SEAL the Deal(8)

“That’s pathetic. You need a good date. Well, you need more than that. But let’s start with a date. That woman won’t be looking to sell that property for months. Maybe years.”

“So, I’ll be patient. It panned out for the Miron listing, didn’t it? And for yours, for that matter.”

“I didn’t sell.”

“No, but I got a cheap room to rent.”

Maeve laughed. She always thought it ironic that it was Lacey who had convinced her to keep the waterfront home she inherited from her late grandmother. It would have been a nice commission for Lacey, and Maeve had been ready to sign on the dotted line. “Well, I still say you should have asked for his number. Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“Where he works?”

“No.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “Did you find anything out about him at all?”

Her grin wide, Lacey leaned forward and took a leisurely sip of Cabernet. “Well, from the feel of his arms around me, he probably bench presses 425 pounds.”

Maeve nearly dropped her glass, jostling it just enough that the red wine splashed over the side and onto her cream silk slacks. She didn’t even give the stain a second glance as she eyed her friend. “Okay. You owe me details. Now.”

As the sun completed its path toward the sparkling blue horizon, Lacey filled her in on the details, then rested her feet on the café table in front of her.

“425?” Maeve sighed. “That’s Greek god material.”

Lacey grinned.

“Well, you should at least have gone to dinner with him. At least. Your whole time-off-from-dating thing is just unnatural. Use it or lose it.”

“It worked for Vi.”

“Honey, I’ve seen Vi on TV, and she doesn’t look nearly as sexually frustrated as you do. She’s getting it somewhere.”

Lacey frowned. “Then she never lets it get serious enough that it might distract her from her career. She must just use them for sex and then toss them out the door.”

“Here-here!” Maeve toasted, raising her glass enthusiastically.

“I’m not very good at that,” Lacey grumbled, shrinking further down in her seat.

Maeve shook her head as she refilled her friend’s glass. “I just wish you wouldn’t take it all so damn seriously, Lacey. You can reinvent your career years from now. Look at me. Thirty-six years old and I’ve finally started getting paid for what I love.”

“Dating younger men?”

“The other thing I love,” Maeve clarified. “Interior design.”

“Well, this is it for me. I’m sick of being the unsuccessful daughter.”

Maeve rolled her eyes, unable to relate to the freakish dynamics of Lacey’s family of habitual over-achievers. Maeve had won the lottery when it came to her own family. Of course, she’d paid her dues in other ways, she remembered sadly. Leaning back, she indulged in a therapeutic gulp of wine. “Vi is Vi. Lacey is Lacey. Stop trying to be more like her and just be who you want to be.”

“And who would that be? A thirty-year-old who has no clue about what she wants to be when she grows up? Or grows old, in my case.”

“No, a thirty-year-old who lives for today. Look at that view, Lacey.” Maeve extended her arm to the Chesapeake. “You’re sipping a Cab enjoying a view of the Bay while Vi is probably in some crowded financial district crammed in a windowless office getting yelled at by some producer.”

“Or flying to Paris to cover the European Banking Symposium.”

“Paris? Really? That bitch.”

Lacey jumped at the sound of a door slamming inside the house. She darted a startled look at Maeve.

“Oh I forgot to tell you—I found a renter for the third room. She seems really nice. Quiet type. Perfect renter, as far as I’m concerned.” Maeve emptied the last wine from her glass and finally started blotting the stain on her pants.

“Where is she from?”

“I didn’t ask. She’s still in college, I think. Cleans a few houses in the neighborhood. That old couple in the split foyer on the corner uses her.”

“You didn’t even run a credit check on her?”

“What do I need that for? I’m a good judge of character.”

Lacey raised her eyebrows.

“Okay. With women. I’m a good judge of character when it comes to women. With men, my record’s a little sketchy.”

***

SLAM!

Bess cringed at the sound of the door behind her. She hadn’t meant to let it slam. She didn’t want anyone to think she was going to be a loud tenant.

Stepping hesitantly into the room that was now hers, she was greeted by a spindle-framed twin size bed and a dresser with worn-down varnish. The walls were painted a light shade of pink, with grey smudges from years of gentle abuse and a smattering of nail holes from pictures that had been removed. One framed photo remained with a black and white image of a couple sitting together on the steps of a back porch. It looked like it had been taken in the 1950s, though she couldn’t be sure. The couple’s hands were intertwined as though they would never part.