Читать книгу If You Only Knew - Kristan Higgins - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHE DRIVE FROM Manhattan to Cambry-on-Hudson is one I could make in my sleep. COH is my hometown, a place my sister never left except to go to college, a place I visit at least twice a month.
But it’s different, coming here to live. On many fronts, it’s perfect, because I never did want to stay in Manhattan forever. COH is a pretty town on the banks of the Hudson, saved from true depression by its proximity to the city and some really smart planning on the part of the town council. Years ago, they preserved the riverfront, which is now home to restored brick buildings filled with dress boutiques and home goods shops, a bakery and café, an art gallery and a few restaurants and salons.
And Bliss.
There, in the center of the block, is my new business, the shop name announced in sleek steel letters over the door. Rachel designed the logo, a simple branch of cherry blossoms, and three days ago, we tackled the window display—pink silk cherry blossoms tied to dangling white ribbons. The interior of the shop is the palest pink, the floors a dark cherry, newly sanded and polished.
In the window, being admired by three young women, is a strapless peau de soie dress with lace overlay, a pattern of tiny rosebuds woven into the Chantilly.
Cambry-on-Hudson also is home to three country clubs, an equestrian club and a yacht club—it’s on the very border of Westchester County, you see. With all those wedding venues and deep pockets in town, Bliss should do just fine. And maybe I’ll get the old tingle back, now that I’m not surrounded by memories of Owen.
I’ll miss the city, but I admit that I feel a little relieved to get out of there, too. It’s a hard place to live—the constant noise, the endless blur of humanity, the exhaust and pavement and strangely sweet steam rising from the subway grates. It takes a toll, all the walking in heels, navigating through crowds, grabbing on to subway poles and stair railings that have been touched by thousands of people. And last I checked, I was allowed to go back to visit, though my friends and colleagues made it feel a bit like I was walking the green mile to my execution. Such is the nature of New Yorkers.
So, yes. This is a good move, a year in the making, and I can’t wait to get settled. Life will be quieter here. Easier. I’m not just moving because Owen and I got a divorce. Honest.
I head up the hill from the riverfront, where there is block after block of gentrified old row houses. Some streets are a little careworn and rough, and the other side of Broadway gets seedy fast, as we are not quite as Westchester County as the rest of Westchester County. The Riverview section of the city, where my sister lives, is quite posh, with big sprawling houses and glimpses of the Hudson.
But Magnolia Avenue, where I’m renting, is lovely without being snooty. Real people live here, people who have to work for a living.
As I pull up to Number 11, my phone rings.
I sense my hard-won optimism is about to get a smackdown. The Angel of Death, also known as my mother, Lenore Tate, long-suffering widow and professional pessimist.
Best to take the call; otherwise, she’ll call the police to check on me.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, making sure I sound chipper.
“I’m just checking in. Honey, I’m so sad for you. Horrible that you have to move,” she says in her trademark tone—mournful with a dash of smug.
“I don’t have to, Mom. I chose to.”
“You sound so depressed. Well, who can blame you?”
My eye twitches. “I’m not depressed. I’m really happy. I’ll be closer to you, and Rachel, and—”
“Yes, but these aren’t exactly ideal circumstances, are they? It should’ve been you and Owen, not him and Ana-Sofia. Though she is quite beautiful. The baby, too. Did I tell you they had me over last week?”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned it nine times now.”
“Oh, you’re counting. Poor thing. I can only imagine how hard it was, delivering the baby who should’ve been yours…”
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.” She’s not exactly wrong, and she knows it. Such is her evil power.
“I’m coming over to help you unpack. Do you have pepper spray? The neighborhood is seedy.”
When I went to college, Mom moved across the state border to a posh little town in Connecticut and began viewing COH as akin to the slums of Calcutta. It’s irritating, but at least she doesn’t live too close by.
“Mom, the neighborhood is gorgeous,” I tell her, using my “calm the bride” voice.
“Well, it’s not what it was when your father was alive. If he hadn’t died, it still might be a nice place to live.”
This is one of those illogical and unarguable statements so common from Mother Dear. Westchester County is hardly a hotbed of crime and urban decay. Even if COH was hit by urban blight—which it hasn’t been—it’s not as if Dad, who was a dentist, would’ve single-handedly stepped in and saved the day.
