Chapter 6
I’m in the middle of packing bags for myself and Sam so we can get out of here, when my phone rings.
It’s Jinny, our real estate agent.
She’s the last person I want to hear from, under the circumstances, and I can guess what she’s calling about, so I ignore the call. When a message comes through moments later, my suspicions are confirmed.
“I’m so sorry,” she says without bothering to elaborate, then goes on to tell me that it’s nothing to worry about in the grand scheme of things.
There will be other condos. In the meantime, she’ll talk to the sellers, see if they would be willing to wait while we resolve the issue, but imparts in the same breath that it’s unlikely.
Boston is a hot property market, and they have backup offers.
I really couldn’t care less about the loan or the condo we were buying right now. Our home has been violated. My bracelet—the only link I have left to the child I will never meet—is gone. All I want to do is get the hell out of this apartment and go somewhere I will feel safe. Jinny can wait.
We take an Uber to my parents’ house. As we ride, I phone ahead and tell them about the break-in.
When we arrive, they’re waiting at the front door.
My father scurries down the steps to the car as it pulls up into the driveway, and insists on grabbing our bags, then hauls them into the house and deposits them at the bottom of the stairs.
After that, it’s nothing but sympathy and questions for the next hour.
When Dad finally declares that he’s going to throw some steaks on the grill—and a chicken breast for me because I don’t eat red meat—it’s a relief.
Sam accompanies him, beer in hand, and leaves me alone with my mother.
She flits around the kitchen, preparing a salad to accompany the steaks, and talks over her shoulder.
“Next week you’ll be in your new home, and that nasty apartment will be nothing but a memory.
” She dumps lettuce into a bowl, then turns to face me.
“Honestly, I never liked the place. And the less said about that neighborhood, the better. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Thank heavens you weren’t home, or it would have been so much worse. ”
Shit. With all the stress and upset of the break-in, I haven’t told her what happened at the bank. “Mom, about the house—”
“Yes, dear?” She grabs an onion.
“The loan fell through. We aren’t getting it.”
There’s a moment of silence. My mother’s hand hovers midair above the onion, knife poised; then she slowly puts it down. “I don’t understand. You were approved already. You’re closing on Tuesday.”
“I know that.” Why did I mention the loan right now on top of everything else? Today has been stressful enough. It’s Friday, which gave me the whole weekend to break the news to my parents. But it’s too late now. “There was an issue with Sam’s credit.”
“Ah,” she says, as if this were a foregone conclusion. “I was telling your father only last week that—”
“Mom. It wasn’t him. Someone must have stolen his identity, opened a credit card, and ran it up.”
“There’s no need to interrupt me. I was just going to say that we should have loaned you the money instead of the two of you going to all that trouble with a mortgage. That’s all. I wasn’t casting aspersions on Sam.”
Of course she wasn’t. I love my mother, but she can be a little . . . judgy. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I just wanted you to know what’s going on. We might have to stay here for a week or two, just until we find alternative accommodations.”
“You can stay for as long as you need, honey. Both of you. Honestly, I’m happy to hear that you’re not going back to that dreadful place.”
“Thank you.” I swallow my annoyance at her phrasing.
Both of you. As if there was ever any question that Sam would be here with me.
My parents would never say it, at least not outright, but they have always been unsure about Sam.
He checks all the boxes on one level—he’s a lawyer and comes from a good family—but he also works for a lowly nonprofit when he could be in the private sector earning five times as much.
They see this as a character flaw. Especially my psychiatrist father, who defines his very existence by billable hours.
Plus, I’m pretty sure my mother is just a teeny bit racist and doesn’t love the idea of her daughter being in an interracial relationship, no matter how amazing Sam is.
“And in the meantime, you can call Jinny and tell her you’ll pay cash for the house.
” My mother picks the knife back up and takes aim at the onion once more.
“It’s a little more than we have on hand, but we’ll talk to the bank on Monday about taking out a home equity loan to cover the rest—just until your dad can liquidize some of our investments. Problem solved.”
“No!” My response is a little sharper than I intended because I’m still irritated by what she said about Sam. “I’m not taking your money.”
It stops my mother in her tracks, giving the onion another temporary reprieve. “Don’t be silly, of course you are. It’s the logical solution. When you get sorted out, you can pay us back.”
I take a deep breath, because I know she’s trying to be supportive, even if her methods are a bit blunt. “I appreciate the offer, but we can’t let you go into debt like that for us. It’s too much—and honestly, Sam and I need to make our own way.”
“Like you’re making your own way with all those clients I’ve been sending you?”
Touché. My interior design business would be more like a hobby if it weren’t for my mother’s friends, but considering the circles she moves in, I tell myself they would have hired me eventually either way.
And soon, once people see what I can do, I won’t have to rely on family connections to keep the proverbial lights on.
“That’s not the same thing. I’m still doing the work. It’s still me.”
“Whatever you say, my dear.” My mother brings the knife down, and the onion’s luck finally runs out. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, when you’re not so cranky.”
I bite my tongue, a common occurrence around my mother. Considering how often I’ve bitten it over the years, I’m surprised I still have one.