Chapter 2 #2
Penelope picks up her treatment folder and cup of tea and rises from the chair. Before she passes me, she pauses. “I hope you find what you need while you’re here, Meredith.”
I need an investment property, not a bad dancing partner who just happens to have a kind heart, killer-watt smile, and plays a Greek demigod on the big screen, I want to assure her.
And myself.
Instead, I offer a smile. “Thank you. Enjoy your well-earned massage.”
With their departure, I’m left alone in the room, and I’m conflicted. Since she didn’t throw me into the fire, talking to the tiger a little while longer might have been enjoyable.
While replaying the conversation in my head, it occurs to me I’ve lost my own treatment folder.
Paperwork representing health inventories, therapy needs, and personal schedules are tucked away in brown padded folders for each patron to hand to the staff member in charge of their care. I need to track mine down.
I exit the women’s-only section, trace my oafish steps back to the Mountain View Room, and, upon arrival, am relieved the exuberant women are now gone. Scanning the lounges, I spot the lost item. As I approach, my shoes announce my presence with their intrusive flip-flopping.
Without looking up, I address the person in the chair as I lean down to snatch my abandoned folder off the neighboring table. “Sorry, I’m just going to grab this.”
“Shh. Do you mind?” The voice of the chair’s occupant sounds familiar, and I glimpse down. And stop breathing.
A grinning Harlan Holcombe continues. “This is the quiet room, and those shoes could start a stampede.”
Oh my word. My face burns as my hand travels to lightly touch the disastrous hair-don’t on my head. Trying to save my pride, I stand tall. “You know what could start a stampede? Your dancing.”
An unrepentant, slow smile crosses his face. “I must have made a real impression on you for you to remember the dances we shared.”
I blink. No words. Just blinking. In what world is Harlan Holcombe flirting with me twice inside of twenty-four hours?
My flirting is like my first flip phone now housed at the back of my kitchen drawer.
Wow, even if it wasn’t cool, it felt cool back in the day.
But it needs a total reboot, and I’m not sure any amount of updates could make that old technology work in today’s world.
Certainly not on the Harlan Holcombe megawatt-smile data plan.
Which is why, after the brilliance of my blinking, I finally say, “We danced. Last night. Yes.”
I thought he would make fun of me. I would have made fun of me. But instead his eyes soften, a really good look on him, and he motions to the chaise lounge next to him. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Oh.” I straighten the tie on my robe, as if speaking to a celebrity dressed in a robe while I’m also wearing a robe is a normal, everyday thing for me. There’s no excuse for me to leave. Nowhere I need to be. If I say no, what does that look like? “Oh, um. Okay.”
I sit in the chaise, staring out at the golf course, my back ramrod straight, my knees locked as if an Olympic judge is going to give me a score for my form.
In the silence, Harlan is so loud.
A chuckle sounds from him. “Meredith?”
“Yes,” I tell the fourth hole on the green.
“I don’t feel like you’re relaxed.”
“Of course I’m relaxed. This room is my happy place.”
“Have you already shopped properties with Prissy this morning?”
“No. We’ll go this afternoon,” I say, proud of my brain for coming up with a complete response this time.
“She’s trustworthy.” His tone fills with sincerity. “She doesn’t want you to buy something you don’t want. So if you have thoughts about the process, it will work well for you if you’re completely up-front with her on what you need and want.”
His sincerity touches me. He’s still an interplanetary movie star who saves children in his spare time, but his sincerity touches me all the same.
“And what are you treating yourself to here at the spa this morning?” he asks.
“A massage.”
“Going to try to relax before Prissy runs you around?”
And then a flicker of courage hits me. I don’t know where it came from. It’s like my flirting flip phone got charged for a few minutes and is ready to talk. I kick my lips up in a half smile and look at him. “I’m getting the massage to recover from your smooth moves on the dance floor last night.”
Something sparks in his eyes, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Is that so?”
“I called downstairs to ask for their recommendation, and when I described my sore muscles, they suggested the extra-long appointment with the hot rocks.”