“You should’ve moved to Connecticut, Jenny. Hedgefield would’ve been perfect for your little dress shop. I still don’t understand why you didn’t want to come here.”
Because you live there. “I have to go, Mom. Don’t come over. I’ll have you up over dinner later this week, okay?”
“I can’t eat dairy anymore. It gives me terrible diarrhea. Ana-Sofia made empanadas that were delicious. Maybe you could call her for the recipe, since you’re not the best cook.”
Cleansing breath, cleansing breath. “Anything else?”
“Well, don’t make duck. I’m morally opposed to duck. Do you know what they do to ducks at a duck farm? The cruelty! It’s barbaric. But I do love veal. Can you make veal? Or is that too hard for you?”
“I’ll make something delicious, Mom.” I won’t. I’ll buy something delicious.
“See you in a few hours, then.”
“No, no. Please don’t come. I won’t even be here. I have a bride coming in.” A lie, but it’s de rigueur when dodging a maternal visit.
“Fine. Maybe I’ll call Ana-Sofia. She asked for some advice on getting the baby to burp, so…”
“Okay, bye.” I stab the end button hard. My twitch has grown into a throb.
I’d like to say that Mom means well, but that wouldn’t really be true. When things are good, she looks not for the silver lining, but for the mercury toxicity. When things are bad, her eyes light up, she stands straighter and her life is filled with purpose. She views my move to COH as both my inevitable failure at marriage—she always hinted Owen was too good for me—and also a gauntlet I’ve thrown at her feet. If I do better after my divorce—personally and professionally—it might imply that she should, too.
Well, no point in crying over spilled milk. Spilled wine, yes. But I have a long day of unpacking in front of me, and I want to get started. Unfortunately, the moving truck is nowhere in sight. Luis said he knew the street, but they’re late just the same, even if they left just a second after I did.
Hopefully, this will be the last time I move—which is exactly what I said when I moved in with Owen. He was the fourth boyfriend I lived with, but I thought he had staying power. But seriously, this could be the last time, because my new place is flippin’ beautiful. The real estate lady said it’s possible that it’ll go up for sale next year; it was an impulse buy on the part of the owner, and my lease is only for one year—a hint, she said, that the owner might want to sell it.
So I could live here forever, and why not? It’s elegant and cozy at the same time, a four-story brick town house painted dark gray with black trim and a cherry-red front door. Iron window box holders curl up in front of all the windows, and I immediately picture planting trailing ivy and pink and purple flowers in a few weeks. The trees along the street are dressed in green fuzz, and the magnolia across the street is in full, cream-and-pink glory.
My apartment consists of the middle two floors of the building—living room, dining room, tiny galley kitchen and powder room on the first level, then three small bedrooms and a full-size bath up the wide wooden staircase. The Victorian claw-foot tub was impossible to resist. There’s a tiny backyard with a slate patio, which I get to use, and a tiny front yard that belongs to the super, who has the first floor—the pied-à-terre, the Realtor called it, which made it sound very fabulous and European. The fourth floor is being used by the owner for storage. With the three dormered windows up there, the light would be fantastic. If I owned the place, I could use the entire floor as a home studio. Or a nursery for my attractive and cheerful babies.
A man comes down the street, walking a beautiful golden retriever.
He looks my way, and our eyes meet. He lives right next door in that gorgeous brownstone, and he’s single, go figure, a chef who’s just signed a contract to let his name be used on a line of high-end French cookware. His sister is engaged, and guess who’s making her dress? Jenny Tate, that’s who! What a small world! The Christmas wedding is at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and I wear a wine-red velvet dress to the reception and he’s in a tux, and as we dance together, he slides an engagement ring onto my finger and drops to one knee, and his sister—in her gorgeous satin modified A-line dress with green velvet trailing sash—is all for this. In fact, she’s in on the proposal and is already crying happy tears. We get married and buy a charming old farmhouse with views of the Hudson so our twin sons and little daughter can run and play while we harvest vegetables from our organic garden and we’ll breed Jeter, our faithful Goldie, and the kids will all be valedictorians and go to Yale.
The man fails to make eye contact. Instead, he’s yelling something into a phone about “your bitch of a sister,” so I regretfully cross him off my list of potential second husbands.
Owen never yelled. One of his many qualities. I never, ever heard him raise his lovely, reassuring voice.
