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It’s endearing the way he tells it, and every parent can relate. He’s good at faking the self-deprecation thing, and while I surely hadn’t felt this way last night, my heart swells with a sense of pride. Greg had been completely collected. He was terrified, I could tell, but on the outside it never showed. I cannot say the same for myself.
“And your neighbor found her, right?”
My husband glances over at me. “Well, Amy practically put out their house fire yesterday with her bare hands, so I guess you could say it was fair play.”
“That guy is so weird,” Dana says. “You were lucky.”
Greg offers only a slight nod. He dissipates the conversation, directing the attention away from himself as effortlessly as he’d gained it. It’s strange watching him mingle with the Meyers and their friends, with other people from the real estate world. Plus, many of our neighbors.
My husband can hold his own. But he’ll always be more software developer than extrovert. He’s quiet and unassuming, which only adds to his mystery. The same mystery is often confused with arrogance, but he gets away with it on account of his looks—he’s a JFK Jr. doppelgänger. I know how enticing that boyish grin can be. It doesn’t hurt that he has the brains to match, or that he’s well-traveled and well-bred. How I got lucky enough to rope him in is anybody’s guess.
It’s not that I’m unattractive. I always sort of just imagined that a man like Greg would want something more. Someone also well-traveled and well-bred. Someone who didn’t bring him down a notch or two. Dana would say it’s harmful to think that way. But even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t stop others from thinking it. I see it in the way people look at us, trying to work out whether we’re together. Their stolen sideway glances easily reveal the truth.
“That husband of yours,” Dana says, slinging her arm around my shoulder. “He’s such a character.”
“That he is.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “It’s almost time to eat.”
Trevor has his famous ribs on the grill, and chicken, and a turkey in the fryer, pretty much every kind of meat a person could want. The rest of the meal is catered. Not that you’d know it. Everything has been meticulously arranged to look as though it were homemade, although Dana doesn’t pretend. She wants people to know she can afford a caterer, but also that she appreciates presentation.
Dana can only find her way around a kitchen so far as to sell it to you. But it’s this that makes her relatable, knowing that underneath her tough, capable exterior there are flaws she hides, just like the rest of us.
Although it’s hard to know what to feel about her currently. The Clairmont house did receive an offer, and it was a good one. The extra money will certainly help, and I am one step closer to making gold status. Still, her reaction to my situation last night wasn’t what I expected.
My falling apart was superseded by her lies about the security cameras and then by my request to have two agents attend future open houses. The suggestion was met with a level of harshness I hadn’t seen coming. She said I was overreacting, and that she hates agents who bring personal drama to their jobs. She said it has the power to infect entire teams. She’s “seen it happen.”
I didn’t know what to say. When I texted Greg from the booth, he only asked what I had expected. I didn’t have an answer. He wrote back asking if the quarrel would mean we could sit this barbecue out. We couldn’t, I’d said, and really it was just to spite them both.
Then Blair went missing, and neither of us could deny it was my fault. If I hadn’t been texting over petty bullshit that could easily have waited, Greg wouldn’t have been distracted. That’s why we have rules.
Nerves or avoidance or the like draws me to the kitchen. It could use a bit of tidying up, and I could use something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Anything to keep me from thinking about Jack Mooney, or my missing dog, or the fact that I lost my child. Once I’ve cleared empty plates from the countertop and wiped them down, I realize the trash is full. I almost leave it. But then, I find myself on autopilot, pulling the bag, walking around the side of the house, and tossing it into the bin. As I close the lid, I am struck by laughter coming from the other side of the fence. Dana’s laughter. We haven’t spoken, other than just the once, which isn’t like her. I am her favorite sounding board. Maybe she’s avoiding me. Maybe I’m avoiding her. Maybe it’s a little of both, and maybe that’s why I’m helping to clean, trying to make myself useful. Dusting my hands off, I turn to go in search of Greg. Then I hear my name.
“It’s crazy, I know,” Dana sighs. “But then I’ve seen some things you wouldn’t believe in my eighteen years in the field.”
I can’t see them, not unless I strain and peek through the fence, but I can easily imagine the women she’s standing with. I know who’s leaning in, who’s hoping to glean some of her wisdom, and who’s standing back.
“I mean… how cliché. A stalker.”
“Well, you never know,” a voice says. Emma. “I’ve heard of stranger things.”
No one says anything for several beats.
“She probably just likes the attention.” Sarah. “I’ve heard a lot of women do that. Lie for the attention of it all.”
“I wouldn’t say she was lying,” Dana quips. “Just confused.”
“Yeah, why would a guy from a million years ago show up here?”
“She’s not even from here, anyway.”
“Nothing ever happens in Sunset Canyon.”
“Poor thing—” Sarah laughs. “Imagine being so desperate you’d make up having a stalker.”
