If You Were Here

on like the fall of Saigon.¹⁹

“Oh,” I quip to Tracey,“did we not have an enormous sheet sign proclaiming that ORNESTEGA wears ladies’ underpants the last time you were here?”

Tracey shakes her head of chestnut curls. “I feel like I’d have noticed it.”

I shrug. “We compromised. I told Mac he could hang it as long as he takes it down by tomorrow, when the Segunda Iglesia Hispanic Church has services. They don’t need to worry about praying for ORNESTEGA’s predilection for panties. By the way, that little asshole put squeeze cheese in our mailbox. Ruined a perfectly good Pottery Barn catalog.”

“And you didn’t shoot him in the thigh? I’m impressed.”Tracey knows about the snub-nosed.38 special revolver Mac insists I keep in my desk. Honestly, I dig having a weapon at hand when I write; it makes me feel like Ernest Hemingway. Although now that I think about it, Tracey’s generally more concerned that I’ll shoot myself in the thigh. Seriously, you mention having to move your gun one time because you accidentally filled it with pretzel crumbs, and suddenly everyone thinks you’re the menace.

“Oh, come on, I have self-control.”

Tracey says nothing, opting instead to raise a single eyebrow at me. Jealous. . I can’t do that myself anymore. ²⁰

“I do have self-control. I’m incredibly disciplined,” I insist.

Tracey knows I’m a strict observer of what I like to call the Tao of Dalton. Remember in Road House when Patrick Swayze’s character, Dalton, says that he’s nice until it’s time not to be nice? That’s totally my philosophy.

Yet Tracey continues to smirk. “Fine, you win,” I admit. “Truth is we heard from Persiflage Films and they may be interested in my writing a pilot for Buggies Are the New Black. I figured I couldn’t have a laptop in jail, so for now, ORNESTEGA walks without a limp.”

“Congratulations, Mia!” Because Tracey’s an author, too, I don’t have to explain to her how tenuous the whole film and TV business is. I can’t tell you how many entertainment people I’ve talked to who say they love my writing and they’re dying to work with me and then never call me again. Dealing with Hollywood folks is kind of like having a bunch of one-night stands, only I’m usually the only one who ends up with the clap.

Our kitten Agent Jack Bauer climbs into my lap and I scratch him behind the ears. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing’s real until I see a check. Till then, they may as well be talking about Monopoly money.”

“Speaking of real estate, what happened while I was on vacation?”

“Ugh, what an ordeal!” I settle deeper into the couch so I can share my tale of woe. Daisy flanks me, as I’m never allowed on a piece of furniture by myself. “I was worried that Vienna would be insulted if we went in with such a lowball offer, and if I’ve learned anything from My First Place and Property Virgins, it’s that you don’t want to offend the seller. Before we wrote up a formal offer, we had Liz call her to take her temperature on the whole deal. Not only did she laugh at the appraisal—”

“Did she know what an appraisal was?”

“Yes, after Liz explained it to her, whereupon she insisted on her original selling price.”

“Any room to negotiate?”

“So far, no. What pisses me off is that I know how much she owes on this place, yet she wants tons more than that. Also, and maybe this is a stupid question, but she’s a frigging millionaire: Why does she even have a mortgage?”

Tracey considers this for a moment. “Rich people don’t stay rich by taking risks with their own money.”

I nod. “You’re probably right. Anyway, we came up with an ‘everyone wins’ kind of deal and made her an offer somewhere in the middle, but she was still having none of it. She claimed our appraisal was”—I pause to knead the thick fur on the back of Agent Bauer’s neck while Daisy wedges herself in deeper between me and the couch—“in her words, ‘not hot.’”

“Sounds like the path of least resistance would be to have a second appraisal,”Tracey suggests.

I snort. “We’re one step ahead of you. We had the bank’s appraiser come in, and he estimated an even lower price because we live on a busy street. And you know what? Vienna still wouldn’t budge. According to Liz, Vienna thinks the down market applies only to every other house in this neighborhood because she doesn’t own them. After that conversation, she actually gave us a higher selling price. I suspect this has less to do with her real estate prowess and more to do with what I just read in People—apparently she needs the cash to live in Ibiza for the summer season. FYI, Southampton is ‘so last year.’ ”

I begin to stroke Agent Bauer’s back more aggressively and then have to raise my voice because he’s purring so loudly. “What’s so frustrating is that Vienna acts like this place didn’t sit empty for two years because its price was too high before we moved in.”

“Was that when she was in rehab?”

I concentrate for a moment. “Huh. . you know what? You may be right. I think that’s right after her sex tape broke on the Internet and she checked into Promises. Regardless, she told Liz, ‘I could get a million for that place in a different location.’ Well, yes. Duh. That’s exactly how real estate works, honey. Unfortunately the house is in this location, where it’s worth a fraction of that.”

Mac pops up from the basement. “Hey, guys, what’s with all the shouting?”

“We’re talking about Vienna.”

Mac rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen for a soda. He’s as fed up with the state of negotiations as I am. He suggested that if Vienna won’t take the appraised price, then we go “fairy tale” all over her ass, speculating she might sell for a handful of magic beans, like in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” as she seems that kind of gullible. I laughed when he first suggested this, but it may be our best option.

Tracey and I move on to happier topics and spend the afternoon laughing. At four p.m., she notices the time and announces she has to leave for her dinner date. Curvy and statuesque, Tracey’s the Jewish hybrid of Marilyn Monroe and Mae West. Apparently this combination is like catnip to older generations, so her dates tend to be, let’s say. . more mature than her. Naturally, this is an endless source of amusement for me.

“Need to get ready?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says, gathering up her coat and putting on her snow boots. “He’s picking me up in a little while.”

I cough into my hand. “Earlybirdspecial.”

“What?”

I giggle. “Um, nothing.” She frowns as she continues to bundle up. “So,” I gamely continue, “a date tonight. . How will you get sexy for that? Dab a little Mentholatum behind your ears? Fill your pockets with Werther’s Originals? Surprise him with some fresh tennis balls for the tips of his walker?”

She sighs audibly. “He was born in October 1957. You realize that makes him six years younger than Sting. Would you date Sting?”

“Mac prefers I don’t date, what with us being married and all.”

Her cerulean blue eyes flash. “You know what I mean.”

“Um, sure, I’d absolutely date Sting. But I don’t picture your guy looking like Sting.”

She glances up from her boot laces again. “How do you picture him?”

I close my eyes and try to envision her beau. I imagine a round face with soft jowls and a jawline that dips down into his collar. His hair is gray — or missing — and although his eyes show his age-borne experience, they’ve grown paler and a bit cloudy. He has crow’s-feet and his lips have thinned. He’s got laugh lines and forehead wrinkles and a host of other age-related maladies that I pay a lot of money to eliminate so my young-adult audience relates better to me at live events.²¹

“I guess in my head he looks like. . Carroll O’Connor.”

She snorts. “Archie Bunker? That’s where your mind goes when you imagine an older guy?”

I nod.

“For your information, he does not look like Archie Bunker. He’s been a weight lifter for thirty years and he’s a vegetarian. He has a full head of hair that’s got less gray in it than mine. I assure you he’s in better health and