Chapter 11
Hi. Hello, Mr. McKinnon.” Before I know what I’m doing, I stick out my hand to shake his.
“Morning, Ms. Rosen.” He speaks slowly, like he thinks he might be in a nightmare, or on Punk’d . The contractor doesn’t seem to notice a thing.
“Nice to meet you.” The man shakes my hand, too. “Alan Gregson.”
I mumble a polite greeting, unable to tear my gaze away from Daniel, whose face is flaming red. He’s fumbling in the pannier bag on his bike, searching for something.
I’m feeling a combination of stunned embarrassment and a mad desire to laugh. So I made out with the property manager. The person who’s supposed to manage my property for me. Maybe he makes out with all his clients. Maybe that’s why he’s so highly recommended.
At this thought, a snort escapes me.
“What?” Daniel says, a touch sharply. He’s found what he was looking for, a small iPad that he’s now clutching like his life depends on it.
I glance from his miserable, strained face, to the obliviously polite face of Alan Gregson. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I flash my most winning smile. “Shall we get started?”
I unlock the front door, and then Alan leads the way.
I gather that he was the person who had done the initial inspection, using Trish’s spare key.
He points out the areas that need structural reinforcements and the plumbing problems in the spare bathroom.
As we walk, Daniel scrawls notes and snaps photos with his iPad. He doesn’t look at me once.
“Of course, the pool needs to be treated and most likely needs new filters. From what I saw last time, the HVAC is in good shape,” Alan concludes as we finish our loop and end up back in the kitchen.
All the unfamiliar terms tumble around in my brain. That, and sheer terror at the idea of how much all this will cost. But before I can say anything, Daniel dives in with his own spiel.
“Alan covered all the necessary repairs. But there are a lot of optional, aesthetic things to consider as well. The living room, for example.”
“The brown room,” I say.
“Right. It’s brown. If you make it less brown—paint the walls and pull up the carpet, maybe replace it with a light, bright flooring, maybe a bamboo—it would make a huge difference.
Now, if you were to repaint and refloor the bedrooms as well, you could significantly raise the rent. And this kitchen.”
“What about it?” I’m feeling defensive. I know the kitchen is hideously outdated. I know people want updated kitchens. But it’s always been like this, and the idea of ripping it all out makes me sad.
“It’s…” Daniel glances around the room. I can tell he’s trying to be diplomatic, which I appreciate. “It could use new appliances, for a start. Maybe a coat of paint.”
“It’s old-fashioned,” Alan pipes up.
“It’s vintage,” I argue.
“Well.” Daniel shrugs and glances back down at his tablet, probably so he doesn’t have to look at me. “Anyway. The more updates you make to the house, the more you can charge for rent.”
“Okay.” The idea of upping the rent mollifies me somewhat. The more I can charge each month, the less stressed I’ll be about going into debt for all the repairs and updates.
We head out to the front lawn. Alan promises to send us an updated estimate this afternoon, and then he drives off in his white van. Daniel and I stand there, side by side, watching him drive away.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, just as he says, “Look, about the other night.”
Oh, this should be good. I turn to face him expectantly. I can tell this makes him nervous. His ginger eyebrows twitch. I’m not used to being the one who makes other people nervous.
“That was pretty out of character for me,” he says. “If I had known who you were—if I had known you were a client—I never would have…”
My face flames. But honestly, I’m glad he didn’t know I was a client.
That kiss was worth this embarrassment. He’s clearly distressed, though, his eyes as worried as those of a Labrador who’s been yelled at, so I want to end his misery.
I slap his arm in an attempt at a friendly gesture. (Damn, forgot how hard his biceps are.)
“I wouldn’t have kissed you if I knew who you were, either.”
He exhales in relief and runs a hand through his hair. It sticks straight up with the humidity.
“Don’t worry about it,” I continue. “I’m serious. And I really am leaving tomorrow, so. We won’t see each other again. It’ll just be emails and phone calls from here out. Please don’t drop me as a client because, clearly, I need your help.”
