Freya rested a hand on Charlotte 's arm. "Ordinarily, I don't litigate any more, but I don't like to see bullies pushing people around. Now go spiff up your house and make it look pretty."
Charlotte pulled her checkbook out of her purse. "How much do I owe you?"
Freya waved her off. "Don't worry about that now. We'll work it out later."
Charlotte wasn't planning on there being a 'later'.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Freya said as she walked Charlotte to the door. "Whatever you do, don't let the realtor show the house to anybody until you've called me." She held out her hand. "I'll be waiting to hear from you."
Charlotte walked briskly to her car. With each step she took, her hopes that someone could help her grew dimmer. Now she had a new problem. She had to diplomatically disengage herself from Freya, who seemed to assume Charlotte was now her client. But first, she had to find her gladiator to take on Craig. She didn't have much time left.
CHAPTER 2
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