Page 2 of Forked (Frenched 2)
Twisting my brown hair with blue tips (not an accident, thank you very much) into a knot at the top of my head, I stuck two pencils through it and looked again at the numbers I’d scribbled on my note pad. My real estate agent had just called to tell me someone else was going to make an offer on the house. If I wanted it, she said I’d have to act fast, as if indecision was my problem. I was totally willing to act fast. When it came to something I wanted, waiting around was not my style.
But act fast and do what? Get a second job? Rob a bank? Sell my eggs?
Don’t think I wasn’t considering it.
I took a bigger swallow of booze and contemplated asking my parents for the other seventeen thousand I needed to put ten percent down, which is what my agent thought I should do. They had plenty of money, and they probably wouldn’t even make me pay it back, at least not right away. But they’d think offering their financial help meant they got A Say in what I bought, and I could just imagine all the arguments we’d have over my buying a hundred-year old, five thousand square foot fixer-upper by myself.
Redo the kitchen? That’s absurd. You’ve never even picked up a hammer!
A yard? Don’t be silly. You don’t know how to mow a lawn.
A house like that needs a man.
I slugged the last of my Two James and eyed the bottle, seriously considering pouring another, even though the numbers I’d scribbled were beginning to swim a bit.
“I’m heading home.” Mia poked her head into my office and grinned. “Gotta start packing my bags.”
Grateful for the distraction, I popped up from my chair and rushed over to embrace her. “Eek! This is so exciting! I wish I were going with you!” Mia was leaving on Tuesday for France, where she would be married two and a half weeks later. Erin and I would fly over six days before the wedding.
Mia let me squeeze her slender frame and laughed when I didn’t let her go. “Me too. There’s so much to get done before the eighteenth. And I wish I spoke French; it would make things so much easier.”
She sniffed. “Have you been drinking?”
Releasing her, I put one hand in front of my mouth. “Just a little.” But then I couldn’t resist taking her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “God, Mia. I can’t believe you’re getting married in two weeks—to Lucas! At a villa! In Provence!” Both of us jumped up and down a few times.
“I know!” She bit her lip. “But don’t jinx me, Coco. I don’t want anything to go wrong this time.”
Mia had been engaged once before, but her asshole fiancé had called off the wedding a week before it was supposed to happen.
“Stop it.” I squeezed her upper arms. “Nothing is going to go wrong this time. This is totally different. You and Lucas are made for each other, the wedding is going to be the most beautiful thing we’ve ever planned, and every little detail will be perfect.”
Mia closed her eyes, as if saying a quick prayer.
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am. Want me to come over and help you pack?”
She shook her head. “It’s OK. I’ve got my lists made already.”
“Of course you do.”
She pinched my arm. “Don’t make fun of
me. It’s my wedding; I get to make lists. And you’re on your own here for the next two weeks. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”
“Yeah, like obsess over the house I can’t afford.”
Mia frowned. “Which house?”
“The one in Indian Village. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“The old one? Coco, are you drunk? They’re asking over three hundred grand for that place! It’s huge! And it needs so much work!”
Fidgeting, I admitted, “It would be a project, I know. But I love old houses! And when I walked through it, I got a feeling.” I shivered as I recalled moving through rooms with high ceilings, creaky wood floors, lead glass windows. Maybe there were a few cracks in the plaster and some smelly carpet—not to mention a kitchen that hadn’t been remodeled since 1975—but there was an old newspaper covering a broken windowpane and it was dated September twenty-sixth, which was my birthday. It was clearly a sign.
“A feeling?” Mia asked dubiously, her upper lip curling.
“Like I was supposed to live there. Like it’s been waiting for me. And that newspaper in the kitchen—it was a sign!”
