Matt wasn’t entirely sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but certainly it wasn’t the openmouthed horror that greeted his announcement.
The old guy sitting on the couch spoke first. Matt didn’t remember the man’s name, but he did remember that his wife had passed away a year ago. He was a tall, rail-thin man with a fringe of brown hair and a pair of deep-set blue eyes. His nose meandered a little, as if it had been broken once or twice, and he had a square jaw and rows of laugh lines bracketing his mouth, as if he’d gone through life with a smile on his face. But he wasn’t smiling now. “You think fining that bastard’s going to fix anything?” he asked in a low, smooth voice.
“It’s a start,” Matt replied.
The old guy shook his head. “You’re wet behind the ears, aren’t you, son? What do ya think these fines will do? You think Anderson will decide to fix up this place?” He shook his head. “No. Ain’t gonna happen. The landlord doesn’t have enough money to make the repairs. Fining him more money won’t change that.”
“Maybe it will induce him to sell the apartments to some other manager.”
Arwen’s Frown of Disapproval made another appearance. Damn. What had he done wrong?
“You really are stupid, aren’t you?” the old guy said. “If Scott Anderson sells this place to someone else, do you think the new developer’s gonna let these places stand?”
Matt stood there for a long moment, shifting his gaze over the faces of the tenants. The old guy was right. Matt was wet behind the ears. But he wasn’t stupid. He recognized the truth when someone shoved his nose in it.
“If the building inspector’s office is using fines to force people to sell out, that’s not right.”
“Damn straight it’s not,” the old guy said, pounding his knee with his fist.
“Sid, don’t get your blood pressure up,” Leslie said, giving the old guy a dewy-eyed look.
Matt suddenly remembered the old guy’s name. Sidney Miller. “Look, Mr. Miller, I hear what you’re saying. Let me see what I can find out, okay?”
“Whatever. It don’t matter; people like us get the shaft every time.” The guy leaned back onto the couch, his complexion slightly gray.
Sid Miller wasn’t well, and Matt had no intention of continuing their argument. Instead he straightened his shoulders and said, “Look, I promise you folks that I’ll do everything I possibly can to get these apartments fixed and to make sure you don’t lose your homes.”
It wasn’t until he finished his speech that he turned and noticed Arwen’s Frown of Disapproval, again.
What the hell? Did she expect him to stand there and tell them they should start packing? He decided, right then, that he’d find a way to help these people no matter what.
Chapter Four
Seriously, I think the world needs more love songs,” Arwen said as she piled crab dip onto a pita chip. She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, emitting a little groan of pleasure. It was Thursday-night happy hour at the Jaybird Café, and the drinks and appetizers were half-priced—a good thing because Courtney and Arwen needed self-medication.
“If the world needs more love songs, why do you write so many songs about heartbreak?” Courtney asked. Arwen had come directly from work and looked professional, preppy, and uptight in her J.Crew business suit.
“I’m just saying,” Arwen said as she scooped another mound of dip onto a chip, “when every popular song is about getting it on, it leads to unrealistic expectations.”
“Lyrics have nothing to do with it,” Courtney replied. “Guys are guys. They’re born with sex on the brain.”
“I concede that point. And I’ll concede that women like sex too. A lot. But our generation has taken a bad turn somewhere. We’ve substituted Netflix and chill for dinner and a movie. Where’s the romance?” Arwen loaded up another chip and pointed it at Courtney like a weapon. “Has anyone ever sent you flowers?”
Courtney paused, her Manhattan halfway to her mouth. “Damn. You’re right.” She proceeded to take a big gulp of her drink. “You know, that’s depressing. I mean, I’m freaking out because both my boss and my assistant are pregnant, and I haven’t even gotten to the stage where a guy likes me enough to send flowers.”
“That’s my point. No one sends flowers anymore, except to their mothers on Mother’s Day. Romance is dead in America.”
Courtney pulled the cherry out of her Manhattan and popped it into her mouth. The intense sweetness burst onto her tongue like a vivid memory of younger days. Right after her mother passed away, Daddy had started a tradition of Friday-night dinner “dates.” Friday became their special time together. She would never forget that night, a few weeks after Mom had died from leukemia, when he’d taken her to the Red Fern and ordered her a Shirley Temple cocktail. The taste of maraschino cherries would always remind her of Mommy who had died so young.
Arwen was right. Guys like her dad, who used to send Mom flowers all the time, no longer existed. “I should stop waiting around for Mr. Right.”
“Waiting around in what way?”
Arwen’s question startled Courtney. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that we say that all the time, and when you parse it out, what does it mean? Why are we waiting? Is real life going to start when some guy arrives? Shouldn’t we concentrate on enjoying our lives now?” She helped herself to another pita chip smothered with crab dip and chewed with a thoughtful expression on her face.
Leave it to Arwen to get philosophical. Courtney leaned back in her chair, took another sip of her Manhattan, and cast her gaze over the usual Jaybird regulars: Juni Petersen, the Jaybird’s owner, dressed in a long, flowing India-print dress; Rory Ahearn, chatting up the ladies and flashing them his Irish smile; and Ryan Pierce, sitting at
