A Family Affair (14 page)

Dinner was a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. Then she was back on her laptop, taking virtual tours of Princeton. She did a Google Earth search to see exactly where her sister was living. She winced as she hit one link after another to gain more information. Then she did the Google Earth search again to see Jeff Davis’s new house, which he lived in with his trophy wife and her sister’s daughter, her niece. She whistled to herself at what she was seeing. Compared to where Jeff lived, her sister was living in the ghetto.

“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Trish murmured under her breath.

She wished she was more computer savvy. She knew she was wasting time, but she kept at it, and finally she actually hit on a public record site that told her who held Jeff Davis’s mortgage. She whistled again. A five-million-dollar house with yearly taxes that could feed a family of six, according to the Realtor he’d purchased the house from. He had a sky-high mortgage. He’d bought the house at the high-tide mark in real-estate prices, and the house’s value was now depressed by 47 percent. The house was in a gated community called Bar Haven. It was precisely 8.6 miles from the ghetto where Emma lived.

Trish kept clicking and clicking, going from one site to the other until she found what she thought she wanted. Once again, she took a virtual tour of a gated community, Bar Haven’s competitor, called the Enclave. The houses in the tour were McMansions, gorgeous, with four models that were fully furnished with top-of-the-line everything. The Enclave builders had been wise and had stopped building just as the economy took a nosedive. Not so Bar Haven’s, who had finally had to stop their phase two section thanks to a lack of bank funding. The pictures she was viewing looked like a war zone.

Trish went to another site and clicked again as the virtual scene moved up one street and down another. Huge, bright red
FOR SALE
signs could be seen on just about every other house. On Jeff Davis’s street alone, there were seven
FOR SALE
signs. Rich on paper only. All the more reason to get Jeff’s financials.

Trish looked at the clock on the range and sighed. Twelve thirty! She shut down her laptop, warmed a glass of milk, shot the dead bolt on the front door, and went upstairs. Before she put on her nightclothes, she packed a small bag and carried it out to the foyer. All she had to do in the morning was roll out of bed, shower, grab a cup of coffee, and head for the airport.

No dreams invaded her peaceful night’s sleep.

T
RISH’S FLIGHT FROM
L
AS
V
EGAS TOUCHED DOWN IN
N
EWARK
, New Jersey, at a little past noon eastern standard time. She proceeded to rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle and was on Route 1 within thirty minutes for the drive to Princeton. The sky was overcast, the color of gunmetal. From time to time, she saw snow flurries and had to turn on her windshield wipers. At least for the moment, there was no accumulation of snow.

Caught up in her own thoughts, as well as the reasons for being where she was at the moment, Trish paid little attention to the changes in the area since she’d lived there as a teenager. She was hopeful she could do everything she planned in the three days she’d allotted herself in her old home state.

Trish registered at the Hyatt Regency, using her birth name, because she still had a credit card and her American driver’s license in the name of Patricia Holiday. For some reason, she hadn’t wanted to give up those things. Just then, she couldn’t even remember if she’d told that to Malik or not. She opted for a suite of rooms when she checked in because of late she did a lot of pacing. She carried her own small bag to her suite, checked it out, washed her face and hands, brushed her teeth and her hair, and felt like she was good to go. Before heading out, though, she opened a can of juice from the minibar and gulped it down.

Her car was still parked at the hotel’s entrance, so she was off within minutes. Her first destination was the gated community where Jeff Davis lived. She explained to the guard that she was meeting a Realtor at Jeff’s address. He nodded lazily and let her drive through. She drove up and down the streets, stunned at the
FOR SALE
signs she was seeing. She found Jeff’s house with no trouble at all. A devil perched itself on her shoulder as she pulled into her former brother-in-law’s driveway. She marched up to the front door and rang the bell. She waited a minute and then rang it again. Finally, the door opened to reveal an incredibly tall, thin woman dressed from head to toe in designer wear. She was wearing so much makeup, Trish thought she’d need to go through a car wash to get it off.

“Hi. I’m Eileen Wilkerson. I’m a Realtor, and I heard through the grapevine that you and your husband are considering putting your house up for sale. I’d like to offer my services. I know how trying these times are for all of you living out here in all this luxury, and then, in a heartbeat, it’s all taken away. Who knew this property, which you probably love, would be down forty-seven percent in only a few years? Everyone is underwater. Goodness, there are seven houses for sale on this street alone. And I heard another one is going on the market tomorrow. You have to have something outstanding to beat out the others. So, are you interested in listing with me?” Trisha said brightly. If this skin-and-bones person standing in front of her was twenty-six years old, she was old.

