Chapter 8 #3
“Oh, it’s a Dutch door?”
“Yeah. The top part doesn’t latch right,” she says. “Papa was supposed to have it fixed, but he never got around to it, and now he says there’s no point because we’re moving.”
Curt’s right. Nobody in this market would care about such a small repair, especially not in a neighborhood as safe as this one.
“Daddy says I can have my own cat once we’re in London,” Penny says.
“That’s exciting! When Ian and I find our new house, I think we’ll get a dog.”
“Hey, Margo?” Ian, calling from up above. “Are you two down there?”
“Guess it’s time for dinner,” I tell Penny.
The long table on the deck is set with linen placemats and two low vases of white hydrangeas. Curt insists that we all take a seat while he brings out the food on his own. He passes it off as politeness. “No, no, you’re our guests,” he tells us. But I suspect he just likes the spotlight.
He makes a show of bringing out the main event—a roasted salmon, which, frankly, just about anyone with an oven timer could pull off. “Voilà!” he says, setting the platter down dramatically. Ian and I both instinctively clap. I catch Jack rolling his eyes.
Everyone except me and Penny has had at least two rounds of martinis. And now Curt is pouring the Sancerre. “Just a splash for me,” I say. “Someone has to drive us home!”
Once Curt takes his place at the head of the table, he raises his glass. “A toast to Margo and Ian, and their adoption journey,” he says.
I’m sure Ian wishes he could sink into the floor, but this is the time to lean in. I try to tap into the emotion that I felt in Penny’s room.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “But it should be us toasting you three. What a lovely surprise this has all been, getting to know you, and being welcomed into your gorgeous home. I only wish we could’ve had more time together before your move.”
“Maybe you can come stay with us in London,” says Penny, in between sips of pamplemousse LaCroix.
“Of course she can, honey,” says Jack. “And we can see her and Ian when we come back to visit DC, too.”
“Maybe we’ll have a baby of our own the next time you’re here,” I say. Ian shifts uncomfortably beside me; the weathered wood of his chair groans. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I turn to Jack, “I just called Hope Springs on Monday. We have an appointment with them next week.”
He brings his hands to his mouth. “Oh my gosh, that is so great!” he says. “We had such an awesome experience with them.”
“We really did,” says Curt, nodding. “You know, I have a tendency to go overboard on research—a hazard of academia, I suppose.” He chuckles and thrusts a thumb in Jack’s direction.
“It can drive this guy a little mad. Penny told you we were in Barcelona last year? They practically had to drag me out of the Sagrada Familia, kicking and screaming. I could’ve read every single plaque. ”
He chuckles to himself some more. I wonder when he’ll arrive at his point.
After a sip of wine, he starts up again: “All that to say, I treated the adoption process just as I would any academic pursuit. I really dug into it.” He balls up a fist. “And I can tell you with complete confidence that Hope Springs is the best private domestic agency in the region. No question.”
“It sure seems that way,” I say. “I was really encouraged to read about the level of care they take with the birth parents—all the counseling and support they offer to make sure they’re really ready to place their children with another family.”
Ian pushes his fingers back through his hair, drains the rest of his glass.
“That part was important to us, too,” says Jack, before subtly shifting his eyes toward Penny. “We can talk more after bedtime.”
I nod, taking the hint, mouthing, “Thank you.”
Ian visibly relaxes once he’s certain we’ve moved on from the adoption chatter.
He and Curt are hitting it off—swapping self-congratulatory stories about their heroic career paths.
Ian explains how he never felt like “I was living up to my potential” at the law firm, but now every day is “a gift” because he gets to make a difference with his work.
Curt nods along vigorously. “It was the same for me at the hedge fund,” he says.
“I tried to follow in the old man’s footsteps, I really did, but I just felt called to education. ”
Jack and I look at each other and burst out laughing. This is going even better than I’d hoped—we have genuinely connected.
Time to go in for the kill.