I wait till the guy is safely past—just in case he’s a serial killer, as my mother would no doubt assert—and get out of the car, swing my cheerful polka-dot purse onto my shoulder and check myself out in the window. Eesh. Andreas and I killed the last two bottles of Owen’s wine last night while watching Thors 1 and 2 for the eye candy. Part of my divorce was that I got half of Owen’s small but wonderful wine collection, and I didn’t object.
An image from our marriage flashes like lightning—Owen and me, on a picnic in Nova Scotia a few summers ago, holding hands. He picked a daisy and tickled my ear with it, and the sun reflected off his shock of black hair so brightly it almost hurt my eyes. His hair was—is—adorable, standing up in a way that defied gravity, perpetual bedhead that made him instantly appealing and almost childlike. No wonder his patients love him instantly.
The bewilderment is the worst part. That’s what they don’t tell you in divorce articles. They talk about anger and loneliness and growing apart and starting over and being kind to yourself, but they don’t tell you about the untold hours in the black hole of why. Why? What changed? When? Why was I the one you chose to marry, but all of a sudden, I’m not enough anymore?
But I’m not about to start off this phase of my life bewildered. Fuck you, Owen, I think, and it’s oddly cheering.
The super is supposed to meet me here and give me my keys. I tighten my ponytail, summon a smile and go through the iron gate to the super’s door. This courtyard could be adorable with some plants and a little café table, but right now, it only holds a ratty lawn chair that’s seen better days… It’s the aluminum-frame kind, the seat woven from scratchy nylon fiber. The image of a fat, unshaven man wearing an ill-fitting bowling shirt, scratching his stomach with one hand and nursing a Genesee with another, a mangy dog by his side, leaps to mind with unfortunate clarity.
But no. No negativity! In ten minutes, I’ll be unpacking in my beautiful new place. I can put the kettle on, even though I don’t like tea, but the image of tea is very cozy on this cool, damp day. Red wine is even cozier.
Maybe I’ll invite the super to have a drink with me. Or not, if he looks like the guy I just envisioned. Did the Realtor say if it was a man or a woman? I can’t remember. Better yet, a neighbor will come over—not the angry golden retriever man, but a different neighbor. An older man, maybe, someone who has a good bottle of wine in one hand. I saw the moving truck, he’ll say, and wanted to welcome you to the street. I teach Italian literature at Barnard. Are you free for dinner? I happen to be cooking a roast. Then again, what kind of single man cooks a roast? Scratch that. I’ll come up with something better.
I knock cheerfully on the super’s door—shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits!
There’s no answer. I knock again, less cheerfully and more loudly. Still nothing. Pressing my ear to the door, all I hear is quiet. One more knock.
Nothing.
I go back to my car and call the Realtor, getting her voice mail. “Hi! It’s Jenny Tate. Um, the super doesn’t seem to be here, and the moving truck will be here any sec, so…maybe you could call him? Thanks so much! Bye!”
On cue, the phone rings, but it’s not the Realtor.
It’s Owen.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey, Jenny.” His voice is low and holds that intimate timbre that makes the parents of his patients name their next baby Owen, boy or girl. It also works well with women. Between that and his omnipresent faint smile, it always seems as if he’s about to tell you a secret, and you’re the only one he can tell, because you’re just that special. We women get a little feeble-minded around Owen Takahashi, MD. He could say, “Hey, I’ve been thinking about strangling a few kittens. You in?” and you’d find yourself answering, “You bet I’m in! When can we get started?”
“You made it okay?” he asks now.
“Yeah! Just fine,” I say, eyeing my house. “I can’t wait for you and Ana-Sofia to see it. And the baby! How is she? I love her name! Natalia! It’s so gorgeous!”
We’ve been divorced for fifteen and a half months. Soon, I hope, my need to be überchipper will fade.
“She’s beautiful. Jenny, I can never thank you enough.”
“No!” I sing, rolling my eyes at myself. If Andreas were here, he’d give me a nice brisk slap. “It was an honor.” Make that a punch.
“So listen, Jenny. We’d like to use Genevieve as a middle name. After you.”
Oh, God. “Uh, well, that’s not my name,” I say. For some reason, Mom just wanted Jenny. Not even Jennifer.
“Yes, I remember,” he says in that “I’ve got a secret” voice, evoking late Sunday mornings in bed. “But still.”
You know what, Owen? Don’t. Okay? I don’t want your baby to be named after me. Come on!
