Chapter 2 Dante #2
He closes his eyes while I’m talking. Puts his head back against the cushion and shuts down. He’s taking me no more seriously than a television he’s decided to turn off.
“Somebody knew I was coming,” he says without opening his eyes. “They left a welcome package with a loaf of fresh bread. It was right there on the counter. And cheese in the fridge, but I didn’t care for it. Too squishy.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. This man ate Benji’s staging bread because he thought it was a welcome gift.
“The bread was not for you. The bread was staging.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All of it. It’s staging. The bread on the cutting board. The flowers. The cookbook. The lemons. The cheese. The blanket in your hands. It’s presentation for the sale of this house. None of it was for you. We left the house perfect at ten last night.”
“Well, it’s unstaged now and I need to sleep,” he says, his drawl dropping deeper. “You can go sort out whatever this is with whoever you need to sort it out with. It’s not my problem. When you leave, don’t close the door.”
“I’m not leaving. I have brokers coming here at ten.”
“Then keep it down. I had a long flight and you’re hurting my head. A lot.”
“No, you need to leave. You’re trespassing.”
“I had a code to get in.”
“A code doesn’t give you—”
“A code means somebody gave me access to this house. I don’t know about your listing and I don’t care. Not one tiny bit. Whatever this is, you can figure it out on your own. You need to go away.”
“My showing is in four hours. In this house. With brokers coming from three cities.”
“Sounds like you have a big fucking problem then.”
His breathing is slowing again. He’s going back to sleep.
I call the seller and reach his voicemail. I leave a message in professional language that communicates exactly how furious I am.
The property is occupied by a renter with a valid access code. The showing is in four hours. Call me.
I call the property management company. Closed until nine.
Emergency line goes to a recording. I hang up.
Then I start cleaning because I’m not a person who stands around waiting for problems to resolve themselves.
I pick up the liquor bottles and put them in the kitchen trash.
I get on my knees and blot the rug with a dish towel, working in a shirt that I’d normally never put within ten feet of cleaning supplies.
He doesn’t move while I work. Wrapped up on the sectional with his boots on the cushion, either sleeping or doing an excellent job of pretending. At one point he shifts and pulls the throw tighter without looking up, adjusting it the way a child adjusts a blanket.
I’ve cleaned most of the visible damage when I notice the sliding glass door to the terrace.
It’s pushed all the way to the wall, wide open.
The Gulf air has been pouring in all night, humid and hot, pushing against the AC that has been running at full capacity trying to cool the entire beach.
I slide it shut, praying the AC catches up and the humidity drops back to where it should be.
“Leave it open,” he mutters.
I turn around. “The sliding glass door?”
“Yeah. Don’t shut it.”
“It’s ninety percent humidity outside. The AC can’t keep up with that door open. The floors in this house alone—”
“I don’t care about the floors. Leave it open.”
I leave the sliding glass door open with the plan to shut it the moment he falls back to sleep. The AC cranks harder.
Benji arrives at eight-thirty with his arms full of hydrangeas. He’s in shorts, sandals, and one of Mickey’s old t-shirts. His uncombed blond hair is falling across his forehead.
“Where is he?” Benji whispers, already looking past me into the living room. “Is he dead? Dante, please tell me there is not a dead man I need to drag out.”
“On the sofa. Hasn’t moved since I got here. Can you smell weed?”
Benji wrinkles his nose. “God, yes, I can, it’s in everything, it’s soaked into the walls. How do we get it out?”
“I’m hoping four hours is enough time to clear it from the HVAC system. Will the brokers notice? I’m not sure my career here will survive a showing that smells like someone has been hotboxing the living room.”
“Is that why the terrace door is open?”
“No, he insisted I keep it open.”
“It’s ninety degrees out there, Dante, and climbing—”
“I’m aware.”
“—and that door’s been open all night, so the compressor is going to burn out and then the floors warp, and now we’ve got a swollen-hardwood problem stacked on top of a passed-out-man problem—”
“I’m well aware of the humidity, Benji.”
Benji sets the hydrangeas on the island and surveys the room. The water stain on the runner, the tequila-soaked rug, the pillows on the floor, the bread crumbs I haven’t finished sweeping.
“The throw he’s using is cashmere,” Benji says. “Six hundred dollars, and that’s with my trade discount, and he’s got it wadded under his chin like a baby blanket.”
“I know. What was I supposed to do? Physically fight him for it? Pry it out of his fingers? We need to choose our battles here.”