The Someday Jar (23 page)

At the office, a few hours later, I think of the Someday Jar and the slips I’ve pulled out. Kit was right. Stepping out of my comfort zone and tackling these challenges has given me confidence. Yes, the slips have been good for me. All of them. Of course, I haven’t technically made broker and there are one or two slips left, one being unquestionably difficult, but overall, I’ve done pretty well. And, today my focus will be on the wedding.

God, I wish Kit were back from her vacation. She could walk me down the aisle. Never did I think I’d get married without her present. Or my mom. Or Dad.

Before I back out of the parking spot toward home to get ready for the courthouse, my phone rings.

I fumble for it, buried deep in my purse, and on the fourth ring, I answer, “Hello?”

“Lanie-Lou, it’s Hollis.”

At once, my mood lifts. “How are you?” I switch off the engine.

“Fine as frog’s hair,” he replies. “You?”

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“Hey, I read a good obituary yesterday.”

“Oh yeah? What’d it say?”

“Not much on how the guy died, but what caught my eye was the funeral will be held at Hooter’s. All-you-can-eat hot wings, but there’s a two-drink minimum. Want to be my date?”

“Sure.”

Hollis’s breathing turns into a raspy cough.

“Have you had that cough checked out?” I ask.

“Rubbish.” He pants. “Doctors are rubbish. They’ll just pump me full of medicines. I’m dizzy enough without drugs interfering.”

“Dizzy?”

“Damn. Don’t tell Bevy I said that. She’ll cane me with my walking stick if she knows.”

“Hollis?”

With a somber voice, Hollis says, “Lanie, it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“We need to sell the house. It’s more than I can handle. Yesterday, I sat down twice in the hallway because the damn kitchen is clear across the other side of the house. It’s too big for my tired body.”

“Hollis—”

“Yeah, yeah. So it goes. I hate to leave.”

“I thought you listed it with your nephew?” It occurs to me I never saw the listing on our database.

“He’s a schmuck. He passed the listing on to some newbie agent whose idea of marketing residential properties is posting the house on Craigslist and a friend’s blog. His friend sells air compressors. I unlisted the house with him today.”

“Sorry, Hollis.”

“No, don’t be. I’m the one who’s sorry. I want you to list the house, should’ve done it days ago.”

My excitement swells like a balloon. I maintain my composure and reply, “I’m honored. Want to come by tomorrow? I’ll have the papers ready.”

“Tomorrow? Won’t you be on your honeymoon? Evan called this morning.”

Oh, right. I thought he told me to call. He must be excited.
Well, I’m sure Evan won’t mind. In fact, the Murphys’ listing will be like a wedding present. “We aren’t going out of town or anything. Shall we say ten o’clock? Does that leave enough time for your morning swim?”

“Ten, it is. I’m gonna rest now. See you tomorrow, Lanie.”

“Looking forward to it, Hollis. Take care.”

“Don’t worry.” His breathing is labored. “I’ll have a candy cane for you. Do you remember why?”

“Because every girl needs a candy cane.”

“That’s right,” he replies with satisfaction. “That’s right, indeed.”

“Good-bye, Hollis.”

“Woo-hoo!” My screams echo in the car. The Murphys want to list their house with me. Me. I can’t believe it! I did it. I secured the Valley’s most coveted listing. And I did it before we got married. I did it on my own. And now, Evan will grant me a partnership. This is so fantastic. Today has turned out to be a fantastic day.

Oh, but wait . . . the wedding. I’d really like to check the latest pending and expired listing reports before the Murphys come in tomorrow, make sure I’m prepared for any questions Bevy might ask. Given the nature of this deal, I bet Evan won’t mind
postponing our ceremony for a day or two. Besides, after the Murphys sign the papers, we’ll have even more to celebrate.

“Evan, guess what?” I blurt as he answers my call. “Hollis called.”

“And?” His voice fills with anticipation. “Is he coming to the wedding?”

“Better. He wants to stop by the office tomorrow at ten o’clock and list the house with me. List the house, Evan. Isn’t that awesome?”

“You’re kidding. Goddammit, Lanie, that’s incredible news. I knew the wedding would work.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing, really. I just knew he’d be impressed with our nuptials.”

“Right, well, not only did I secure the most desired listing in the Valley, but remember, you promised me a partnership.”

“Let’s get the listing signed first. Job well done.” He’s happy. “Very well done.”

“Thanks, Evan.” I pause. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”

“Anything. You name it. Damn, Lanie. Nice work.”

“Well, that’s the thing. There’s quite a bit of paperwork I need to prepare before they come in tomorrow. Would you mind if we postponed—”

“Postponed their signing?” Evan interrupts.

“Not the meeting. The wedding.”

“Oh.” He hesitates. Finally he says, “I guess that would be best.”

“Okay, good. I’m staying here at the office, then. Lots to do.”

Stepping from my car, I replay Hollis’s voice in my mind. He didn’t sound good. I hope Bevy persuades him to see a doctor soon.

Once inside the soon-to-be Evan Carter and Lanie Howard-Carter Realty office, I retrieve the listing documents. My feet bounce around the office as if there are mini-trampolines attached to my shoes. I’m so dang excited. And proud of myself.

I dig for my Someday Jar in search of the Broker slip. The first one I unfold reads
Broker
. Perfect.

The office line rings, and after I answer questions on a triplex in Mesa, I tackle the stack of listing documents and then get started. I want to have most of the paperwork completed ahead of time so the Murphys won’t have to stay long.

