Читать книгу The Power House Wives - Fredrica Greene - Страница 4

Despite her misgivings, Charlie decided to follow Freya's advice. Freya was right about one thing. If she had to sell, she might as well get the most out of it she could. The house would sparkle. Over the weekend, she scrubbed, vacuumed, dusted, polished and waxed, although it grated on her to work so hard to entice strangers to buy the house she didn't want to sell.

Monday at four, Craig showed up with a striking young woman in a navy suit, spike heels and oversized gold jewelry on her ears, neck and wrists. She held out a manicured hand to Charlie. "I'm Sheila Barnett." Her grip was as firm as her voice. Craig greeted Charlie with a broad smile and had the audacity to kiss her on the cheek before she could turn away. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

Craig led Sheila into the house. Charlie trailed after them as they inspected each room. Sheila complimented Craig on the light-filled bedrooms, the ample closets, the hardwood floors, as if they were alone. She punctuated her comments by touching his arm.

In the kitchen, Sheila ran her hands over the smooth counter top, checked the pantry and peered through the glass slider into the back yard. The dogs, unaccustomed to being locked out, whined and scratched at the door. Charlie tried to ignore their plaintive appeals.

"This house will show beautifully," Sheila gushed. "It's so well maintained."

"We've always kept it in top shape," Craig said.

Charlie gritted her teeth. 'We'? Where did he get off taking any credit? Even during their marriage, she had done all the work to care for the house. If he ever noticed, he kept it to himself. Charlie stifled the urge to blast him with a few sharp words. He'd probably respond in that condescending way that always made her feel foolish. The situation was uncomfortable enough with its pretense of cordiality.

When the three of them had completed their rounds, Sheila promised to do a market analysis and get back to them with a proposed selling price within days. As she and Craig headed for the door, Sheila handed Charlie her card. "This is a good time to sell," she said. "Before the market goes down."

Charlie took the card with a smile. "Thanks. I'll give this to my agent." Sheila's eyebrows rose. Charlie closed the door before Sheila could ask for her agent's name. Charlie leaned back against the door. Now she had to find one. She would hire the most incompetent, hapless agent she could find. One who couldn't close a sale if it was the only house in town. After the house sat unsold for awhile, Craig might decide to drop the idea.

She peered out the front window. With a hand on her waist, Craig steered Sheila toward his car. By the way their bodies leaned toward each other, it was obvious their relationship was more than professional. The old dog was up to his old tricks with a new playmate. No wonder Sheila acted as though the listing was hers. Despite her anger, Charlie felt a twinge of satisfaction. Trophy-wife Caprice was getting a dose of her own medicine.

Charlie crumpled Sheila's business card and tossed it in the kitchen trash. Now she had two goals: to find a heavyweight lawyer and a featherweight realtor.

Two days later, as Charlie browsed through the yellow pages under Attorneys, Sheila called."I'd like to show the house this afternoon."

Charlie almost dropped the phone. "So soon? I haven't seen your appraisal yet. And I don't have an," she corrected herself, "My agent and I are waiting for it."

"Craig -- Mr. Armstrong -- signed a listing agreement," Sheila said in a clipped voice.

"Well, I haven't. Not with you."

"Your agent can co-list it," Sheila said coldly. "Give me the name and I'll call her. Or him."

"This house is not on the market." Charlie slammed down the receiver. It had barely cooled off when the phone rang again.

Charlie picked it up, No sense trying to avoid the call. She'd tell Miss Barnett to leave her alone. But Sheila beat her to it. "That was extremely rude. And childish. Mr. Armstrong mentioned getting a court order if there were any problems."

Charlie was silent. What could she say?

"Now that we're clear," Sheila continued, "My clients would like to see it today."

Charlie's stomach hiccuped. "Not today. I have to talk to my realtor. You'll hear from her," she said, stalling for time.

"If I don't hear from someone by this afternoon, I'll have Craig call you. You can tell him you won't cooperate."

Charlie swallowed hard. She wasn't ready for a run-in with Craig. "Tomorrow. Afternoon."

