I stopped myself short of reminding her that Brenda wasn’t really my aunt. “That’s great. Thanks Sunny.”
I went back to join Kassandra in the kitchen for coffee and gossip.
“He’s not on Facebook,” Kassandra said, getting the milk carton from our shared refrigerator.
“Who are you talking about?” I stirred my coffee.
“Sexy Mr. Coste, who else?”
“Wait, you went to look for the man on Facebook? And now you’re checking the back of the milk carton?” I chided.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid. And no, not just on Facebook, I did a wide search, and I couldn’t find him anywhere. Maybe he gave you a phony name.”
“Why would he do that? I’m supposed to call him with the info he needs.”
“Maybe he has one of those untraceable cell phones, you know, what is it they call them on those cops show? Burners?”
“Really Kassandra. I’m sure he told me his real name. He’s from California. He flew in and rented a car at Sky Harbor, and he owns a place somewhere downtown where his mom, okay, stepmom and her sister live. Is that real enough? And by the way, he’s at least fifty years old.”
“So?”
“Would you date a fifty-year-old man?”
“No, definitely not.” We both turned around to see who spoke from the open kitchen door.
Dale Wolf. Damn. Blood rushed to my face, and my mouth refused to close.
Kassandra didn’t seem fazed at all. “It’s easy for you to say, Mr. Wolf. You’re married.”
“Happily married,” he said then turned on his heels and left.
“I didn’t hear the front door, did you?” Kassandra asked.
I shook my head. Open mouth and all. “Is he here often?”
She shrugged. “More often than I’d like, but no one asks my opinion, and he sometimes brings cupcakes to die for. He may be waiting for Kay to get here. They are still having meetings, discussing the legalese side of their universe. Let’s talk about something pleasant, how is your Frenchie doing?”
“Please, Kassandra, don’t call him that. I doubt he’s even French. You know Mr. Dumont adopted him after he married Tristan’s mom.”
“Oh, don’t hit the panic button yet. You’re too young to lose your sense of humor.” She emptied her coffee mug while I was still stirring mine trying to stop thinking about Tristan.
It happened every time his name came up. “Fever, Give me Fever.” Yes, that song summed it up neatly, and now I might as well go home because I’d have that song twirling in my mind for hours.
“Sorry, Kassandra. You know Tristan Dumont is in France, right? That’s why I went to collect their mail. The house is empty. Even Tache, Tristan’s mare, is down at the ranch.”
“Enough about men.” She yawned. I must be really boring. “What are you going to do about a car? You keeping the loaner?”
“Hell, no. I hate that thing. Just haven’t decided what to get, but one thing is sure. It will be a four-door sedan, something I can get in and out of without needing a step stool. And I’m thinking silver.”
“Okay, that’s a good start, you want a silver sedan. Now all you need to do is pick a brand. How about a Mercedes?”
“You’ll probably think I’m nuts, but I would like to buy American.”
“American what?”
“An American-made car.”
“Good luck, they are all built somewhere else.”
“Even the Fords and Chevrolets? So what’s that song about the American pie and the Chevy?”
She looked at me for a long time, and somehow her expression mellowed a little. That alone was a big deal when it came to Kassandra. She squeezed my arm. “What do you know? You’re just a big softie romantic. But, Monica, if you actually listen to the whole song, the Chevy has little to do with American pie. Regardless, I’m sure you are as good an American as most of us.”
“Even with my accent?” I joked.
“We all have some kind of accent, yours happens to be a little more... exotic. Now see what you did? I’m all shook up,” she said, lifting her blouse collar up, a la Elvis. And with that we both laughed. She went back to her desk, and I headed to my lonely cubicle to work on Greg Coste’s project and fantasize about Tristan’s quick homecoming.
I wasn’t going to accomplish much sitting there, daydreaming. I picked up my stuff and quietly left the building, winking at Kassandra on my way out the door.
SIX
THE SUN WAS going down, creating a fiery Arizona sunset I could see from my kitchen window.
I called Gregory Coste.
“Monica, call me Greg, okay? So you’re saying that as long as there isn’t a senior assisted living facility within a one-mile range, we’re good? And you already checked on that? Well done.”
“Yes, Mr..Greg, it’s going to work out—”
“Can we take a second look tomorrow?” he interrupted. “I could measure the rooms and get some pictures. Late morning works better for me. I have hired help who comes to take care of my stepmother. Hope this one shows up. I don’t have much luck with these so-called caregivers.”
“Oh, wish I could help you, but I don’t know much about caregivers. My aunt Brenda would. Maybe I’ll ask her next time we talk.”
He mumbled something.
“Should we plan to meet around ten-thirty? Would that work?” I kept the pressure on. “I need to double-check regarding availability. Greg, if you don’t hear from me, I’ll see you at ten-thirty. Otherwise, I will call you.”
“Perfect, let’s do this. I have good feelings. See you in the morning.” He ended the call. Perfect was right. Perfect way of ending my day. Sunny had kept her word, and with one phone call I’d been able to learn about the basic rules and regulations for Greg Coste’s project. If indeed he intended to pay cash, he needed to get something in writing from his bank regarding proof of funds.
The fact that when I drove home there wasn’t
