Page 13 of Holiday Hideaway
Tilly’s smile faded. “Markovich. I wish I could block it too. I was married to him.”
“Was?”
“I left him six months ago.”
“Good for you.”
George’s phone lit up again with another incoming call. He sighed.
Tilly stood and called for Smoosh, who was still perching, shyly, in the living room doorway, ambivalent about their host.
“Come on, bud,” she called, heading for the back door. She glanced over her shoulder. “The poor girl must be frantic.”
“George? Why haven’t you called? I’ve been frantic!”
“Sorry. Lots going on with the house.” He decided not to mention the concussion, the broken ankle, or, even more alarming, the gorgeous classmate who’d been camping out in the attic. “It’s snowing like crazy up here. I wish you could see it. Is it snowing in Boston?”
“Never mind the snow. Did you find the claim ticket for your tux? The ball is in two days.”
“I’m so sorry. I just can’t find it,” he admitted.
“The idiot woman at the cleaners couldn’t find it either. Which is just inexcusable. So I called the owner and had her fired. Then I posted a one-star review on their Yelp page.”
“Alma? You had that sweet lady fired? Over a misplaced tux? Tell me you didn’t really.”
“She copped an attitude with me, George. I had no choice.”
“Vanessa!” he said sharply. “Do you understand how incredibly awful what you just did is? Getting someone fired over a lousy tux?”
“It wasn’t just some lousy tux. It was an Armani, George. And I’d had it custom tailored for you, not that you ever appreciated the trouble I took to make you look your best. But I was afraid something like this would happen, so I already ordered a backup tux. You can have it fitted when you come home tomorrow.”
George reclined on the stack of cushions and contemplated his plaster-encased ankle while he wondered how he could fix the latest carnage Vanessa had wrought. Maybe he’d offer to buy the dry cleaner so he could rehire Alma, the nice white-haired widow lady who always remembered to put extra starch in his dress shirts.
And right after that, he’d find a way to extricate himself from the dilemma of Vanessa. But not right now. Not over the phone. His head was aching, and his ankle was throbbing.
“The thing is, I’ve kind of hit a snag up here.”
“What kind of a snag?”
Vanessa didn’t believe in snags. She believed in action.
He told her about the crumbling roof and ceilings, the fact that the roofer was down in Florida. With the exterminator. “Maybe they’re an item,” he joked lamely.
“George! There’s nothing more you can do. Just come home. Today. If you leave now, you can be back in time for the Woodsons’ dinner party.”
“I wish I could.” He tried to make himself sound wistful. “With all this snow, if the ceilings cave in, the floors and walls and everything will be ruined. Things will only get worse, and it’ll affect the sale price.”
“So what? You’re not a poor man. You don’t need to make a killing on that dump.”
“It’s not just about me. I took on the responsibility of getting the house ready to sell for Layton and Paulette and Abby, and I just can’t let them down.”
“But it’s okay to let me down?”
He took a deep breath. “I just don’t think ... in fact, I know I can’t make it back for the ball.”
Another long silence. And then a click.
He looked at the phone in disbelief.