“I won’t drop you.” He slaps my arm back playfully, but he’s so strong that I wobble sideways. “I’ll find you the perfect tenants. It’ll be good.”
“Yes, great! Perfect.” I twirl my keys around my finger. “Well then…”
“Glad we cleared that up.” He laughs, and I can tell he is truly very relieved. It’s a little annoying, actually. I would prefer for him to pine after me, but I guess that wouldn’t be professional.
“Of course. Me too.”
“Won’t happen again.” He cocks his fingers at me, winking, as he heads back to his bicycle.
“Bye!” I give a mock-friendly wave as I climb into my car.
As I drive away, my mood melts from amusement to mortification.
Until an hour ago, the memory of that kiss was funny and sexy.
It made me giggle, that I would do something like that, and that it was surprisingly hot despite the guy being a total stranger.
But now? Now it’s like remembering saying something embarrassing in front of a group of people.
I kissed Daniel McKinnon. Now he thinks I’m the type of person who kisses random strangers in bars.
And there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not who I am.
I mean, not usually. I wanted him to think I was a levelheaded homeowner who knows what a sump pump is.
I drive down palm-tree-lined streets and tell myself to take a deep breath. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I won’t have to see him again. Our conversations will be brief and professional and won’t veer too far from the topics of tenants and home repairs.
See, this is why I’m better off being a hermit.
When I’m out in the world, interacting with people, I embarrass myself.
It’s just what I do. I say the wrong thing, make the wrong face, kiss the wrong person.
This trip has been a—not fun, exactly—an interesting interlude, but I’ll be glad to get home.
Back to my normal routine and my solitude.
“Hey, Gramps,” I call, letting myself into the condo.
There’s no answer. I duck my head into the kitchen, expecting to see him at the table with his newspaper, but he’s not there.
“Hello?” I check the living room, but he’s not in his armchair. Maybe he’s taking a nap? It’s only eleven A.M. , several hours earlier than his usual afternoon nap time.
“Gramps?” I whisper, poking his bedroom door open with one finger.
His bed is empty. The sight of his crisply made bed fills me with a sudden panic. A second later, I remind myself that he’s a fully grown man, not a lost toddler. He’s probably down at the pool or taking a walk.
I clomp down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
At the pool, there’s one woman swimming laps and a few other people sunning themselves in lounge chairs, but no Gramps.
I definitely thought he would be at the pool.
He doesn’t even take walks. Just to check, I stand at the gate to the beach path and scan the beach, one hand shielding my eyes.
There are a couple of families lounging under umbrellas, one jogger, and a few people walking slowly in the surf. No sign of Gramps.
So maybe he’s in the breakfast room, or… I mean, obviously he wouldn’t be at the gym or the tennis court. I walk back toward the building, anxiety fluttering in my chest. Where could he have gone?
I could ask someone if they’ve seen him this morning. Maybe the next-door neighbor or— Angela . Angela seemed like the kind of person who would know these things.
I speed walk from the pool to the gazebo, where I’d seen Angela with that exercise class when I first arrived, but there’s no one there. I decide to try the tennis court. By the time I get there, sweat is dripping down my back. The sun beats down unforgivingly from straight overhead.
“Angela!” I call. She’s on the court, wearing a mint-green outfit today. She thwacks the ball toward her partner and then looks around.
“Mallory?” She squints at me from underneath her visor.
I half jog over to her, panting and flushed. “Have you seen Gramps this morning?”
“Leonard? No, I haven’t seen him today. Why, what’s wrong?” She rests her racket against one shoulder.
“He’s not at home and I can’t find him anywhere.” I try to sound calm, but some of my worry seeps into my voice.
“He didn’t leave a note?”
“No, no note.”
“I haven’t seen him, doll. Is his car here?”
“His car! Good idea. I’ll check. Thanks, Angela.” I take off toward the parking lot, leaving Angela looking after me with her mouth puckered in concern.
I jog through the garage and find Gramps’s parking space. His white Mazda Miata is gone.