"We'll be there at 2:30."

This was happening too fast. Why was Craig in such a hurry? Even if the housing market went down, it wouldn't sink so fast he had to sell this week. If she could just reason with him, appeal to his better nature, surely they could work this out.

Where was she going to get a realtor on such short notice? Freya Diamond had told her to call before any potential buyers saw the house. Charlie wasn't sure she wanted any more to do with her. But maybe she could recommend a realtor. Someone incompetent.

"Your ex didn't waste any time, did he?" Freya said. "You didn't sign anything, I hope."

"No. But she wants to call my agent. I don't have one and don't know how long I can stall her. Craig will get on my case."

"I have someone in mind, but it may not come to that. I'll be there at noon," Freya said. "In the meantime, try to relax."

Charlie hung up in frustration. How was she supposed to relax? She didn't want Freya here; she just wanted this situation to go away.

Precisely at noon, Freya drove up in an ancient gray Volvo and parked in the driveway. She got out of the car and tugged a cardboard carton almost as big as she was from the back seat. Only her eyes and the orange halo of her hair showed over the box. Charlie ran out to help her before she tripped on the front steps.

"Here you are," Freya said, setting the box on the living room carpet. She wiped her hands on the faded orange knit pants that once must have matched her hair, pushed up the sleeves of her gray sweatshirt, then adjusted her glasses still attached to the red plastic neck strap. "Let's get to work."

Freya looked up at the curtain rod and nodded toward Charlie's eggshell satin drapes. "We'll need a stepladder. These have to come down."

"My drapes?"

"Yes, but we'll hang these." She pulled a wrinkled mass of mushroom colored fabric from the box. A cloud of dust floated up. Charlie sneezed. Gunther growled, but Charlie shooed the dogs out of the room. Dust flew as Freya shook out a pair of old curtains. "I hope you're not too allergic," Freya said.

"You're putting those up?" Charlie asked when she returned with her kitchen step-stool,

"Just temporarily.” Freya looked at the stool. "You're taller than I am. You climb up, and I'll hand them to you."

Charlie almost choked on the musty smell the faded drapes emitted. When she had finished hanging them, Charlie noticed ripples of water stains across the bottom. The coarse fabric blocked most of the light, casting the room in a funereal gloom.

Freya slapped her hands together."That looks fine."

"How long do I have to keep these up?" Charlie asked.

"As long as you need to. Unfortunately, your divorce decree has you at a bit of a disadvantage, so it takes some creative planning." She winked at Charlie. "Just think David and Goliath. Now, where is your bathroom?"

"You can use the one over there." Charlie pointed toward the powder room by the front door.

"Oh, I don't need to go." She pointed up the stairs. "I mean up there." She pulled a paper bag from the box. "My bag of tricks," she said.

Charlie led the way upstairs to the hall bathroom. Freya reached into the bag and pulled out an ink pad and a small, pen-like sponge, the kind used to moisten stamps in the days before self-stick. She pressed the sponge onto the ink pad and daubed black smudges around the shower stall and the toilet. "A little mold never hurts." She looked around as if mentally measuring. "This is over the dining room, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Good," said Freya. "Do you have a wet mop?"

"A wet mop?" Charlie asked, baffled. "What for?"

"You'll see. Let's go back downstairs."

While Charlie went for the mop, Freya carried the step-ladder into the dining room, positioning it near one corner. When Charlie came back with the mop, Freya told her to go back upstairs. "Stomp around the floor in front of the toilet."

"What?"

"Go ahead."

Charlie headed up the stairs, shaking her head in disbelief. This woman was nutty as peanut butter. She stood in front of the toilet and stamped her feet, feeling like an idiot.

"You can come down now," Freya called.

Charlie found Freya had moved the stepladder closer to the corner of the ceiling and stood on the top step poking the ceiling with the sponge mop. "I think this is pretty much under the toilet," Freya said. She pressed the mop-head against the ceiling, until it had left a dark stain. Back on the floor, she stood, hands on hips, studying her handiwork."We may have to touch that up from time to time."