“I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about. My husband and I aren’t selling our house. Who told you that?”

“One of your neighbors. I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge his name, but my understanding is that he is a friend of your husband’s. He said—and I probably shouldn’t even tell you this, but you seem like a nice person, and sometimes husbands don’t tell their wives everything—but he confided that money was in very short supply because of this perilous economy.” Trish almost danced a jig at the look of panic on Jeff’s trophy wife’s face.

“Well, that just stinks,” the woman said. “Neighbors gossiping like that. Jeff will be terribly upset. It’s not true. I will admit that it’s very sad seeing all those empty houses on the street. There’s never anyone around. Look, it’s cold, and we’re not selling our house, so there’s nothing more to say.”

“Okay,” Trish said happily. “I understand you don’t want to talk about it. I’ll come back in a week or so, and maybe you’ll be more amenable to talking then. You know, after you speak with your husband. Now, here’s a little tip, and I don’t usually tell people things like this unless they’re clients, but you look so . . . worried, I’m going to tell you. This place is sinking. No one wants to live here anymore.

The place to go is the Enclave. They’re
solvent.
Right now, you can buy a five-million-dollar house for practically nothing. You have a nice day now, Mrs. Davis. I’m sure we’ll be talking soon.”

If Trish hadn’t already been half turned around, the heavy mahogany door would have slammed her in the face. She laughed all the way back to her car. She was still laughing when she drove up to the gate of the Enclave, thanks to her GPS. She told the guard she was interested in one of the houses and was meeting a Realtor at the office. He waved her through without a problem.

Trish consulted the map she’d printed off the Web site, and drove around till she found the street named Nightstar Lane, where there were four model homes on display. She liked the fact that the four homes were on a cul-de-sac, the lots were heavily treed, and the landscaping, even in the winter, was lush and full. She knew it would be beautiful in the spring. The builder, she could tell, had tried to save as many of the trees as he could.

Trish continued her drive around the Enclave. She saw only one
FOR SALE
sign. The clubhouse was absolutely gorgeous, from what she could see of it, and there were tons of cars in the parking lot, which meant the residents of the Enclave had it going on. She saw the two Olympic-size pools, the three tennis courts, and, off in the distance, a nine-hole golf course. She also saw a shuttle bus parked in the lot. She did one more drive around, then headed for the sales office.

A bored little man was sitting behind his desk, watching something on his computer, when Trish walked in and introduced herself. The man, who said his name was Dudley Enwright, shook her hand and motioned for her to take a seat. Directly in Trish’s line of vision was a giant map of the Enclave. Red
X
s marked the available properties, and there weren’t that many.

“I’m here to make your day, Mr. Enwright. I want to buy all four models, along with the furnishings. I’m prepared to pay cash within the hour. I can wire the money into your escrow account immediately if we can agree on a price. Are you interested? I don’t want you wasting your time. I can drive over to Bar Haven and pick up four houses for pennies on the dollar. I mean that literally. So, let’s start to negotiate.” This was where all she’d learned from Soraya, who had taught her how to haggle at the souks, came into play.

Enwright’s eyes popped wide. “Well . . . this is . . . extraordinary. I might have to call my boss. He’s the one who will have the final say. All four, eh?”

“Yes, all four. Call him now so we don’t waste time. I am in a hurry, and as I said, Bar Haven is not all that far from here. I can cut the same deal within minutes over there.”

Enwright made the call and said his boss was on the way. Negotiations that weren’t really negotiations got under way. Trish held firm at her price and didn’t budge. Twice, she got up and headed for the door. The second time her hand was on the handle when the door opened and the boss was standing in the doorway.

“Ten minutes, gentlemen, and I’m out of here.” The men left to go into a back room. Trish remained standing by the door, her eyes on her watch. “Always,” Soraya had said, “be prepared to walk away, and make sure your eyes reflect the decision.”

The two men were back in eight minutes. “We have a deal, Miss Holiday,” said Enwright.

Trish whipped out her laptop and tapped furiously the moment Enwright gave her the bank’s routing numbers. Everyone signed in fifty different places, and the deal was consummated.

“I know a lot more goes into this, but I really do not have the time to do it all. Emma Davis is the Realtor, and as such she will get the realty commission. The new tenants will be moving in tomorrow, so I will need the keys. All those pesky details can be cleared up with her. So, we’re good, gentlemen?”