He cocks his head and says in all seriousness, but with a glint in his eye, “I think maybe that means we need to practice more.”
“I—I—um . . .” Mayday. Mayday. The flip phone has failed. Step away from the conversation. I repeat: Step away from the conversation. The flip phone has cosmically failed. “I can’t dance in a robe.”
My skin is on fire.
“Meredith.” He does that thing again where his eyes soften, but this time they’re filled with amusement and . . . affection? “Are you okay?”
My flirting flip phone shorts out completely, and my flustered self blurts, “I need to go find my happy place.” I suck in a breath, stand, and turn on my heel to leave.
Only to have the most beautiful, deep laughter follow me out of the room.
“I don’t think I want a golf course in my backyard.” Looking out the bay window of a Broadmoor West Residence condo, my arms crossed, I stare at color that would make the fields of Ireland jealous.
My first property viewing is a mirror to my life.
It’s fine. It just doesn’t feel quite right.
“Colorado’s Front Range is behind the golf course.” The ultimate businesswoman, my realtor makes this obvious statement without an insulting tone.
“I know,” I say. “But it feels a little manufactured.”
“People pay significant amounts for this view.”
“Yes.” Turning to her, I nod. “But I bet they actually play golf.”
At this point, I consider joking that I am the problem client, but I’m afraid the statement might hold some truth.
Besides, Prissy Prestidge is too professional to appreciate that kind of comment. She epitomizes efficiency. My guess is her assessing gaze means the cogwheels in her brain are calculating how to find my dream property.
She offers a curt nod. “Of course. This isn’t right for you. Let’s drive to the next option.”
Prissy’s deceiving name is her first line of defense. Her reputation as a bulldog real estate negotiator is legendary. But at this moment in time, I covet her ability to wear a suit. How can someone look so fabulous in what I consider the dress code for the FBI?
I need to rethink my entire wardrobe. In spite of the pashmina I added to spruce up my outfit, the pink cashmere sweater and black NYDJ ankle-length pants don’t hold a candle to Prissy. I’m underdressed to be a passenger in her car.
After we meander through Colorado Springs for viewings at three other Broadmoor estates, the final one we hit is perfect.
In theory.
Leaning against the marble countertop in the state-of-the-art kitchen, I imagine cooking in front of the island’s six-burner stove and gazing across the open floor plan to my extended family seated in a giant, comfy sectional framed around the tall stone fireplace.
Prissy’s high heels click on the textured, wide-plank hardwood floors. She reaches the custom windows and pulls the curtains to capacity, exposing the full glory of the mountains. “What do you like about this house?”
I cross the room to the hearth. “This wall of ledgestone is inviting. You can come home, throw your jacket on the back of the couch, and take a load off. Whereas the fabric-covered walls in the last house wouldn’t allow you to relax.” Twisting my torso, I glimpse back at her.
Her eyes narrow. “What do you dislike about this home?”
“I’m torn. I loved the brownstone because of the location and access to hotel amenities.” I clear my throat. “However, farther out from the city, the properties have more character.”
Click, clack, click, clack. Prissy stands by my side, looking at the mantel. “What else?”
“Why do you think I have a ‘what else’?”
“In my experience, a lot of clients bury the lede. Our initial appointment is helpful, but new information reveals itself after the third or fourth showing.”
She’s good.
But I don’t know how to answer her question. I don’t know how to define it. This is a wonderful home, but it isn’t the one.
“I came here because I wanted a getaway home for my friends and family.” I pause, trying to decide if I want to say what’s really on my heart. I swallow. “But sometimes I wonder if there’s more out here for me.”
In a surprisingly affectionate move, she grasps my hand. “What do you mean?” Her words gentle. “Is there more here for you?”
“Listen, I know what I’m about to say next are not a realtor’s favorite words, but I don’t know what I want. A vacation home has its appeals. A permanent move for me is a more loaded decision. I just . . .” I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“No, Meredith.” She shakes my hand and slows her words. “What did you mean when you said that you wonder if there is more out here for you?”