"One more thing before we take a break," Freya said. She handed the paper bag to Charlie. "Put these where they'll be noticed."

Charlie peered in and saw three mousetraps baited with cheese. She held the bag out to Freya. "I can't use these. My dogs might get into them."

"Of course. I wasn't thinking." She pushed the bag back at Charlie. "Keep these in case you need them. You never know when they'll come in handy."

"But I don't have mice."

"That's not the point, is it? Now," Freya said, "I could use a cup of tea."

Lucky and Sadie followed them into the kitchen where the cool afternoon sun streamed in through the garden window above the sink and splashed a warm light on the cream tile counter.

Freya sank into one kitchen chair and put her feet up on another. "I'm getting a little old for this."

Charlie turned on the flame under the teakettle and placed two tea bags in her best china cups. As they sat sipping their tea, Lucky settled his large body on Freya's feet. She looked amused. "Friendly, isn't he?"

Gunther padded into the room and stared out the sliding glass door to the back yard. Charlie got up to let him out.

"You'll want to have them inside when the prospects come," Freya commented. "Especially him," she said pointing to Gunther.

"They wouldn't hurt anyone."

"They don't bark or growl at strangers?"

"No. They're all pretty old and mellow."

Freya rested her chin in her hand. "Old," she muttered. She lifted her head and smiled. "They must have accidents in the house at their age."

"Never," Charlie said defensively."They're completely housebroken."

"Too bad." She scratched her head. "Where do they do their business?"

"I take them on walks. Or in the back yard." Charlie said. She looked at Freya. "You don't expect me to have them do it in the house, do you? That's going too far."

"Oh, no. But if they feel the call of nature before the visitors come, don't clean it up. In fact, if you can, shovel some of it near the door."

"But it'll smell and attract flies."

"Exactly. That's why I brought these." Freya rummaged through her sack and pulled out two rolls of brown tape. "Fly paper." Freya held up a roll in each hand. "We'll hang these by each door."

Charlie had to laugh. "I didn't know that existed any more."

"You just have to know where to look. Let's start with the front door."

"But the dogs don't go out there."

"Doesn't matter. These make a great first impression."

Charlie picked up their tea cups and carried them to the sink. Freya followed her, took the tea bags from each cup and rubbed them over the white porcelain, leaving a web of brown stains. "Don't worry, dear," she said as Charlie looked on in dismay. "You can use scouring powder on these when your guests leave."

"You know," Freya said as they walked out the front door, "a few pots with dead plants would be nice here."

Charlie stood on the step ladder as Freya handed her a spiral strip of sticky paper. "This is disgusting," she said, as she thumb-tacked it to the eaves.

"Exactly. I can't take credit for this though. I learned it from one of my clients."

Charlie looked at the front door, festooned with a brace of fly strips, and grimaced. "How am I supposed to live like this?" she asked as they hung strips outside the kitchen door.

Freya uncurled the last sticky brown paper coil. "Consider it an investment in your future. When it bothers you, picture a moving van pulling up to the house."

"You know, Craig will hear about this, and he'll have a fit. He'll make me undo all this. And that'll be the least of it."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Freya looked at her watch. "Oh my. It's after two. I'd better get going." She scurried to the living room where Charlie's ivory silk drapes were spread over the couch."Help me carry these to the car, will you? I'll keep them for you."

Charlie blinked in the gloom of the room, its windows shrouded with dingy curtains. "Isn't this awfully obvious?"

"Maybe. But buyers will be turned off anyway." Freya picked up one end of Charlie's good drapes while Charlie took the other. "Most people have no imagination. They can only see what's in front of them. I wanted you to make the place look its best before so the realtor would set a high price on it. Buyers will come here expecting to see a gem in move-in condition."Charlie couldn't help smiling. "Instead, they'll see dog poop and dead flies."

Freya winked. "Exactly."

After Freya left, Charlie loaded the dogs into the back of her station wagon. There were bound to be fireworks, and she didn't want to be around when Sheila exploded. With gritted teeth she placed the house key under the front door mat. There was no Lokbox on the door as yet, although it was only a matter of time.

