“Fine.”
“Anything new in the river dumping case?”
“No.”
Even on a Monday, the restaurant is nearly full. The whole bar and a long communal table up front are occupied by happy-hour holdovers. I’ve tried more than once to convince the owners here to sign with Buzz, but they’re probably right that they don’t need any help with publicity. There’s a couple vacating a table toward the back, so I hastily pull Ian behind me to claim it. He discards my hand as soon as we get close.
He didn’t come home from Pittsburgh until Saturday morning. Then I took Fritter on a hike along the Potomac that afternoon since Natalie had a day shift and I needed to clear my head. Ian spent Sunday at the Nats game with work friends. Somehow, we’ve managed to successfully avoid a real conversation since last week’s disaster, which was fine with me because I was still figuring out what I wanted to say. But now I’m ready to explain the other possibility I’ve been working on, and a public venue makes for safer territory than the apartment.
“So, I broke up with Ginny today,” I say, after the server sets down our cocktails and we’ve both finished ordering food through the QR code on the table.
“What?” He looks up from his phone, no longer able to ignore me. “Why would you do that?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking—and please just hear me out for a minute—I think we should still make an offer on the house, and obviously we can’t use Ginny for that.”
He throws his head back in exasperation. I knew he’d react like this, but I just need to keep him from walking out.
“Listen to me, Ian. There has to be a way to do it anonymously, right? People buy houses with LLCs all the time—that stands for ‘limited liability corporation.’ You can use them to hide your identity.”
“Yeah, I know what an LLC is.”
“Well, the rules about them are different everywhere, but it looks like you can set one up pretty easily in DC, right online—it only takes a few days. Or, another option could be designating our new agent as a trustee who could sign the paperwork for us. Have you heard of those, too? It seems like either way might work, but I was hoping you could help sort out the details, since you’re the lawyer.”
He sighs and crosses his arms. “Margo, I’m worried about you.”
So, Condescending Ian has arrived.
He leans forward, his gaze flitting to the table next to us to make sure they’re not eavesdropping. “This is not normal behavior,” he whispers. “You must know that.”
I resist rolling my eyes and remind myself that I need his help.
“Babe, I know it sounds like a lot of extra trouble. But haven’t you noticed that not a single decent house in our price range has even come on the market in the last two months? It’s not like we’re drowning in options. And if we get started tomorrow, I think we can have the legalities of it all squared away by the time Jack and Curt list it next Thursday. They probably won’t even take offers until after the weekend, which gives us even more time.” I pause for a sip of my daiquiri. “I thought we might ask Erika and Heath to refer us to their agent.”
Ian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is this what you worked on all day, sitting there in your robe, in the dark?”
No, honey, I researched this yesterday. Today, I combed through court records looking for blackmail material, just to cover all our bases.
“Notallday,” I say placidly.
“All right, let’s put aside the fact that there are many,manylegal and financial reasons this would never work, and walk through the hypothetical.” He swallows the rest of his negroni. “We submit this brilliant, anonymous offer, and then what? You think after everything we put those guys through, Jack and Curt are just going tolook at it and say, ‘Oh, gee, nothing weird about this! We’ll just consider it right along with the other nineteen bids in the pile’?”
“Oh, well, that’s another thing—I don’t think they’re going to get nineteen bids, Ian. Did you see the news about rates today? They’re past five percent! That has to cut down on the competition, don’t you think?”
He buries his face in his hands, just as the server arrives with our food. She sets down Ian’s burger and my fish, then starts to ask if we need anything else, but upon assessing the scene opts to flee instead.
When Ian lifts his face, his eyes are wet. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad sign.
“I blame myself. I think I’ve really failed you.”
I tilt my head. Is he apologizing? He’s usually much easier to read than this.
“I never should’ve agreed to go to that dinner with you. I knew we were crossing a line, and I still let it happen. I should’ve seen that you were struggling and stepped in.”
Okay, so these are bad tears, then. I need to course-correct.
I smile and rest my hand on his. “Ian, I’m fine. I am not struggling. Forget I said anything. Let’s just enjoy our dinner.”
He takes my hand in both of his and kisses it. I feel myself flush. Public affection has never been easy for me.
