Page 66 of The Lipstick Flip

Noah looked at me.

“We need some ice, Marty.”

That was enough for Marty to stare at me for several seconds before saying, “Why?” And then, as though I were stupider than he’d realized, “It’s cold outside.”

“To cool down the cider. If people want. A woman burned her mouth earlier.”

Noah’s eyebrows were drawn tight, but there was a hint of a smile too.

“Maybe you could pick up a couple of bottles of something stronger, too,” I said as I fished out my wallet. “In case anyone wants a real drink.”

“I told Noah you needed something besides cider.” When I held out the cash, Marty grabbed it and hurried off so fast he practically burned a hole in the floor.

“He’s going to score,” Noah said bleakly.

“Oh. Shit.”

“No, it’s fine. He was trying to find a reason already; he said his stomach hurt, and then he told me he needed to use the bathroom. He would have found a way to get out of here eventually.”

“Noah, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. Then he pointed. “That lady is trying to get upstairs.”

I hung there a moment longer, wondering if there was something else I should say, but when I threw a glance over my shoulder, the woman had already unhooked the garland barrier, so I hurried after her.

The night became a blur: conversations about the house, managing minor emergencies, making sure there was plenty of cider, checking in on Tracy as she played and sang and flirted with the younger men who came within range. It was more or less how I’d hoped the night would go. People really liked the house, and while I wasn’t crazy about answering the same questions over and over again—yes, it’s the original fucking floor; yes, the stained glass is original; yes, those are the original beams—it was hard not to feel…good about it all. About having done it, and having done all right. And yeah, I liked handing out the cards Noah had gotten me.

And in the little moments between those conversations, it was hard not to feel the ache in my gut because Si wasn’t there, and I wished she could have seen this.

Then, somehow, it was over. A handful of people lingered in the house, but the stream of visitors had dried up, and the street was empty and dark again. Jonathan came in, red-cheeked from the cold and looking way too proud of himself. Tracy had finished the flask; the Christmas songs were over, and she was singing “Memory” loud enough to scare every cat in a two-mile radius. Marty hadn’t come back.

“I want to buy it.” That was the first thing Jonathan said, while he was still stamping snow off his shoes.

“What do you mean you want to buy it?” Noah asked.

“I want to buy it. It’s a beautiful home. Howie did a great job on it. I want to buy it. Howie, how much do you want for it?”

I glanced at Noah. “You already bought it. You gave it to us for our wedding.”

“And now I want to buy it for me,” Jonathan said. “For us. For the family. Why should I keep renting an Airbnb? We could have a little vacation home here for whenever we come to visit.”

It was hard to tell from the look on Noah’s face if he was in shock or if he wanted to cry.

“You two can keep living in Noah’s condo until we find you something else,” Jonathan said.

“This is our house, Dad,” Noah said.

“Bah,” Jonathan said, waving a glove at Noah. He kept talking to me when he said, “This was an investment. This is your business. You did a fantastic job, Howie. Now, you need to cash in on that investment. You sell this house to me—at fair market value, obviously—and then you buy the next one. You do that same good work, and next time, you buy two houses. Howie, son, you’ve got valuable skills and a great opportunity here.”

“It’s our house,” I finally said. “Noah and I need to talk about it.”

Jonathan glanced at Noah as though he’d forgotten he was there. “Well, yes. Of course.”

“Thank you for the offer. That’s really generous of you.”

“I like to see talented, hard-working people get what they deserve. Now, where’s your mother?”

But he didn’t really seem to expect an answer, and he headed past us into the living room without waiting for a response.