Charlie didn't see how in good conscience she could hire an agent. It would be unfair to ask someone to try to sell her house at the same time she was doing everything she could to make sure it didn't happen. She'd fight this battle alone. Unless she counted Freya. Maybe she hadn't given Freya enough credit.

The sun was high in the sky, but it was surprisingly nippy for October. Charlie went back into the house to get a jacket. She was almost out the door when the phone rang. She let the machine answer. When she heard Laurel's voice, she picked up.

Twenty minutes later Charlie was at The Fair Grounds, a popular coffee shop with overstuffed chairs, magazine racks and the best coffee in town. Laurel waited just inside the door as Charlie tied her dogs to the bicycle rack out front. Once inside Charlie was embraced in an enthusiastic hug. "Finally," Laurel gushed. "It's been so long."

"Sorry," Charlie said, returning the hug. "I've been busy."

As she stood at the counter to pay for her coffee, strong and black, Charlie averted her eyes from the young man making Laurel's decaf skim-milk double mocha. The matching rings in his ear and nose didn't bother her, or the gold loop through his eyebrow, but the stud in his tongue made her feel queasy.

They carried their drinks outside. Laurel held their drinks as Charlie untied the dogs from the bicycle rack. She wrapped their leashes around one hand while holding her cardboard coffee mug in the other. The dogs fanned out as far as their leashes allowed as they walked toward the small park on the next block.

Charlie blew on her coffee to cool it. Laurel was the one person she could confide in. Most of the women she thought were friends drifted away after the divorce. Laurel had invited Charlie to dinner, called to see how she was, brought her casseroles on the pretext she had made too much for her family. Her kids were off limits. She wanted to leave them out of her troubles with their father. So when Laurel asked how she was, Charlie spilled out the details of her meeting with Craig and its aftermath.

"What are you going to do?" Laurel asked.

Charlie shrugged. "Hire a hit man?"

Laurel giggled. "Good idea. Except guess who would inherit his half of the house? Just imagine. You and Blondie would be co-owners." She sipped her coffee and wiped foam off her lip. "Seriously, though."

"I don't have a plan yet. I'm still looking for a real lawyer. This lady I told you about is clever, but I doubt she's up to facing Craig when he brings out his big guns. Which he will. I need a gladiator who can run a spear through Craig. I'll tell you this, though. Craig's in for a surprise. I'm not the old Charlotte he could push around. This woman is pushing back." She flexed her bicep. "You're looking at Charlie Armstrong, woman warrior. I'll take him on mano a mano."

"I think that means hand to hand, not man to man."

"Either way."

"If I can help, let me know."

"Maybe Wes can talk to Craig," Charlie said. "Craig might listen to him."

Laurel sighed. "You haven't heard? Wes was laid off. He's not taking it well. Anything he'd say to Craig would not be suitable for young children. Or adults for that matter."

They walked slowly to accommodate the curious dogs who stopped to check out every bush, pole and hydrant. The sweet gum trees that lined the sidewalk had shed their autumn finery early this year, and gold and crimson leaves crunched under their feet. Laurel pulled a plastic bag from her pocket. "I always carry some of these with me. You never know what you'll find. " She bent to scoop up a bright red and three bronze maple leaves. "These make great decorations."

"I carry plastic bags, too," Charlie said. "But for a different reason."

“I can’t get over your having so many dogs. I don’t remember you having any when you were married."

"I always wanted one, and the kids begged for a dog, but Craig wouldn't allow it. He said they were too dirty and too much trouble."

Laurel grinned. "You certainly made up for lost time."

"I never planned it this way. It all started when I fell in love with Corky." The memory of Corky made her teary. She wiped her eyes.

After the divorce she was in such a fog of depression she could barely drag herself out of bed in the morning. With no husband or children to care for, she felt useless and hollow. Her few stabs at applying for jobs led nowhere. Her resume indicated too many years and too little experience. Then one Spring morning, when the sun's rays lit up her bedroom and sparrows chattered outside her window, she decided enough was enough. "This is ridiculous," she told herself. "You can't let Craig drag you down. Get your ass in gear and do something." She recalled reading that volunteer work was a way to gain experience that could lead to a real job. Through the Volunteer Bureau she got a list of organizations to call. When she saw the Humane Society needed volunteers to walk dogs, she knew she'd found what she was looking for. After the first walk, she was hooked.

