was Dena who said, “If you come over tonight, I’ll make ratatouille. I have an eggplant that’s about to turn against me.”
“What can I bring?” I asked.
“I never say no to a bottle of wine. Shit, I have a customer. Let me call you in a second.”
A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Red goes better with ratatouille, right?” I said.
There was a pause, and then Charlie said, “Alice?”
I felt dual surges of pleasure and anxiety. “Sorry—I was expecting someone else.”
“Should I call you back?”
“No—no, I mean—” I paused. “I can talk now, if you can.”
“Well, I did call you.” He sounded amused.
There was a silence, and at the same time, he said, “What’s up?” and I said, “I’m working on Bab—” We both paused, to let the other reply first.
Finally, he said, “So I had a thought about our plans tonight.”
