break up with someone without
leaving the house.
“You missed half of your own party. In fact, you disappeared just when the fun stuff was going down,” Carla accused. “We painted glowing penises on Ms. Gilford’s car windows. And wroteFor a good time call, then left her number. Where did you go? Please tell me it was with the bartender.”
“I was not with the bartender.” Deciding that she was absolutely, positively not going to share the most humiliating moment of her life, Elsie pushed her Bluetooth deeper in her ear and said, “I was too busy arguing with the new owner of the house.”
“Wait, new owner? Who?”
“Nobody.”Liar.“Axel sold the house without even consulting me.”
“Can he even do that?” Carla asked through the phone.
“According to my lawyer, either of us had the power to sell, Axel just beat me to it.”
“Isn’t this a good thing? You need the money from the sale, now you get it earlier.”
“I wanted to finish this house first.” No, for her mental health sheneededto finish the house first. “After that I can think about closing escrow. But until it’s done?” She shook her head. “I need more time.”
“You can always countersue?”
“With what money? Axel leveraged this house to the eyeballs to pay off the LA house, which he got in the marriage.” Because he had put it in his parents’ name. He’d done a lot of sneaky shit like that. Like when he’d pitched Elsie the reason for taking out a second, stating that they had a better interest rate on the Greenhill house, it sounded so logical. But she should have dug deeper because her ex was so dynamic, he could sell a blind man a Picasso.
In fact, the only thing in this crappy situation that made her grin was that Rhett had paid well over market. Not that she’d walk away a millionaire, even though they’d fetched seven figures for the house.
“He sold me on the biggest financial mistake of my life and I happily signed. Lesson learned.”
As it was, she’d walk away with just enough money to make the down payment on her bungalow and reboot her career. She might have had to walk away from her fledgling design business in LA, but she was going to give it another go. Even if that meant being a glorified interior decorator as a stepping stone toward her real dream of becoming an award-winning interior architect. Which was why she’d agreed to meet with a prospective client just that morning.
It didn’t pay much, and it was more decorator than designer, but it would give her a reference, plus some photos for her portfolio.
“Look, I gotta go. I’m meeting Harriet for dinner.”
“That should be fun,” Carla said. “Tell your mom I say hi.”
Elsie pulled into her grandma’s driveway, relieved to see only her grandmother’s 1969 VW Bug with Mother Earth painted on the hood. “No life coach Mercedes in sight, so I should be good.”
“Love you,” Carla said, and rung off. Elsie checked herself out in the rearview mirror and groaned. She looked stressed. Resigned.
Like she’d been mainlining martinis all night.
With a deep breath, she popped in a breath mint, slapped on some lip gloss, then flashed a bright smile. A smile that was one-hundred-percent bullshit.
Elsie’s ability to BS was right up there with the best BSers. It was a talent she’d learned the first birthday her dad had missed. From there it had become habit. And tonight her BS needed to be on point.
She wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough year. Harriet’s boyfriend of five years had passed away. So when she’d asked Elsie to dinner, even though Elsie wanted to decline due to a hangover, she’d given a sunny yes. Now it was time to hone in on the brightness again and infuse it into her smile.
Harriet Whitmore lived in a two-bedroom cottage across the Columbia River on the outskirts of Vancouver, Washington, in a cozy, tree-lined neighborhood where the houses were made from brick, the fences picket, and the residents went three generations deep. It was a typical charming and cozy suburbia, and a place Elsie hoped never to return.
At least not for more than a visit because there was nothing typical or suburban in the house Elsie had grown up in. Behind that bright red door was a clash of the Titans.
After semi-retiring from her job as a doula and parent-whisperer—who believed in composting, going organic, and Willie Nelson—Elsie’s grandmother started moonlighting as a wedding DJ. She’d traded in her scrubs for Skechers and put blue streaks in her silver hair. On the other hand, Elsie’s mom, Faye, was a celebrity life coach who believed in poise, personal growth, and the power of positive thinking.
Elsie believed her family was nuts. Where most kids came home to warm cookies and milk, Elsie’s afterschool snack was prune and pecan bars with a cold glass of hemp juice to wash it down. Her clothes were eco-friendly, her hair boardroom barracuda, and her home was a unique mix of self-help quotes and astrological insight.
Elsie trudged up the walkway, stepping over the overgrown tomato garden that had taken on a resemblance to the jungles of the Amazon. Even the hot July sun wasn’t a match for Harriet’s green thumb.
Before Elsie could knock, the door magically opened right as she hit the landing.