“That’s very…nice. Thank you.”
There’s a silence. A drop of rain slaps the windshield, but just one, lonely and useless.
“You’ll always be special to me,” Owen says softly.
I clench my teeth. What he means is I’m sorry I stopped loving you and found all that meaning with Ana-Sofia and discovered that I was dying to be a father—once I had the right wife, that is—and am living the dream right now, thanks to your clever hands and my perfect wife’s amazing uterus that just pushed the baby out in a matter of minutes. No hard feelings, right?
“Well,” I say in the same idiotic, chipper voice. “You’re special to me, too! Obviously! I married you, right? But I mean, you and Ana are both special to me. And so is Natalia! Right? How often do you get to deliver a baby, after all? It was fun.”
He laughs as if I’m the most delightful person in all the world (which he once told me I was, come to think of it). “I miss you already. We’ll see you for dinner next week, right?”
“You bet.” Because, yes, I’m going to their place for dinner next Friday. How civilized! How urbane! We’re so New York! You couldn’t pull this shit off in Idaho, let me tell you. Probably because people are more honest out there. “Give Ana-Sofia and the baby my love.”
Before I can say anything else that’s stupid or spineless or inane or all of the above, I click off, grab the steering wheel and shake it. “Do you have to be such a dickless wonder?” I ask out loud. “Do you, Jenny? Huh? How about a little dignity, hmm? Is that so much to ask?”
My phone dings with a text.
Mom:
I bought you a rape whistle. There was a gangland slaying on your street last week.
“No, there wasn’t, Mom!” I yell, strangling the steering wheel with even more gusto. “There was no gangland slaying!”
“Hey. You okay, Charlie Sheen?” comes a voice, and I jump against my door, grappling instinctively for the handle to escape my would-be rapist or gangland murderer. A man is leaning down, peering at me through the passenger window.
“Uh…can I help you?” I squeak.
“You were screaming. You seem to be the one who needs help.” He looks pained, as if I’m the nineteenth crazy person he’s dealt with today.
“I—It was… I was talking to myself. I work alone for the most part. Occupational hazard. Anyway. Sorry.” I try to remember that I’m a fabulous and creative person with an impressive work history in a very competitive field. Nevertheless, I feel like an ass. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
His hair is flippin’ beautiful, chestnut-brown and curling. His eyes are blue. Blue-gray, really. Or maybe green-blue. Yes, he’s looking at me like I’m insane, but those are some very nice eyes.
“Keep it down next time,” he says. “There are children around.”
I feel my cheeks start a slow burn, which is generally what happens when I’m confronted with an attractive man under the age of ninety-five. I clear my throat and get out of the car, the cool, damp air making me wish I’d worn a sweater.
“I’m Jenny,” I say. “I’m moving in, but the super’s not around, and he has my keys.” See? All perfectly normal, pal.
“You’re moving in?”
“Yes. This house. Number 11. Do you live around here?”
“I do.” He doesn’t elaborate. Probably doesn’t want to point out his house to the crazy woman.
“Well, do you happen to know the super?”
He’s tall. And thin. Suddenly, I want to feed him. Also, that’s some seriously gorgeous hair, even better than at first glance. Married. Hair like that wouldn’t remain single. He’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a T-shirt, and while he looks like he just rolled out of bed, it kind of…works.
He brings me a bottle of wine and flowers to welcome me to the neighborhood. He’s a boatbuilder, and he invites me for a sail on the Hudson next weekend, and the stars wink and blaze overhead, and he’s never felt this way before; he always believed the universe would give him a sign, and what’s that, a comet? If that’s not a sign, then he doesn’t know—
“You eye-fucking me?” he asks.
“What? No! I’m just… I’m not, okay? I just need my key, but the stupid super isn’t here.”
“The stupid super is right in front of you.”
I close my eyes, sigh and then smile. “Hi. I’m Jenny. The new tenant.”
“Leo. Keep your eyes to yourself, for the record.”
“Can I please have my keys?”
“Sure.” He tosses them over the car roof, and I catch them. “So why the screeching?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t call it screeching, really,” I say.
“Oh, it was screeching. Let me guess. Man trouble?”
“Wrong.”
“Ex-husband?”
“No. I mean, yes, I have one, but no, he’s not the trouble.”
“Did he remarry yet?”
