"Tell him that story about your grandfather and that hotel he had," Roger says, a smile in his voice. "The old guy will eat that shit up."
"It wasn't a hotel," I say, annoyed he can't remember. I've told him the story at least three times, including last week when I requested this assignment during our meeting. "It was an inn, just like this one."
"Even better. I have a good feeling about this. We'll get the place for cheap, renovate it, and make a fortune."
"We don't even know if he's willing to sell," I point out, slowing down as I approach the town.
"He'll know when you're done with him."
"I'm not sure this is going to happen by Sunday." I roll down my window to get some fresh air. It's something I don't get in the city. I breathe it in as I take in the view in front of me. There are trees everywhere, sugar maples that are starting to show hints of red, orange, and yellow. A white steepled church is just up ahead and beyond that is what looks like a tiny downtown with old brick buildings. It's a beautiful town. It looks like a painting, or like one of the puzzles my grandparents did with me when I was a kid.
"Make sure to talk me through the details before you write up the deal," Roger says. "When did you say it was built?"
"Not sure. Hold on, I'll check." I reach over to the passenger seat to my messenger bag. I pull out the research I did, setting the stack of papers on the dash. I stop at a red light and rifle through the papers, searching for the inn's historical records. Someone honks and I look up and see the light turned green. I take off and the papers on the dash go flying out the window.
"Shit!" I look in the rear view mirror and see the papers flying around behind my car.
"What is it?" Roger says. "What happened?"
I sigh. "My research just flew out the car. I'll look up the date when I get to my room. It won't be long. I'm almost there."
"Just email it to me."
"Yeah, I will. Talk to you soon."
Sophie
"I can't see!" I yell, getting my wipers going to clear away the paper that just flew onto my windshield. The wipers only make it worse. The papers stick to them, making them slow to a stop and leaving my windshield covered right where I need to see. "I can't see the road!"
"What's going on?" Bianca asks.
I slam on the brakes, making the car behind me honk. The guy goes around me, rolling down his window and yelling at me as he passes.
"I have to go," I tell Bianca. "Some idiot let all this paper fly out of his car and it's stuck to my windshield."
"Paper? What are you talking about?"
"I'll tell you later. I have to go."
I'm in the middle of the street so I pull off to the side so people can pass. I get out of my car and start yanking the paper from my wipers.
"I can't believe this," I mutter to myself. "Of all the crazy things that could happen."
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
I look up and see a police officer walking toward me.
"Oh, sorry," I tell him. "I just need to clear my windshield and then I'll go. I couldn't see to drive."
"That's not why I'm here," he says, "although I do need you to move your vehicle."
Does he not see that I'm trying? I'm yanking off the ripped pieces of paper as fast as I can.
"Ma'am, I need you to move your car," the officer says.
Why does he keep calling me ma'am? I'm 29. I'm not old enough to be a ma'am. I scrunch the paper into a ball and look around for a garbage.
"I hope you're not thinking about tossing that," the officer says, pointing to the wadded up paper in my hand.
"No, of course not," I say, offended he'd think I'd litter. I open the back door of the rental car and toss the paper on the floor.
"Pull up over there," the officer says, pointing to a silver Audi that's parked farther up on the side of the road. It's the car the papers flew out of. The cop must've seen what happened and now the driver's in trouble and I'm the witness.
"Officer, can we just forget this?" I ask. "What he did was dangerous but I'm sure it was just an accident. And as you can see, my car is fine so there's really no need to fill out paperwork."
His brows draw together. "Ma'am, I don't think you're getting the point here. This isn't about your car."
"Then what's it about?"
"Pull your vehicle up, please," he says, walking off.
What is going on here? If this isn't about the paper hitting my car, then what's it about? I get in the car and pull up behind the shiny silver Audi with New York plates.
As I turn my car off, the officer goes up to the Audi. A guy gets out. He's probably in his early thirties, tall, with dark hair, wearing a black suit that looks very expensive. I bet he's some rich Wall Street guy driving up here for a weekend getaway that his girlfriend set up. Or maybe he's here for a wedding, maybe his own. I don't know why else he'd be in this tiny town.
"What's this about?" I ask, going up to the officer. I ignore the guy from the Audi but feel him staring at me.
The officer is holding what looks like a pad of tickets. "We take littering very seriously in this state. Hopefully next time you'll think twice before tossing your trash out the window. I'll need licenses from both of you, please."
"Trash?" I stare at him, completely confused as I take my wallet from my purse. "What trash? I didn't throw anything out the window."
He points back to the road. My plastic water bottle is on the side
