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“Too modern.” I reached over to pinch the skin under her arm, and she kicked her leg out at me. Felicia giggled. “Who’s gonna clean all those windows, because it won’t be me.”
She sighed. “And the other one?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t love the layout.”
My sister hummed. “It reminded me of that house we lived in, oh ... what grade was I in? Maybe fifth?”
I grunted.
“Hated that house. I don’t even know why I sent it, because I’dneverwant to visit.”
“I just don’t know what I want.” I shifted on the chair.
Tansy gave me a curious stare.
“What?” I barked.
“Nothing,” she said lightly. “I’ll keep looking if you want me to.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll ... get to it eventually.”
Punctuating the space in my days between those things was my new, tentative truce with Charlotte.
A few times a day, her name would appear on my lock screen with some small update about the project.
Charlotte:I found a guy on the east side of the state who can make a spindle to match the one you broke! Aren’t you relieved?
Me:Tremendously.
Charlotte:Have you made a decision on the house yet?
Me:Nope.
Charlotte:Would it be helpful if I found some numbers on historical properties as income generators?
Me:Nope.
Charlotte:How do you feel about a high tea service?
Me:If I knew what that was, I might have a helpful opinion.
Charlotte:How do you feel about schmoozing with local politicians to find out more information about some historic preservation grant funds at the state level?
Me:Horrible. I’m not friendly enough to suck up to anyone.
Charlotte:Good point.
Charlotte:But! You’re an athlete. Aren’t people like you idolized or something?
Me:If we are, I think you missed that class in college.
Annoyance wasn’t my immediate response when I saw her name anymore. Neither was it the excitement my sister was trying to ascribe to it, but it wasn’t worth arguing with Tansy when she got an idea in her head.
My mistake, in hindsight, had been telling my little sister about Mack, the builder who almost got a crowbar to the face.
She was delighted to hear about my reaction, even though I reminded her—more than once—that it didn’t mean anything.
All it meant was that I hated bullies. I hated guys who thought they could treat women like that. It didn’t mean that the hot spike of protective anger was specific to Charlotte. Or that the idea of her feeling scared was unique in making me want to tear that guy’s face in half.