“You know what? I’m just gonna say it and cross my fingers that I don’t make things awkward.” I aim for an endearingly nervous smile. “We want to make an offer on your house. It’s everything we could ever want, and this neighborhood is amazing.”
Ian goes rigid. Beneath the table, I see that he’s gripping the edges of his chair. But Jack and Curt both laugh. The knot in my stomach loosens.
“Well, you’re already ahead of the game,” says Curt. “You won’t need to come for a showing.”
“I’m sorry to be crass,” says Jack, “but what did you say your budget was again?”
My pulse picks up. “Um, one-point-three.”
“You’re in the ballpark,” Jack says. “We’re planning to list just under that, at one-two-fifty.”
“Is Margo going to live in our house?” Penny asks, bouncing in her chair.
“But you know how this market is,” Curt quickly interjects, ignoring his daughter. “Theresa, our agent, expects it’ll go for much higher.”
Jack throws his husband a pointed look, then refocuses on me. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t give it a try,” he says. “I would love to know we were selling to a family as deserving as you guys. I mean, we’ve put so much work into this place, it’s going to be really tough letting it go.”
“Well, if we end up here, maybe you wouldn’t have to, at least not fully,” I say, palms sweaty against the linen napkin in my lap. “We could finish the basement and build a whole guest suite down there for you.”
Ian presses a hand into my thigh—not a gesture of affection; he’s telling me to rein it in. But he knew this was what he signed up for. And this is not the time to puss out.
I laugh and lean away from the table. “I’m sorry if I’m getting ahead of myself.”
Jack smiles. “That’s okay, it’s a tempting idea.”
“I like that idea!” Penny adds.
“Let’s leave the negotiating to the agents,” Curt says with a wink. “Don’t wanna ruin a fun evening with business.”
“Exactly,” says Ian. He gives my leg a final pat before removing his hand, apparently convinced that’s the end of my pitch.
But I can’t stop now. We’re at their dinner table, for chrissake!
When will we ever have an opportunity like this again?
Sure, we could write some interesting perks into an offer—let them design their own guest suite, commit to letting them use it any time they want.
But in the end, the only thing that ever really matters is the money.
Whatever it takes, I cannot let this place wind up in a bidding war.
I clear my throat. “No, no, absolutely, you’re right, Curt,” I say. “I’m sorry to have brought it up. I think I’ve just been so preoccupied with the adoption research, and the thought of still being stuck in that apartment for the home study has really started to freak me out.”
“Margo, we don’t need to get into that,” Ian says, the pressure of his hand back on my thigh.
“I just want to explain myself,” I say, smiling at him reassuringly, then turning my attention back to our hosts.
“What I mean to say is the house hunt has just started to feel even more urgent. And then, only this morning, a colleague was telling me how her cousin recently bought off market, from some friends. Since they put the deal together themselves, they didn’t have to use agents, and they saved a ton on the commission.
Your home is just so stunning, I guess I’ve started to wonder if maybe there was any possibility that we could make something like that work here, for all of us—a win-win, you know?
” I pause to cringe at myself. “If I’m being inappropriate, I’m so sorry! ”
Ian is squeezing now, almost hard enough that it hurts. Curt and Jack look at each other, wordlessly, over one of the vases of hydrangeas.
“That’s an interesting proposition,” Jack says finally. “I think you’ve just caught us a little off guard.”
Curt chuckles uncomfortably. “Why don’t we take a break for dessert?” He pushes away from the table. “Jack, can you help?”
Once they’re inside, Ian leans in. “Margo, that is enough,” he says through clenched teeth.
I ignore him, keeping my eyes on Penny, still seated across from me. “So, have you told all your friends about London by now?” I ask cheerily.
She perks up. “Yeah, they’re going to have a party for me at gymnastics!”
As she unpacks the details—pizza, a tumbling contest, siblings are invited, too—her dads return with a chocolate torte, a pile of raspberries in the center. “Penny, would you like to help Papa?” Curt asks. She nods and climbs down from her chair.
