‘You mentioned something about the attic,’ Sara said. ‘And I dreamed about it, can you believe it?’
Livia took out three coffee-mugs and spooned coffee crystals into them. ‘With you, I believe anything. So what did you dream?’
’that we found a huge box of valuable antique jewellery.’
Livia laughed. ’they took her personal belongings out of the house, Sara. Her papers, jewellery, that sort of thing.’
‘Maybe they didn’t look in the attic. I can’t wait to get up there and see what treasures are hidden there. Maybe a long-lost Van Gogh painting! Or maybe a Picasso! Just imagine! You’ll be rich!’
Livia laughed and poured hot water into the mugs. ‘Oh, be quiet, Sara! You read too many hidden treasure stories to your children. It’s gone to your head.’ Sara and Jack had two little girls and Sara loved reading to them.
‘Well, it could happen, couldn’t it? You hear about that sort of thing sometimes. This coffee is awful. Is it instant?’
‘You were sitting here watching me make it. Of course it’s instant.’
’so tell me about this guy.’
Livia told her about Clint Bracamonte. It felt good to be able to talk to somebody.
‘Wow,’ said Sara. ‘Where is he going to live for the next couple of months?’
It wasn’t what she’d expected Sara to say. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
Sara frowned, looking like a worried mother. ‘You can’t rent anything that short-term, you know. It’s almost impossible. And he’ll need a furnished place.’
‘It’s not my problem,’ Livia said tightly.
‘No, I know, I’m just thinking. He’s in quite a bind.’
‘I’m not responsible for his problems!’
Sara raised her brows. ‘I didn’t say that, but it must be quite a surprise to come back from overseas and find your home sold out from under you. No place to go. No bed to sleep in.’
‘Oh, please, don’t be melodramatic!’
Sara grinned. ‘But I’m so good at it! How does it feel to have added to the homelessness statistic?’
Livia glared at her. ’the man has a ton of money in the bank, which, for all practical purposes, I put there personally. Don’t ask me to feel sorry for him.’
Toys. A box of toy racing cars, a plastic bucket of Lego blocks, adventure books.
’these must be his,’ Sara said, rummaging through the trunk.
‘I suppose so.’ Livia felt something pressing on her breastbone. She did not want to think of the big, rugged man as a little boy. A little boy playing with Lego blocks. A little boy visiting his grandmother in this house.
They’d crawled up a rickety pull-down ladder into the attic, fighting cobwebs and dust. Sara simply had to see what riches lay hidden in the dark there, and her enthusiasm had been contagious. A single small light bulb hung suspended from a wire, spreading a vague, dull light. Several pieces of old furniture, none of them precious antiques, languished in the dusty darkness. No paintings, famous or otherwise, revealed themselves. Instead of treasures, they found boxes and trunks full of old clothes and trinkets and draperies, and now they’d opened one full of toys. The trunk was newer than the others, just a cheap storage locker students took to college to keep their possessions in.
Sara kept pulling things out—a heap of typical boy toys lay spread out in front of them.
‘Liv, look! A train set!’ Sara said. ‘It has everything! Mountains and tunnels and everything.’ She looked up at Livia. ’this is worth money. What are you going to do with it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said tonelessly.
‘You can’t sell it, Liv. You’ll have to give it back to him.’
‘Yes.’
At every turn she was reminded how much the house belonged to him. His past was here. His memories. His damned toys!
* * *
Mrs Fletcher, the estate agent, drove up the drive in her big shiny car as Jack and Sara were leaving late that afternoon. The attic was empty. Tired of sorting odds and ends, Sara and Livia had stripped the dining-room of five layers of wallpaper. Jack had made himself useful by cleaning out the gutters and digging up a giant dead rhododendron bush. After that they’d all carried the good pieces of furniture down to the basement and covered them up for safe keeping. Livia was exhausted.
‘I have some interesting news for you!’ Mrs Fletcher said with a bright estate-agent smile. ‘I have someone who’s interested in the house and wants to make a deal.’
Alarms went off in her head. ‘Let me guess,’ she said calmly. ‘His name’s Clint Bracamonte.’
Mrs Fletcher nodded. ‘Yes. He mentioned you were not interested in selling the house back to him as is.’
’that’s right.’ She wondered if Mrs Fletcher blamed her, but she heard no censure in her tone. She imagined him going to his lawyer, trying to find a way to get the house back. She wondered what he might have said about her. She sighed. ‘Come on in and I’ll make us some coffee.’
Mrs Fletcher followed her in. ‘I told him he’d be nuts to want it back the way it was because it needs work and he’d end up having to deal with too many repairs and other upkeep problems anyway and who’s going to deal with it once he’s left the country again? The place is going to fall apart.’
They sat on the back porch, the fragrance of lilacs strong and sweet around them.
‘What Mr Bracamonte suggested,’ said Mrs Fletcher after Livia had brought out two cups of coffee, ‘was an option to buy. He was willing to plunk down ten grand for that. Cash. I didn’t think you’d go for it, though having ten thousand dollars as working capital must be a temptation.’ She gave Livia a questioning look.
Livia nodded. ’sure it is, but I don’t want to sell an option. It means we have to set a sale price now and I don’t feel I can do that reasonably yet. So much depends on the way the various jobs will go and how it all turns out. It’ s hard to tell what will happen.’
Mrs Fletcher nodded, stirring three spoons of sugar in her coffee. ’that’s what I thought. And besides, with an option in his pocket, he’s going to want his finger in the pie, making sure things are done a certain way. He’s going to want to know what colour paint you’re going to use and what quality tile in the bathroom and the kind of doorknobs on your doors, and so forth. Somehow I don’t think you’ll be able to work under those kind of conditions.’
Not in a hundred years. ‘Right.’ She would lose interest in the work very quickly. ‘I want to do the job my way.’ She liked her work. It was a real challenge to make the very best out of the house. And this house was special. She didn’t want any interference.
‘I made another suggestion,’ said Mrs Fletcher. ‘I told him he could offer to buy the right of first refusal. A thousand dollars is about standard.’
The right of first refusal. This meant that once the house was finished, she’d have to offer it to him before she put it on the market. Was there any reason not to?
Was there any reason why she shouldn’t sell him the house once it was finished? After all, it didn’t matter who bought the house.
‘A thousand dollars is a thousand dollars,’ said Mrs Fletcher practically. ‘And you’ll be free to determine the price the market will bear once it’s