“Would you like to help me carry some stuff in?” I ask, forcing a smile.
“So yes, in other words. Is she younger? A trophy wife?”
I grit my teeth. “I have to unpack. And no. She’s fourteen months older than I am, thank you.” I yank a canvas bag from the backseat. I’m not the most organized person in the world—my sister holds that title—and I forgot to pack my underwear drawer in my suitcase, so it’s in with my drill and hammer and a pint of half-and-half. Leo the Super looks in but refrains from commenting.
“Feel free to help,” I say, grabbing a Boston fern with my free hand.
“I’m afraid you’ll read into it. I already feel a little dirty.”
“Great.” The guy seems to be a dick, his hair notwithstanding.
I lug my bags up the eight stairs to my front door, then fumble for the keys, nearly dropping my fern.
“Hey, Leo!” calls a feminine voice, and we both look down the street. A woman about my age—younger, let’s be honest—is dragging a small child with one hand, holding a pie in the other. “Happy weekend, you!”
“Same to you,” he calls. “Hi, Simon.”
“Your son?” I ask.
His eyes flicker back to mine. “My student. I teach piano.”
“Oh. Nice. I love piano music.” I mean, I guess I do. I’ve never thought about it much. I like Coldplay, and Chris Martin plays piano, so that counts, right?
“Classical piano?” His voice implies that an unstable woman such as myself has never heard classical piano. He’s almost right; aside from what I hear at weddings, I tend to veer toward things written in this century.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I lie. “I love classical piano. Beethoven and, uh…those other guys.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Name two pieces.”
“Um…‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel.”
“Oh, God.”
“And ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John.”
He grins suddenly, and his face, which is already too nice of a face, transforms into gorgeous.
“Simon’s been practicing so much this week!” says the mom, and speaking of eye-fucking, she’s not very subtle. I gather Leo the Super is single. A quick glance to his left hand shows no ring.
So he’s single. Hello! I feel a prickle of interest. After all, I do want to get married and have kids…
“God,” he mutters. “I’m a person, okay? Not a piece of meat.” He opens the gate of his courtyard and holds it for the mom, ruffling Simon’s hair.
The mother thrusts the pie—and practically her boobs—into his hands. “Strawberry rhubarb,” she announces. “I thought you could use some feeding.” A husky, fuck-me laugh ensues. Her kid, who’s about six, rubs his nose on his arm, then wipes the arm on his mother’s very short skirt. I hope she’s cold.
“This is very nice of you, Suzanne,” Leo says. “Come on, Simon, let’s hear you play, buddy.” He puts his hand on the kid’s shoulder and steers him in through the gate. I only realize I’m still watching when Suzanne gives me a pointed look, then follows Leo into his apartment.
* * *
BY 4:30 P.M., my furniture is in place, hauled in by the brawny movers who arrived five minutes after I unlocked my front door. Rachel was supposed to come by this afternoon, and I texted her a little while ago but she hasn’t answered. She’s not one of those people glued to her phone. Probably got lost in baking or stenciling or something. Adam was going to take the girls to the children’s museum so she could help me, but maybe something came up.
Still, it’s not like her to blow me off. Not at all.
I start unpacking one of the boxes labeled Kitchen. Cooking has never really been a great love of my life. Eating, sure. But Owen was the better chef. Once we divorced and I moved to the Village, my tiny apartment was two doors down from an Italian restaurant. Problem solved. But maybe I’ll cook more now. It could happen.
My kitchen windows overlook the little courtyard. All day, Leo’s had a steady stream of students, ranging in age from four or five to middle-aged. All the adult students seem to be women, and there is not one father in sight. Many women carry foil-wrapped goodies. The sound of easy piano pieces floats up to me, as well as some popular songs; I recognize “Clocks” by Coldplay—see? I wasn’t that far off—as well as a few Disney songs. I also recognize a lot of flirting going on between Leo and the females.
Owen never flirted. He was—is—earnest and kind, which smothered any flirting ability he had.
I take out a weirdly shaped whisk and wonder what it’s for. I’m going to miss Phil’s Wok and Porto Bello, that’s for sure. I had six restaurants on speed dial in the Village. But Cambry has a few cute places and, of course, Rachel will feed me whenever I want. She lives to feed people. I love eating with her and Adam and the girls, in that big sunny kitchen where Rach always seems to have cut flowers in a vase on the table, where the girls say grace before they start eating.