The boss, whose name was Stanley Peabody, managed to croak, “We’re good, Miss Holiday.”

Enwright handed the keys to Trish, who dumped them in her purse. She was fifteen million dollars poorer, but she felt wonderful.

“I can see myself out, gentlemen. A pleasure doing business with you.”

In a daze, the two men watched Trish leave with only limp-wristed waves.

Back in her car, Trish headed to Route 1 and the Mercedes car dealership. She breezed in and within an hour purchased four Maybach top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz automobiles. A promise in writing of delivery by eight the following morning to each of her four driveways at the Enclave was all Trish needed to know another deal had been cut in stone. Once again she whipped out her laptop and typed furiously, transferring $2.5 million to the dealership coffers.

Trish was back on the road and headed for her sister’s apartment by four thirty.
Now,
she thought,
comes the hard part.
Convincing Emma and her three loyal friends that what she was doing for them was right and just. And a way to get even with the dirty scoundrels who had kicked them to the curb for trophy wives.

It was five thirty when Trish pulled into the parking area of the complex where her sister lived. It was so depressing, she wanted to turn around and run. And she didn’t know if Emma was even home. Not too long ago, Emma had said her hours were eight to five during the week, half a day Saturday, and half a day Sunday. And she’d said she didn’t live far from the office she worked out of. Trish found the unit building and crossed her fingers as she made her way through the parking lot to the apartment. It was fully dark by then, but she could see a light in the window. She let loose with a sigh and rang the bell at the side of the door. Within seconds, it was opened by her sister.

The two women stared at one another, and it was Trish who broke into tears. “I need you, Emma,” she said, at which point Emma also burst into tears.

The small apartment was stiflingly hot. It was as depressing as the outside. Trish knew she couldn’t stay here one minute longer. “This is what we’re going to do, Emma. Call your friends. Tell them to meet us at . . . whatever restaurant you want. I have such good news for you and your friends. Don’t give me any bullshit, either. Later, you can ream my ass out as much as you want, but right now this is about
you.
Are we clear on that?”

Emma nodded and made the calls. And then she directed Trish out to the parking lot and an Outback restaurant several miles down the road.

By six thirty, introductions had been made. Trish decided she liked her sister’s friends, and knew she hadn’t made a mistake by doing what she’d done. They all looked weary and beaten. Probably, they thought the same thing about her. They ordered drinks, and Trish made the toast.

“To your new lives!”

“I think you need to explain that, Trish,” Emma said quietly.

Trish explained. In excruciating detail. The women just gaped at her. Emma started to cry. Trish dug around in her purse and pulled out four sets of keys. She read the labels and handed them out. The girls’ hands shook so badly, they could barely pick up the keys. Clare Hart, a breast-cancer survivor, actually kissed the key, then started to cry. When Trish fished again in her purse for the extra sets of keys the dealer had given her for the Maybachs, Alice Gamble turned white and said she was driving a 1986 Ford with 250,000 miles on it. Robin Olsen sat in a trance, trying to take it all in. Emma just kept crying.

“Time for another drink, ladies!” Trish said. Toast after toast was made until their food arrived, huge steaks, thrice-baked potatoes, and coconut shrimp. Considering the shape the ladies were in, Trish was surprised that they cleaned their plates. She was even more surprised that she cleaned hers.

It was ten o’clock when Trish called a halt to the evening. “We are drunk, ladies, and that means we cannot drive, so this is what we’re going to do. We are going to call a cab, and we’re all going to the Hyatt Regency, where you will sleep for the night. Emma, you will bunk with me. You are going to go back to those shitty apartments only to get your personal belongings after breakfast. Then I will take you to your new homes, where you will settle in.

“I’m going to give you two hours, and then one of you will drive the others into New York, where you have appointments at the Red Door for
the works.
I am giving you each a check to do some shopping for new things. I want you to buy whatever you want. And then I’m giving you each another check to jump-start your new bank accounts. Ladies, you are going into business for yourselves. We can talk about that tomorrow night, when you get back from New York.”

Everyone started to cry, even Trish. Who knew that being very rich could be so much fun?

It was one o’clock in the morning and Emma was sound asleep when Trish pulled out her cell phone and sent a text to Malik. It read: I just spent eighteen million dollars. Maybe nineteen before I’m finished.

The return text was almost immediate. It is being replenished as I type this. Are you all right? I miss you. I love you.

Trish burst out laughing.

I love you and miss you, too. Good night.