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“Elizabeth!” Marg Sorenson called down to her from the second floor causing Elizabeth to jump. “Come up here a moment.”
She trudged up the right-hand stairway and met Marg and Buddy in the master bedroom, one of six. A chandelier hanging over the bed and built in cabinetry was fashioned in a baroque style that s
eemed ill-suited to the rest of the beautifully appointed house. In fact, so much carved woodwork and inlaid silver filigree took the eye away from the cathedral ceiling and massive windows with their view north, up the coastline.
“Don’t you love this?” Marg asked.
“The view is spectacular,” Elizabeth said.
“The cabinets, my dear. Is there any way to dome this room?”
“Dome it?”
“Christ, woman, you’d have to change the roof line,” Buddy grumbled. “Do you know how much that would cost?”
“You just don’t know design,” Marg sniffed.
Elizabeth said, “You’d really need to talk to an architect about that.”
“We’re not going to goddamn dome it,” Buddy growled, stalking out of the room.
“You see what he’s like?” Marg said on a huge sigh.
“Maybe this isn’t the right property for you,” Elizabeth suggested.
Marg’s face clouded. “Half the time I think you’re trying to talk me out of things. Maybe we should go back to that one with the little elves.”
Elizabeth kept her expression neutral. One of the houses she’d inherited with Mazie’s client list was a two-story, near-mansion Tudor right on the ocean with massive grounds and a portico. Mrs. Stafford, co-owner of the property with her husband, was an aficionado of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, apparently, because she’d made a crèche on the edge of the lawn populated with Hobbits and other Tolkien creatures. Though both Mazie and Elizabeth had suggested the display be removed while the house was for sale, Mrs. Stafford had stamped down her Ferragamo heel on the idea, so the crèche remained . . . and had been dubbed by the agents at Suncrest Realty as “Staffordshire.” Marg had liked the house and ignored the tableau, and Buddy had made comments about the owners’ state of mental health, so, of course, they’d submitted no offer. To date Staffordshire remained unsold. As the Staffords themselves were currently touring Europe, Elizabeth tried to swing by and make sure everything was secure and locked up tight as often as she could, and now she made a mental note to add that to her to-do list, although the way things were going she could be showing it to Marg and Buddy again very soon.
Marg and Buddy sniped at each other the rest of the time and Elizabeth was relieved when she could take them back to the office and herd them to their own vehicle. She could feel her tense shoulders relax as they climbed into their Lexus and she waved good-bye.
“How’d it go?” Pat asked brightly as Elizabeth pushed open the glass door to Suncrest Realty.
“Better than expected.” She wasn’t about to give anything away to the blabbermouth receptionist. Pat, blond and efficient and a fashionista who always dressed to the nines, tens, and beyond seemed to consider it part of her job to spread gossip along with sorting the mail, taking phone calls, and dealing with walk-in clients.
“Did they choose a house?” Pat asked, elbows on the reception desk, hands clasped. “Marg and Buddy? Did you find them one?”
“Still narrowing down the list.” Elizabeth walked away from her as quickly as possible and into Mazie’s office, actually her office if she wanted it, but she’d spent most of her time sharing cubicles in the large room at the end of the hall and hadn’t quite changed her habits yet. She picked up a couple files, then headed to the cubicles, feeling more comfortable in one of the squeaky office chairs rather than the supple leather one Mazie had special-ordered.
Plucking her cell phone from her purse, she checked her messages and found one from Vivian asking her and Chloe to come over for dinner that night. Elizabeth smiled faintly, touched. Her friends had been rallying around her this week and though Chloe struggled to get along with Vivian’s daughter Lissa, she called Vivian back and accepted the offer. “What can I bring?”
“Just yourself. So glad you’re coming! I’ve ordered from Gina’s and we’ll get the kids pizza, too. I invited a few other people, too.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth’s heart sank at the thought of a crowd.
“Just some of our group,” Vivian said breezily, “and Bill will be here, of course. See you at six?”
“Six . . . sure. Thanks.”
Bill was Vivian’s husband. Tall and athletic, a golfer with salt-and-pepper hair he kept clipped short, Bill had been to a couple events at the preschool. Elizabeth didn’t know him very well, but then when their group got together it was mainly just the women. She wasn’t sure she was up for a big dinner party, but she’d already committed and really didn’t know how to say no.
She worked for several hours in relative quiet. When she’d finished a couple phone calls and e-mails, setting up appointments for later in the week, she headed outside again.
Of course, Pat was lying in wait, eager to ask her more questions about her clients and their personal lives. Elizabeth murmured something about being late and hurried out the door even though she sensed Pat’s seething resentment. For what? Not gossiping with her? Not hanging out with her? Not sharing information about other Realtors and clients? As she walked to her SUV, she felt Pat’s gaze boring into the back of her head and a glance over her shoulder confirmed the sensation as Pat, cell phone to her ear, was glowering through the window.
Get a life, Elizabeth thought and wondered who the receptionist was talking to. Not that it mattered. She slid inside the warm interior, slipped a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of her nose and switched on the Escape’s engine.
She thought about Pat as she drove home. And though she switched on the radio, she didn’t hear the music and drove through the familiar streets by rote. The receptionist’s nosiness irked Elizabeth, and she told herself that next time she would use her key to enter through the back door off the alley, just to avoid her and all those prying questions. If only someone else had Pat’s job. Someone less . . . annoying. But there was probably no way Pat would resign. She loved her position at the company too much.
