I swallowed an astonished gulp. I’d hardly ever seen Lois ingest alcohol—a few times at company parties, but in moderation. The woman was forever cool and collected, always in control.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Residence Twelve, a rehab for women. It’s not her first visit there.”
I massaged my throbbing temple with my free hand. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Few people did.”
After I hung up, I glanced down at the top folder and saw the name Basetti scrawled across the top. Had Lois found the man a home and neglected to inform me? This thought made my head spin. I was sure we had agreed to work on that sale together. I tipped opened the folder and found Mr. Basetti’s check and an earnest money agreement dated three days earlier. I recognized the seller’s name and the house I’d discussed with Mr. Basetti on the phone. The seller had yet to sign the papers, I noticed. Had Lois even presented the offer to him?
I sorted through the stack of folders and found several unfinished house deals with missing documents. One sale was supposed to close in a week, but I couldn’t find the inspection report required by the lender. Another file contained a request from a bank for verification of a buyer’s income. A third held phone messages from a seller saying he couldn’t vacate his home until January, while the buyers stated they needed to move in by the first of December.
It occurred to me the needed documents probably lay somewhere in Lois’s private office. I had no choice but to search for them. I gathered up the folders, moved to Lois’s desk, and sat on her ergonomically correct leather chair that made mine feel like a park bench. Pulling open the top drawer, I was surprised to find a confusion of pill bottles, nail files, and makeup. The middle drawer contained a hodgepodge of papers and files, some dating back three years. I tugged open the bottom drawer and heard something roll, hitting the back of the drawer with a clank. Digging behind a stack of Golf Digest magazines, I spied several miniature bottles of liquor, the size served by airlines.
Shutting the drawer, I recalled how the office gang sometimes headed to the restaurant down the block after work. The same waiter always took our drink orders. He would ask Lois if she wanted “the usual,” and Lois would send him a winning look and say, “Sounds good, Harry.” While I drank diet Pepsi and some of the others drank white wine, Lois sipped her iced tea, no sugar. She never acted sloppy, never laughed uncontrollably, and always left a generous tip.
What was really in that tea? I considered running down the street to ask the bartender if he’d doctored Lois’s drinks, but he might lie. And what good would it do? Lois obviously had a problem, or she wouldn’t be in a treatment center.
Pacing back to my desk, I remembered the phone message from Bill Avery. At least that deal was sailing along. I relaxed into my chair and dialed Bill’s office number in Pittsburgh.
“Bev’s pregnant,” Bill said after a brief hello.
“That’s wonderful.” I envisioned the home they were purchasing. The small bedroom beside the master suite could be used as a nursery. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, but now Bev’s decided she doesn’t want to move.”
“What?” I must have misunderstood. Bev, a friendly young woman, had been ecstatic the day the couple wandered into the open house. “Are you sure? She loved the house. Remember how she raved about the fireplace in the family room and the fenced backyard?”
“Not anymore. She told me if I move to Seattle, I’m going by myself.”
My pulse pounded in my ears, sounding like a semi careening down a gravel road. “But your job. I thought you had a great promotion.” My words slurred; I sounded like a woman teetering on the edge of a ravine. “Maybe I should call Bev. Seattle’s a beautiful city. I’d be glad to help her get settled here.”
“It’s her folks. She doesn’t want to leave them now.”
“Oh.” I recalled the dreary afternoon Mom had invited me over on the pretense of lunch. Eight months pregnant with Rob and hauling around thirty extra pounds, I’d waddled into my parents’ home and started complaining about how miserable I was. Phil had stayed out past closing time again, we only had two hundred dollars in the bank, and my morning sickness was back with a vengeance.
“Surprise,” Mom had said with a mischievous grin, and presented me with a white wicker bassinet with an eyelet skirt. A moment later my sister, Candy, and several other girlfriends, each carrying an elaborately wrapped baby gift, materialized from the kitchen where they’d been hiding. Of course Bev wanted to stay near her parents, I thought. And I admired Bill for supporting her decision.
“I understand,” I said to Bill. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Andrea’s parents lived in a three-story brick mansion standing partially hidden behind a six-foot fence and tall evergreens. I steered my car into the circular stone-paved drive and coasted up to the front door.
Rob had never mentioned Andrea came from a wealthy household. Our home was miniscule compared to this one—about the size of the Walkers’ four-car garage. No wonder Rob liked hanging out at Andrea’s.
Leaving the safety of my car, I dreaded facing Lucille, and wished I’d insisted we meet in a public place so she couldn’t cause a scene. Not that I was responsible for what had happened. It was Lucille’s daughter who’d called Rob in the first place. Andrea had chased after him the way