The memo.
During last night’s restaurant fiasco, Molly admitted the memo had been delivered to my realtor. Prissy knows my history.
But it’s more. Her sixth sense for selling properties seems to be fueled by her spot-on intuition.
My gaze remains on the stone as my voice hitches when I whisper my answer.
“He left me an obscene amount of money, Prissy. We took out huge, cheap life insurance policies in our early twenties. His original policy provided enough for me to fall apart in the event of his death, but still be financially secure and able to care for any children we might have. My losing everyone never occurred to us. And after the funeral, our lawyer told me about additional insurance Steve bought, unbeknownst to me.” I swipe tears away with my free hand.
“It’s so much money for one person. I think I’m supposed to do something with it. ”
Her thumb sweeps over the back of my hand in comfort.
“Or maybe the money is supposed to do something with me,” I whisper.
I lack courage to ask Prissy the question that started burning in my heart a few weeks ago. Is it possible there’s still something left for me in this life?
We turn our heads toward each other, and our eyes lock. She nods, purses her lips, releases her hold on me, and walks away to close up the house.
I gather my purse, take out some Kleenex, and pull myself together.
She may be supportive, but that doesn’t mean I want to cry all over her gorgeous suit.
Prissy’s sleek black Mercedes SUV defines first-world comfort.
I’m so enthralled with the individual seat controls, I’m giddy.
Sleek buttons marked with colorful symbols cause my fingers to twitch.
I glance to the heated steering wheel. Would Prissy slap my hand away if I leaned over to touch the warm leather?
“Meredith? Would you be comfortable in a property farther away from town?” Prissy asks.
“I think so.” I punch an arrow indicating it will increase my seat temperature. “I like the amenity packages some of the Broadmoor estates offered, but the advantages may not outweigh a different kind of property.”
“Priscilla.” A soothing male voice from the car speakers interrupts our conversation, and every muscle in me freezes. The voice continues, “You are driving over the speed limit.”
“Stop nagging at me, Derrick,” Prissy snaps, then gnashes her teeth.
Two questions. Is that her car’s name? And can it hear her?
“My husband bought this car for me because it can monitor my speed.” She presses a button, muting the disembodied voice. “But instead of decreasing my traffic tickets, I now suffer from road rage.”
I’m so surprised that I can’t mask my response. I throw my head back and laugh. If I’m not mistaken, a smile tugs at Prissy’s cheek.
She leaves both thumbs on the wheel while stretching her fingers out, revealing an impeccable manicure. “Meredith, did something unpleasant occur at the hotel?”
“Yes. Harlan Holcombe danced with me in the Penrose Room.” The answer blurts out before the words register in my brain.
Her heavily made-up eyes slide in my direction, pause for a second, and return to the road. “Some would consider meeting a celebrity a perk of sorts.”
“Well, those who don’t make a habit of hyperventilating around famous people probably would call it a perk.”
She laughs, and her silver, football-shaped hair shifts back and forth in one unified movement. “Did you also have a moment at the spa with said celebrity?”
“What? No. There was no moment in the spa. Why would you ask if there was a moment in the spa?” Heat crawls up my neck, and I paw around my seat, looking for the temperature controls.
“No reason.” She looks over at the oncoming cars. “Only that Harlan texted me from the spa informing me to take good care of you today during our viewings.”
This time, instead of the heat crawling up my neck, it seeps into my chest. Or maybe it’s just warmth. That was kind of him to text on my behalf. Maybe even sweet. “What did you say?”
“I told him he knows better than to discuss privileged client information and that he needs to mind his own business and go have lunch with his mama.”
We approach the stately circular drive at the hotel, and she delivers a stiff wave to the gate guard. At the doors to the hotel, she shifts the car into park. While we wait for the valet, she turns to me. “I need to do some research about another property. Is your schedule open tomorrow?”
“Does your plan involve any famous people?”
She pauses. “Not at the moment.”
I flash a smile. “Then I’m game.”