Page 13 of Even After This
“I’m torn. I loved the brownstone because of the location and access to hotel amenities.” I clear my throat. “However, farther out from the city, the properties have more character.”
Click,clack,click,clack.Prissy stands by my side, looking at the mantel. “What else?”
“Why do you think I have a ‘what else’?”
“In my experience, a lot of clients bury the lede. Our initial appointment is helpful, but new information reveals itself after the third or fourth showing.”
She’s good.
But I don’t know how to answer her question. I don’t know how to define it. This is a wonderful home, but it isn’t the one.
“I came here because I wanted a getaway home for my friends and family.” I pause, trying to decide if I want to say what’s really on my heart. I swallow. “But sometimes I wonder if there’s more out here for me.”
In a surprisingly affectionate move, she grasps my hand. “What do you mean?” Her words gentle. “Is there more here for you?”
“Listen, I know what I’m about to say next are not a realtor’s favorite words, but I don’t know what I want. A vacation homehas its appeals. A permanent move for me is a more loaded decision. I just...” I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“No, Meredith.” She shakes my hand and slows her words. “What did you mean when you said that you wonder if there is more out here foryou?”
The memo.
During last night’s restaurant fiasco, Molly admitted the memo had been delivered to my realtor. Prissy knows my history.
But it’s more. Her sixth sense for selling properties seems to be fueled by her spot-on intuition.
My gaze remains on the stone as my voice hitches when I whisper my answer. “He left me an obscene amount of money, Prissy. We took out huge, cheap life insurance policies in our early twenties. His original policy provided enough for me to fall apart in the event of his death, but still be financially secure and able to care for any children we might have. My losing everyone never occurred to us. And after the funeral, our lawyer told me about additional insurance Steve bought, unbeknownst to me.” I swipe tears away with my free hand. “It’s so much money for one person. I think I’m supposed to do something with it.”
Her thumb sweeps over the back of my hand in comfort.
“Or maybe the money is supposed to do something with me,” I whisper.
I lack courage to ask Prissy the question that started burning in my heart a few weeks ago.Is it possiblethere’s still something left for me in this life?
We turn our heads toward each other, and our eyes lock. She nods, purses her lips, releases her hold on me, and walks away to close up the house.
I gather my purse, take out some Kleenex, and pull myself together.
She may be supportive, but that doesn’t mean I want to cry all over her gorgeous suit.
Prissy’s sleek black Mercedes SUV defines first-world comfort. I’m so enthralled with the individual seat controls, I’m giddy. Sleek buttons marked with colorful symbols cause my fingers to twitch. I glance to the heated steering wheel. Would Prissy slap my hand away if I leaned over to touch the warm leather?
“Meredith? Would you be comfortable in a property farther away from town?” Prissy asks.
“I think so.” I punch an arrow indicating it will increase my seat temperature. “I like the amenity packages some of the Broadmoor estates offered, but the advantages may not outweigh a different kind of property.”
“Priscilla.” A soothing male voice from the car speakers interrupts our conversation, and every muscle in me freezes. The voice continues, “You are driving over the speed limit.”
“Stop nagging at me, Derrick,” Prissy snaps, then gnashes her teeth.
Two questions. Is that her car’s name? And can it hear her?
“My husband bought this car for me because it can monitor my speed.” She presses a button, muting the disembodied voice. “But instead of decreasing my traffic tickets, I now suffer from road rage.”
I’m so surprised that I can’t mask my response. I throw my head back and laugh. If I’m not mistaken, a smile tugs at Prissy’s cheek.
She leaves both thumbs on the wheel while stretching her fingers out, revealing an impeccable manicure. “Meredith, did something unpleasant occur at the hotel?”
“Yes. Harlan Holcombe danced with me in the Penrose Room.” The answer blurts out before the words register in my brain.