As he plates each piece, Penny passes them around. But I’ve lost my appetite. We’re barely even talking now. Are they just going to pretend I never brought it up? I need to get us back on track.
“Mmmm,” I say, forcing myself to eat my slice. “Curt, you’re a serious talent. This reminds me of something the pastry chef at Causa just put on the menu.” She would die before serving something so pedestrian, but I’m desperate to change the vibe.
“That’s right!” Jack says, looking grateful for a benign topic. “Curt, I forgot to tell you, Causa is one of Margo’s clients.”
“Wow,” Curt says, “that’s a tough reservation.”
“We’ll all have to go before you move!” I say. “Penny, too, of course, since she has such grown-up taste. My treat.”
Jack and Curt exchange a look that I can’t quite read. But I think that might’ve worked. I think they’re coming back around.
“That sounds great,” says Jack.
But the silence descends again. We all keep eating, forks scraping against plates, the only sound piercing the excruciating nothingness.
“So, about the house,” Jack finally breaks in.
The air goes completely still. My heartbeat roars in my head.
“We’ll certainly be rooting for you when we list it,” he continues. “But we had a quick chat inside, and we’re just not comfortable committing to anything … unorthodox.”
My stomach plummets. This can’t be happening. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Ian says something beside me, but he sounds muted somehow. Like I’m listening to him from underwater. Like I’m drowning.
“Completely understood,” I think I hear him say. “Ginny would’ve killed us for doing a deal without her anyway.”
Ginny.
The night slingshots back into focus. Her name is the corkscrew resting by the wine bottle, twisting into my gut. It is the one word I told Ian we absolutely could not say. The one word that could blow our cover.
Jack narrows his eyes. Terror slithers around my insides.
“Ginny Gunther?” he asks.
Ian’s shoulders slump as he realizes what he’s done.
“Jenny,” I say immediately. “He said Jenny. Our agent is Jenny.”
But Jack remains frozen, chiseled jawline set, dark eyes accusing.
“Ginny Gunther’s sister-in-law does yoga with me at Power + Grace,” he says to Curt. “Zelda Gunther. You’ve met her. She’s been to the house.”
Curt cocks his head in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow…”
“What aren’t you getting?” Jack snaps, the alarm intensifying his features.
“One of my closest friends at yoga is their agent’s sister-in-law.
Zelda was in class with me the morning we decided to sell.
She was one of the first people I told we were going to list.” Keeping his eyes on Curt, he jabs a finger toward me and Ian.
“Zelda must’ve told Ginny who told them. ”
Curt knits his brow.
“The exact same morning, Margo just happens to show up in front of our house.” Now Jack fixes his glare on me. “You weren’t really lost that day, were you?”
“I … I … what?”
“Oh my God.” His mouth goes slack, a look of recognition falling over his face. “You guys aren’t really adopting, are you?”
“I … what? Jack, I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Margo, cut the shit,” he says. I hear Penny draw in a little gasp.
“Please…” My throat feels like it’s closing up. I can barely get the words out. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding here.”
Curt, now grasping what’s going on, rises to his feet. “Okay, party’s over.”
He waits for me and Ian to get up. When we do, he comes around to our side of the table and places a hand on the small of both our backs.
He guides us inside, away from the tire swing, back through the flawless kitchen, through the living room where we were supposed to celebrate our next Christmas, out onto the front porch, into the glow of the handsome brass lanterns.
Now, with Penny well out of earshot, he leans in so close that I can feel the humidity of his breath, smell the acid of the wine. “You two are fucking sick.” His voice is unnervingly calm. “If you ever come near my family again, I will call the fucking cops, do you understand?”
“I’m … Curt, I’m…” My body is on fire.
“Get the fuck off my property. Right fucking now.”
Then he slams the gorgeous, glossy-black front door.