The biggest plus to moving back here—I’ll get to see them whenever I want. Every day, even.
The thought brings a warm rise of happiness. My sister is and always has been my best friend, and I adore her husband, who’s handsome and charming and just dull enough. And my nieces are the lights of my life. Nothing feels better than their little arms around my legs when I come through their door, or their tiny, soft hands in mine, or their heavy heads on my shoulder when they’ve fallen asleep on my lap. When they were first born, I spent two precious weeks living with Rachel and Adam, changing the tiny diapers, swapping girls with Rachel depending on which one was hungry, changing the laundry and folding the little preemie outfits.
Even if I never get to be a mommy, at least I’m a beloved aunt.
I unpack a pretty wooden bowl I got in Australia when I was doing an internship down under. The red-and-orange polka-dot chicken I bought at Target; not exactly an irreplaceable artifact, but so cheerful and happy. Another pair of misplaced panties. A picture of Rachel and me, which I place in the living room in the built-in bookcase.
I really love this place. I can make curtains for the big windows, lace panels that would look perfect and still let in light. A big old Oriental carpet for in front of the gas fireplace. My red velvet couch and leather club chair look as if they were made for this living room. I think I’ll buy a butler’s table and get a few orchid plants. Rach will tell me how to keep them alive.
Some movement on the street catches my eye. Oh, hooray! Speaking of my sister, she’s here, standing in front of her minivan. She looks a little…strange. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, as is mine, but for me, it’s normal.
Also, she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. As someone who wears a uniform to work—I own five black pencil skirts, five sleeveless black silk shirts, five long-sleeve black silk shirts and four pairs of black Jimmy Choo pointy-toe heels—the first thing I do every day when I get home is rip off my sleek clothes and get into pajamas or jeans. My days off—Sunday and Monday—are for sloth, I’ve always felt.
But Rachel is always turned out, as Mom says, usually in a dress and cute shoes. I don’t know how she does it, to be honest, raising the girls, keeping that house so beautiful and still looking great.
I knock on the window and wave, but she doesn’t hear me, so I head out onto my stoop. I should get some pansies or something for out here. A planter full of flowers would make it look so cheerful.
“Hey, Rachel!” I call.
She looks up, and I realize she’s been talking to Leo, who is now sitting on his lawn chair, drinking a beer. A multicolored lump of fur lies beside him. I presume it’s a dog, as it is dog-sized. Seems like I wasn’t too far off in my mental image of a super.
I go down the steps to give my sister a hug. “Hi! Thanks for coming!”
“Sorry I’m late.”
I glance at Leo, who’s petting the dog with one hand. His expression is…naughty. “You okay? Did he say something to you?” I ask my sister in a low voice.
“Who?”
“Him. Leo. The super.”
“Oh, no. He’s very nice.”
“Well, come on in. The movers were great, and I’m just putting stuff in drawers. Want some tea?”
“Do you have any wine?”
“Shoot, no. I can run downtown and get some, though.”
“I have wine,” Leo says.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “But thanks.”
“That would be great,” Rachel says.
“My pleasure.” He unfolds himself from the chair. Six-three, I’d guess. “Loki, stay,” he orders. The dog, who looks rather close to death, doesn’t twitch.
My sister looks a little pale. “Are you okay, Rachel?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, just goes up the stairs into the little foyer. “This is great,” she says unconvincingly. And the thing about Rachel is, she loves home decorating and all that stuff. It’s her art form. She’s Martha Stewart meets Maria Von Trapp; in fact, she found me this place, and when we came here with the Realtor a month ago, Rachel raced around like a kid at Christmas.
“Thanks,” I say. “Rach, you seem weird, hon.”
Then she takes out her phone and taps a button. “Do you know what this is? Is this a tree? With some kind of disease or blight or something?”
I look, then flinch. “No. It’s… Where did you get this?” Because, shit.
“What is it?”
I swallow. “It’s…um, it’s a va—It’s girl parts. A crotch shot.” Hey. Owen and I watched a little porn from time to time, back in the day. The picture is blurry and super close-up, which is quite icky, so yeah, I guess I could see how Rachel, who is very innocent, could think it was a diseased tree. “Who sent this to you?”
But my sister doesn’t answer, because now her face is the color of chalk, and her legs buckle, and Leo catches her just as he comes in the door.
