A rustling of papers offscreen. “And Allie is your real estate agent?”
“She said she could find me a great tiny house in the area. I’m not quite sure what I want yet, but?—”
“A yurt.” Irene was still perusing her tablet. “That type always goes for a yurt.”
“You don’t know that.” He gestured to the monitor. “She might choose a cabin in a forest where she can hug trees whenever she wants. Or a converted train car that she’ll paint with peace symbols and decorate with tie-dyed scarves and posters of Jerry Garcia. There are lots of possibilities.”
“Mark my words. There are yurt people and non-yurt people, and trust me, kid, she’s a yurt person.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m actually older than you.”
“Maybe in years. Not in wisdom.”
Lucy Finch was still talking. “—room to store my massage table when I’m not using it, in case I see clients on the side. A bathroom big enough for those clients to change. If I have a loft, steps instead of a ladder, so my dog can?—”
Blah, blah, blah. Sweet smile and braless state notwithstanding, her story wouldn’t grab viewer attention, not enough for their ratings to draw even with their competitor’s tiny house show, and she didn’t seem like the type tobreak down or throw a fit on camera. Not good fodder for unscripted television.
He made a few more notes in the spreadsheet and prepared to reject yet another potential participant. Dammit, Irene had a point when it came to Mr. Silence of the Tiny House Lambs. Maybe they could conduct a poll during the episode about whether the man hunted wildlife or hapless tourists, and even add a few tips in a chyron about how to escape from backwoods cabins of horror.
Martha was wrapping up her questions. “Would you want to include a friend or significant other in your tiny house search?”
Poised to click to the next interview, his hand stilled on the mouse.
With that question, Ms. Finch’s whole demeanor had changed. Her smile spread to her eyes, which crinkled appealingly behind her glasses. Her thumb slowed its circles, then stopped altogether. Her shoulders lowered, and she sat back in her chair.
“If you chose me as a participant, my friend Sebastián Castillo would accompany me.” She laughed, the sound warm and low. “Much to his dismay.”
“He doesn’t want to help you?” Martha’s voice had sharpened, but not with impatience. With interest, as she sensed the same shift Cowan had.
“He likes to keep a low profile. He’d rather break a limb than be on television.” She wrinkled her nose. “I felt terrible about asking him, but I need his support and input. I trust him more than anyone else I know. And when I offered to bother someone else, he said that wasn’t necessary.”
Beside Cowan, Irene had raised her head to watch Ms. Finch. “Huh.”
“How long have you and Sebastián known one another?” Martha asked.
“Since high school. His family moved from California to live closer to relatives in the D.C. area, and we became friends almost immediately. Even after graduation, we stayed in touch through letters and phone calls, and we saw each other whenever he came to visit his parents. When he moved back to Marysburg last year, we became close again.”
She’d set aside the object in her palm, placing it on a nearby table. A rock, he now saw. A worry stone. And as she talked about Sebastián, she gestured with both hands, her face lit with enthusiasm.
“Have you two ever dated?”
“No.” Ms. Finch paused, and her smile turned wistful. “No. Although I always wond—” She cut herself off. “No, we haven’t.”
“Would Mr. Castillo’s spouse object to his assisting you? Or a significant other of some sort?”
Clever Martha. Cutting to the heart of the matter in the guise of professional concern.
“He’s not dating anyone right now.” Ms. Finch bit her lip. “He broke up with his last girlfriend shortly after I moved to Marysburg.”
“I just bet he did.” Irene had shoved her tablet to one side and was drumming her fingers on the desk, as she always did when excited. “Cowan, switch to his interview.”
Lucy Finch’s brows had drawn together. “But I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. Our relationship has never been romantic in any?—”
Sebastián Castillo’s face replaced his longtime friend’s on the monitor.
Golden-brown skin. Black hair, short along the sides, longer and a bit choppy on top. Either dark brown or black eyes. Thick brows. Clean-shaven. A crisp button-down shirt, his tie slightly loosened and askew.
Unlike Ms. Finch, he didn’t bother to force a smile. Hewasn’t frowning, either, though. Instead, his face revealed nothing. No nervousness. No impatience. No emotion whatsoever. His expression was as smooth as Ms. Finch’s worry stone.