After three and a half hours, I’ve completed the exclusive listing agreement, the seller’s agency disclosure, the swimming pool addendum, and a dozen other forms equivalent to an entire tree in paper. Here I thought we lived in an environmentally friendly world. I also generated a trifold brochure, accentuating the features of the gorgeous property. I’ve highlighted the many areas requiring their signatures, and once they’ve signed, I’ll schedule an appointment with our photographer. While he shoots pictures, I’ll measure the rooms and compile the list of amenities for the Property Detail Sheet.

I can’t wait to see my name as broker on this property. But more than that, I can’t wait to get this house sold, alleviating some stress for my sweet old friend.

Early the next morning, my cell phone vibrates across the dresser and wakens me. Scrambling out of bed, I hurry
toward it, but am too late.
Missed Call
highlights my screen. Beside my phone is a note jotted by Evan.
Stopping by the house this morning, before heading to the office. Big day.

What time is it? My phone blinks 7:00 a.m. Evan got an early start. I glance at my phone again, still not recognizing the number. Must be important to ring this early, so I return the call.

“Hello,” a man’s voice answers.

“This is Lanie Howard. I believe you tried to call me a minute ago.”

“Lanie, yes, hello. My name is Tucker. I’m the Murphys’ caretaker.”

“Yes, good morning,” I reply, wondering why his voice shakes.

“I’m calling about the meeting planned for ten o’clock this morning.”

Oh no.
Please don’t tell me they’ve changed their mind. Please don’t tell me their nephew’s friend’s blog got a hit and the house sold. “Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” Caution laces my words.

“About that,” Tucker starts.

“Is there a problem?”

“Mr. Murphy suffered a stroke last night. He didn’t recover. He died a few hours ago.”

My legs waiver and I grab onto the dresser for support, but still, I fall to my knees. I press the phone close to my ear, hoping I heard him wrong. “What? How did he . . . is he . . . oh, God.” Tears soak my cheeks. “He died?”

“Mrs. Murphy wanted me to call you.”

“Yes, thank you,” I stutter through sobs. I feel dizzy and my breathing is labored like I just ran ten miles.
Hollis.

“Okay, miss. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait!” I scream and clutch the phone as if keeping Tucker on the line is somehow holding on to Hollis. “Do you know about services?”

“Not yet. Mrs. Murphy mentioned waiting a few days, allowing time for all the kids to come home. I’ll be sure and let you know.”

“Thank you, Tucker.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hangs up. Just like that, Hollis is gone.

The phone slips from my fingers and onto the floor. I cover my face with both hands and cry. Not because of the stupid listing or the lost commission, but because this sweet old man who smelled like mothballs and granola is gone. No more long hugs. No more stories. No more candy canes.

“Dammit!” I scream, feeling sorry for myself, wishing I had a shoulder to cry on, someone to hold me. Wes’s face pops into my mind. I shake my head.
Foolish girl.
Quickly, I gather my purse and head out the door. Evan. I need to find Evan.

Evan’s Mercedes is in the driveway of Orchid Lane along with a silver Tahoe that I don’t recognize. One of the subcontractors? I pull behind Evan’s car. Before I step out, I let a wave of emotions overcome me and cry for several minutes. When my tears run dry, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My face is blotchy and my eyes are swollen. I haven’t changed out of my PJs, or brushed my teeth, or combed my hair.

Who cares what I look like? All I want is to be held and cry more about Hollis.

The front door is locked, but the side garage door is open. Once inside, I step over plastic drop cloths, five-gallon paint buckets, and boxes of twenty-inch travertine tiles.

“Evan?” I call, my voice echoing in the vacant house. He’s not in two of the guest bedrooms, the living room, or the den. Drywall dust accumulates on my shoes as I near the kitchen. It’s not until I turn the corner that I hear gasps of breath and some sort of knocking.
Dear God, Evan, are you okay?

I hurry through the threshold.

Evan’s bare ass is the first thing I see. His pants and paisley silk boxers pool above his loafers, while his hands grasp either side of—
holy shit
—Stacee’s hips. Her skirt is gathered above her waist. Bent over, she braces herself with palms pressed into the granite countertop. My wedding coordinator screams, “More, Evan. Give it to me! More.”

Wait a minute? She’s wearing a veil. My veil.

Evan smacks her on the ass.

It’s then, I burst out laughing.

They both turn around.

“Oh, God!” Stacee screams.

Evan pulls away from her. “Lanie, shit.” He hikes his pants and secures his belt.

Stacee rips the veil from her head and splits her skirt, pulling it down with such haste.

“Lanie, it’s not what—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. Not because I’m hurt or mad or crying, but because I can’t stop laughing. With my other hand I clutch my stomach and squeak out, “Give me a second. Let me catch my breath. Oh, God, this is hilarious.” Between belly laughs I say, “You guys, are . . . oh, God . . .” I can’t stop laughing. I can’t. “Is this how you’re repaying her, Evan? She’s . . .” My words cut short between my laughter. “She’s getting cheated. Oh . . . this is so funny . . . you two are such a cliché.”

“Lanie, why are you laughing? Please let me explain.”

I hardly hear his words. My laughter reverberates through the house, drowning Stacee’s embarrassed squeals as she slips into her shoes and gathers her things. This is so funny. So goddamn funny. But then, in a moment of clarity, I stop laughing.

“Are you okay?” Evan asks.

“I just thought of something.”

Evan asks with eyes more tender than a week-old puppy, “What is it, love?”

“Paige will be pissed.” I try to say this with a straight face, but I can’t, and before long, my hysterics become too much and I snort, which makes me laugh even more. “I’m so much better than this. So much better. Oh, God, I’ve gotta go before I pee my pants.”