Chapter Seven
Ava
I didn’t believe that lying jerk for a second. A house on and off the market in a single day? Yeah, right. Next time come up with a better yarn.
I spent the rest of the day showering off that nauseating encounter and ruminating on my next move. I only had a few short days to get this locked down before the girls came on Saturday, and I couldn’t risk Ben derailing the pact that I’d waited on for twelve years. He was already acting like a giant baby when I was the only one involved. If he found out that Jules was among the potential buyers—I shivered. I didn’t want to imagine what lengths he’d go to just to keep her far, far away.
The next afternoon, Mrs. Beatty scooted into The Rolling Scone right at one, interrupting my brainstorm of revenge.
“Do you have any of Lisa’s Lemon Crumble Cupcakes left today, dear?” she asked as I helped her into her usual chair.
“What?” My eyes went dramatically wide. “No Unicorn Explosion today?”
Mrs. Beatty smiled sadly. “I was thinking of your mom today,” she admitted. “Not to bring the mood down, but it seemed like the right treat for this afternoon.”
“No harm done at all,” I assured her. “I think of her every day. And those really were her favorite.”
“Oh, I know they were,” Mrs. Beatty chuckled. “Yellow was, too, you know. She had yellow everything. I will take a few of those special sprinkles, though.”
I already had the jar with me as I brought her the cupcake. “Just say when.”
We went through the motions of our routine, paying too much, making change, taking an unreasonable tip. Mrs. Beatty was several bites into her cupcake when she started up the small talk.
“Do you have anything planned for Saturday when the girls come up?”
“We’re probably just having dinner and drinks,” I told her, unable to keep the frustration from my tone.
She caught it immediately. “And what is it you’re not telling me? Hmm? Ava, we know each other better than that.”
I set down the piping bag I’d been filling. “The Van Kamp house went up for sale this week.”
“I saw that.” She scooped another piece of lemony goodness onto her fork. “But what does that have to do with Saturday?”
“The girls and I always planned to buy that house together,” I explained, “and I keep trying to get a tour but Ben won’t give me one.”
She set down her fork mid-bite and turned slowly toward me. “Excuse me?”
“Ben’s the realtor for the property, and he keeps ignoring me when I try to contact him. And when I do manage to get in front of him, he just refuses to cooperate.”
“It’s Betty’s old place,” Mrs. Beatty said as though that explained everything.
I gave her a look that made it clear it did not.
“His grandma. It’s her house, or was. His mom owns it now.” She gazed toward the copper lights thoughtfully. “I wonder why she’s selling after all these years?”
“That explains why Ben’s the realtor, but not why he’s being such a jerk to me.”
“I wish I could tell you the answer, dear, but I can’t imagine why he’s behaving that way. You’re just trying to get a tour?”
I nodded. “I wanted to check it out and make sure there wasn’t anything terribly wrong before seeing if I could talk the girls into visiting.”
Her eyes raced, her fingers twiddling in her lap. “How quiet are you?”
“How quiet?” I must’ve heard her wrong, or she was getting older than I’d realized and changing subjects at the drop of a hat. “The normal amount, I guess?”
“Ben won’t give you a tour,” she grinned like the Cheshire cat, “but he can’t say no to an old friend of his grandma’s, now can he?”
I matched her toothy grin. “No, I suppose he can’t.”
“Dial his number for me, would you?” She handed me her phone and returned to her lemon cupcake. “Where’d you get it?”
“The flyer at the house.” I did as she asked, handing it back to her and taking a seat to watch the plot unfold. Maybe it wasn’t such a stupid flyer after all.
“Hello? Is this Mr. McKinley?” she asked. “I got your number off the flyer at that house on Main, the big one.”
My jaw dropped. Mrs. Beatty missed her calling as an improv actress.
“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” she continued. “I’d like to take a look at it. What’s the soonest you can squeeze me in, dear? I’m willing to pay cash if I like it.”
Holy hell. I’d have to remember how devious she could be when prompted. Mrs. Beatty was definitely someone I wanted as an ally and not an enemy.
“Tonight would be just fine. I’ll be there at seven.” She hung up, looking proud of herself. And rightly so.
“That was incredible,” I gushed, unable to help myself. “So, what, I show up for the tour instead?”
She shook her head. “If he doesn’t want to give you the tour, he’ll just turn you away. I’m going to go on the tour.”
“Mrs. Beatty,” I leaned forward onto the bistro table. “I appreciate your help, but I fail to see how this is going to get me a tour.”
“That’s where your sneaking comes in, dear.” She loaded up another bite of the fluffy yellow cupcake. “I’ll distract him. You look around.”
“You’re serious?”
“It’s a big house. What are the odds he’ll actually see you?”
I sat back in the chair, asking myself that very same question.
“But more importantly,” she added, “what would he even do if he did catch you?”
I thrummed my fingers on the wrought-iron tabletop. What, indeed?