One of her charges was Corky. "He was so homely with his wiry coat and big ears, just looking at him made me smile. The vet estimated him to be six or seven. Not a likely candidate for adoption. But he was smart and funny. He knew how to make me laugh. I felt we had a lot in common: older and abandoned," she patted her head, "wild hair. So I took him home."

Laurel squinted at her. "You don't have big ears."

Charlie gave her a gentle punch on the arm. "Thanks."

"And the others?" Laurel asked.

"Gunther," she patted the German shepherd's head, "was at the shelter and was about to be put down as unadoptable. Everybody was afraid of him. Even me. But I could see he was just scared. Sophie was brought in after her owner died. She was grieving and wouldn't eat. She needed a home. And Lucky was turned in by his owners when they moved. He hated being caged; he bounced off the walls. After I took him, I had to stop going. My house was becoming a dog orphanage."

"Speaking of orphans," Laurel said, "you're invited to Thanksgiving." Laurel's "orphan" Thanksgivings were legendary. Anybody she knew who had no family nearby was welcome. She always had at least twenty people. "It might be a small group this year. But some of your old friends will be there. I expect Zora and Nathan."

Was that supposed to be a selling point? Zora was one of the first to drop Charlie after the divorce. Besides, she had plans. "Meredith and Brad will be home. Thanksgiving is sacred to them. They won't let me change a thing. They even insist I make the sweet potatoes with marshmallows and the string bean casserole, which they don't eat. But it's tradition. This may be our last Thanksgiving in our house, and I want it to be memorable."

They reached the park and sat on a bench. Charlie let the dogs off leash. They moseyed around on the lawn while Charlie and Laurel finished their coffees.

Laurel turned to Charlie. "I know how hard it is to move. It must be worse when you’ve lived in one house so long.”

"I grew up in that house. My grandfather built it."

"And you lived with him?"

Charlie nodded. "My mother died when I was born, and my father never remarried. He moved us in with my grandparents. When they died it was just the two of us until I married Craig. Since we couldn't afford our own home and my father was alone, we stayed. He built the master bedroom over the garage for us. Hammered in every last nail himself."

"Wow. I'm in my ninth house since I got married and the first one I've owned. The hardest move was the time we had to pull Justin out of school in the middle of second grade. He cried for weeks. Wes promised this was our last move." Her shoulders slumped. "If he doesn't find a job around here, I don't know what I'll do. I absolutely, positively do not want to move ever again."

"I'm sure he'll find something," Charlie reassured her.

"Not the way he's going now. He’s lost jobs before, but I’ve never seen him like this. I think he was just as sure as I was that this move was permanent. This just knocked him for a loop. When I left the house, he was in front of the TV watching Jerry Springer and drinking beer. I don't know how many he's had. He tries to hide the empties."

Charlie patted Laurel's arm. "Give him a little time." She had no idea whether Wes would straighten up or not. It just seemed the right thing to say.

Laurel looked at her watch. "I should be getting home." She stood up. "Not that I'm looking forward to it. I feel like I'm living in a black cloud these days. Not under it. In it."

"I'm not exactly looking forward to going home either. I don't know what I was thinking. Craig's going to hear about this, and I'm sure to catch hell."

"Remember this." Laurel flexed her biceps. "Woman warrior."

Charlie laughed. As they walked back to the parking lot, Charlie said, "I wonder if Craig is just testing the waters. If I make it difficult enough, he might drop the idea. After all, in his heart -- if he still has one -- he knows it's my house."

Laurel rested a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "When have you ever known Craig to make idle threats?"

Charlie sighed as she shooed the dogs into the back of the wagon. She knew Laurel was right.

