I go to say I’ll be there, I know the time thank-you-very-much and won’t be late because I set a reminder on my phone in between brushing my teeth and pulling on my tights, but my words are cut off by the slam of the car door and she’s off, swallowed up in the tide of teenagers flowing into the open mouth of the school’s front doors.
* * *
Between arguing with Tom about removing the garden statues—we settled on leaving the more tasteful ones and storing the others—late clients, and a snapped heel on my favorite shoes, thanks to a loose walkway stone at my first showing, the day drags painfully by. Plus, I’m feeling at least 150 percent worse than I did this morning, my voice now deep and rough and my fever making me alternate between chills and sweats. So by the time my last appointment arrives, which I pushed up so I could get Audrey in time for the dentist, I’m operating on fumes and desperate for things to go smoothly. I pop a Claritin while I wait for my clients, adding it to my grocery list on my phone when I see the blister pack is nearly empty. I’ve had a dog and cat allergy since I was a kid, and have learned through experience to never go into a house showing without Claritin onboard.
My clients, Noah and Jillian Delacorte, are a young couple, new to Merritt by way of Boston where they’ve been living for the past three years in a one-bedroom condo. With a baby on the way, they’re “ready to move to the ‘burbs,’” as Noah said when we first chatted, and I gladly agreed to work with them. Parents-to-be are generally on a tight timeline to get moved in, as no one wants to be dragging a fussy newborn around to a bunch of showings. However, it’s been two months and a dozen showings later, and we have yet to find them the perfect house. Mostly because Jillian—a pixie of a woman, whose seven months pregnant belly is smaller than mine was at three months—is fairly particular about, well, everything, as it turns out. She once walked right out of a house because the front hallway smelled “a bit earthy,” and she thought that meant mold, despite my assurances it was likely due to the giant potted plant by the front door.
So today, while I wait shivering with fever at a house I’m certain ticks all the boxes, I pray to the real estate gods that Jillian Delacorte is in a ready-to-buy state of mind. However, turns out my shitty day wasn’t done with me yet, and so when Noah shows up without Jillian—the decision maker of the two—I’m a bit concerned. Being the decision maker of the two, it’s critical she be here.
“Hi, Noah.” I shake his outstretched hand as he walks up to me. I look toward his car, hoping Jillian will somehow materialize from inside it. “Where’s Jillian?”
“She wasn’t feeling well, so I told her to stay home.” Noah adjusts his messenger bag on his shoulder, looks toward the house. “She said she trusts my judgment.” I smile weakly at him, both of us knowing how false this statement is.
The house is perfect for them—it’s within budget, has the required three bedrooms, a fenced-in backyard and, by some miracle, both the master bedroom on the main floor and the butler’s pantry Jillian insisted upon—but unfortunately with only Noah here, I know I won’t be writing up an offer tonight.
“I think this may be the one, Meg,” Noah says, after we tour the house. “But I want Jillian to see it, just to be one hundred percent certain.” Of course. So we run through our calendars at the home’s kitchen table and try to find a date that works.
With only a few minutes to spare until I have to get Audrey I sit in my running car—Audrey would have a fit, reminding me how terrible it is for the environment—and return a call to another client who’s having second thoughts about the asking price we agreed on, then with my final minute craft an email to Tom about an idea I have for the agent’s open house. While I’m typing, a text comes through from Ryan. Sorry about this morning. Can I make it up to you later? I quickly type back, Deal and am about to sign off on the email to Tom when my cell phone whistles.
“What the hell?” On top of the screen a little calendar reminder pops up.
Mom—Leave work NOW.
I chuckle. She must have programmed the reminder into my phone this morning, probably while I raced around trying to do an hour’s worth of stuff in fifteen minutes.
After I hit Send on the email to Tom, I pull away from the curb hoping there’s no traffic downtown, so I can get Audrey to her appointment on time and avoid the receptionist’s wrath.
I’m only three minutes behind schedule when I pull into the long pickup queue to wait for Audrey. I quickly check my phone, feeling relief when I see replies from both Noah—Jillian is excited to see the house, how does Thursday work?—and Tom, who has had a change of heart and agrees perhaps all the statues should go, though he words the email in a way that makes it seem it was his idea all along. Clearly things have taken a turn for the better, and even my fever seems under control with the ibuprofen I’ve been popping all day.
I see Audrey come through the doors, looking for my car in the long pickup line, and I put down the passenger window. “Audrey!” I try to shout, though it comes out sounding more like a squeak. I would honk, but that’s frowned upon in the school parking lot. Audrey still hasn’t seen me, but Emma Steen, waiting for her own daughter, Charlotte, by the front doors, does. I bristle as Emma strides toward me, cursing today’s timing.
She tightens the belt of her Burberry-patterned coat around her tall, slim body and steps toward the passenger side of my car and the open window. “Oh, hell,” I mutter, trying to decide if I have time to pick up my phone and fake a call. Emma’s smiling as she approaches, but I notice it’s strained. As it should be, I think.
“Hi there, Meg,” she says, bending down so her face is framed by the window. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a tight, high ponytail, her smooth bangs hanging perfectly upon her forehead, showcasing fabulous eyebrows. I absentmindedly rub a finger over my own brows, knowing it’s been too long since I had them waxed. My fingers itch with the urge to type a reminder to call the spa into my phone.
“How are you? Sorry you missed the last meeting, but hopefully the minutes were helpful.” I think of Emma’s last email, which I deleted without opening. This is her first year as president of Merritt High’s Parent Teacher Organization, and it’s the perfect position for her—some people lead through creativity or inspiration, but Emma relies on her Martha Stewart–like tendencies and homemade chocolate chunk cookies.
I wish I could put up the window without it appearing downright rude, and imagine with some satisfaction what it would be like to catch her nose between the glass and the steel frame of the door. Instead I nod, force a smile and silently beg Audrey to hurry up so we can get out of this damn queue.
“I can’t chat, Emma. Audrey has a dentist appointment. Oh, and here she is.” I move my purse off the passenger seat for Audrey, who has thankfully just opened the car door, having squeezed around Emma.
“Hi, Audrey,” Emma says, shoving her hands in her pockets and watching Audrey as she buckles her seat belt. “How’s the tennis these days?”
“I don’t play anymore,” Audrey says, her tone polite but not inviting more questions. Audrey’s a natural athlete, like her dad, and used to play tennis and soccer, but when she turned twelve she decided she didn’t care for the competitive nature of organized sports. She still hits balls with her dad on occasion, but her interests have shifted: to journalism, environmentalism, saving the backyard birds.
“Oh?” Emma holds on to her wide smile, though I can see it faltering. I know Emma still feels a connection to Audrey, having spent so much time with her when she was young, but Audrey has all but forgotten that relationship and treats her no differently than any