Chapter 49 Christianna
Chapter forty-nine
Christianna
I hurry to Meg’s office after rehearsal, phone clutched in my hand, practically vibrating with excitement.
I give a light rap against her doorframe.
“What?” she calls.
“Did you find a realtor?” I ask, barely containing myself.
She hesitates. “I have the one Remy used for this place, but he didn’t exactly give a glowing endorsement.”
“I don’t care. Call them. Let’s go see the amazing house.”
Meg winces. “To even look at it, you’re probably going to need to pass a credit check.”
“I’ve never touched my settlement,” I say quickly. “My accountant says it would actually be a smart investment.”
Her eyes widen. “Holy shit. Oh my god.”
She crosses the room and we do a brief, ridiculous bounce in place.
“Let me call her,” Meg says, already moving. She darts to Remy’s desk, opens the top drawer, and rummages until she finds a card.
She grins at me. “We’ll call on the way. If she can’t show it to us, we’ll find someone who will.”
We head out to my car so I can drive, only to find a flat tire. Meg barely pauses before jingling her keys.
“We’re taking mine.”
I drive while she makes the call.
As we move through town and into the neighborhood, we pass what has to be a Tulane University property, then Audubon Park with its meditation garden and sprawling live oaks.
I can already picture MD tearing across the grass, a ball clutched triumphantly in his mouth.
The thought eases something in me. For once, the future feels close enough to touch.
We turn onto St. Charles. The streetcar glides past. I give myself a small hug as I guide us farther in. I love this area.
At the entrance, the guard house looks more like a small cottage. The guard studies us for a moment, then waves us through.
Meg had already forwarded the packet from my accountant to the realtor. Between that and Remy’s name, she was happy to drop everything to meet us.
We pull in beside a Porsche Cayenne. Meg’s VW Beetle looks wildly out of place. We exchange a glance and climb out.
My phone buzzes, Unknown caller. I give a small huff and decline and turn my focus to the realtor.
An attractive woman with a warm, professional smile steps forward. “Hello. You must be Ms. Daye and Ms. Balleton. It’s lovely to meet you.”
I shoot Meg a questioning look and she just shrugs and mouths “explain later.”
We exchange pleasantries, though my eyes are already everywhere. Arches, clean lines, a perfectly manicured walkway and yard.
“Well,” she says, clasping her hands and tilting her head, “I’m sure you’ll want to see the inside. The home has been fully renovated.”
I stop listening the moment she opens the door.
It’s my home. I know it instantly.
Which is absurd, because the house is massive. It shouldn’t feel welcoming. It shouldn’t feel like it’s been waiting for me.
But it does.
“I want to see the kitchen, the sun porch, and the primary bedroom,” I say, then add, “and the pool house.”
Meg laughs. “Priorities.”