On the way into the house Charlie pulled the sticky brown paper strips - dotted with the carcasses of a few unfortunate flies - from the doorway and retrieved the key from under the mat. She set about cleaning up, fuming. She had thought Craig couldn't hurt her any more. That, despite the court order, they had a tacit understanding he would do right by her. Did their years together mean nothing? Apparently not to him.

Charlie was scrubbing tea bag stains out of the sink when she heard a car pull up in front. She looked out the window and saw a black Cadillac convertible was at the curb. A very angry Craig got out, slammed the car door and marched toward the house.

Charlie dropped into a crouch, crab-walked into the pantry and pulled the door shut. The doorbell rang. Thank God she had picked up the key from under the mat. The bell rang a second time, and then a third. The dogs barked frantically at the front door.

Charlie's heart beat so loudly it seemed to vibrate. She had planned to have the house back in order before Craig had a chance to hear from Sheila. She would play innocentl as if she didn't know what he was talking about. She'd suggest that Sheila was lying, or hallucinating, or at the very least overstating the situation. She had underestimated Sheila. The woman worked fast.

Charlie cowered in the pantry, waiting for Craig to give up. She jumped when she heard a tap at the back door. The dogs headed back to the kitchen. Charlie opened the pantry door just enough to peer out. From her vantage point she could see the sliding glass door between the kitchen and the back yard. The dogs stared out the door and Freya, in faded sweats and tennis shoes, peered in.

Freya signaled Charlie to unlock the door. Charlie waved at her to go away. Freya shook her head. Charlie glanced furtively at the front window to make sure Craig couldn't see her. She scooted to the door, unlatched it, and scurried back into the pantry.

Freya followed her and gingerly lowered herself onto the pantry floor. "So," she said, "how did it go?"

Charlie held a finger to her lips. "Sssh."

"He can't hear us in here."

"How did you get back here?"

The bell rang again, following by pounding on the door. Charlie cringed.

"I came by to help you with the drapes. When I saw that monster-mobile outside I figured it might be your ex's. So I pretended I was going to the house next door. While he was looking under the mat, I came around the back," She stood up and stepped out into the kitchen. "Come on out," she urged Charlie. "He's not going away. Let's answer the door."

Charlie wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't think that's a good idea. He's furious."

"Let me handle it," Freya said and headed toward the front door.

Freya opened the door and faced Craig's chest. Her frizzy hair barely came up to his chin.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Freya Diamond. And you?"

"Where's Charlotte?"

"Charlotte?" She hesitated. "Oh. You mean Charlie?"

"Who the hell is Charlie?"

Charlie stood behind Freya. "She means me."

He snorted. "So you're Charlie now?" He cocked his head toward Freya. "This your girlfriend?"

He started to step into the doorway, but Freya put a hand on his chest and stopped him.

"I'm her lawyer, and you'll have to leave."

He pushed her hand away."I'm not putting up with this crap." His icy tone made Charlie shiver.

As he stepped into the doorway, Gunther bared his teeth and growled. Craig quick-stepped back onto the porch. Charlie made a mental promise to give Gunther an extra treat.

"I'll be back," Craig threatened. "With a court order."

"No need," Freya said with a smile. "Next time make an appointment."

"It's my house, dammit," he grumbled. "I don't need an appointment."

"Actually, you do." Freya placed her hand on the door. "If you'll excuse us, we have business to discuss."

"You'll regret this," he said as Freya started to shut the door.

She opened it wider. "Would you care to explain what you mean? Is that a threat? "

"Take it any way you want," he growled.

"I take it that we may need a restraining order," she said sweetly. "Thank you for the warning."

"Screw you," he said and stormed off.

"Wow," Charlie said, impressed. "You sure handled him." She'd never had the nerve to talk to Craig like that.

Freya shrugged. "Nothing to it."

Charlie snapped back to reality. Craig wouldn't give up. "What have we accomplished?" she asked. "We only made him mad."

"Isn't that reward enough?" Freya rested a hand on Charlie's arm. "We also stymied a sale and bought some time."

Charlie shrugged. "What do we do now?"

"Wait to see his next move. In the meantime, unless you want to live with these old drapes, go get the ladder."