Two of a Kind (9 page)

“I know,” said the man. “I checked to see if it was on the market before I approached you.”

“Then why are you here?” She was beginning to get annoyed.

“Because I have a very good offer.” If he was aware of her annoyance, he gave no indication. “My clients are prepared to offer you a very good sum for this house. And they would pay in cash—no banks, no brokers, no commission. Just an easy exchange—their money, for this house.”

“It's still not for sale,” she said.

“But I haven't told you the price.”

“That doesn't matter.”

He looked at her almost pityingly. “You might want to at least consider it,” he said. “You won't get an offer like this again.”

“Why this house?” Christina asked abruptly. “There are better houses in the neighborhood, even on the block. Bigger, more valuable . . . If your clients can pay cash, why would they choose this house?”

“It's Mira.” He smiled. “Mrs. Sharma. It's a whim of hers. And Raghubeer likes to indulge her whims.”

Christina did not smile back. “Well, you can thank them for their interest, but the answer is still no.”

“For now,” said the man easily. Nothing seemed to ruffle his smooth feathers. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a card. First he wrote something on the back and then handed it to her. Christina's hands remained by her side. “It can't hurt to take it,” he said, his voice soft and coaxing. She accepted the card only because it seemed rude not to. The name
Pratyush Singh
was engraved in elegant black script on the heavy vellum stock. Below it was a telephone number and an e-mail address, but nothing else.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Connelly,” he said. “I hope I'll be talking to you again.” Then he turned and began to walk at a leisurely pace down the block.

She waited until he had gone before she turned the card over. The number he'd written on the back—three million—was nothing short of astonishing. The house was not worth that much, even in this inflated market. Christina sank down to the stoop—the bottom step was the most deteriorated—and considered for the briefest of moments just what such an amount would mean to her. Then, tucking the card into her back pocket, she mounted the stairs.

When she reached the top step, she spotted Charlotte, who had come outside to look down the street. Seeing Charlotte was never a pleasant experience and today Christina didn't think she could rise to the challenge of being civil. Fortunately Charlotte's antipathy made it unnecessary. She glared at Christina before stepping back inside, and seconds later, her door closed—a little more forcefully than necessary—and the sound of the lock turning in the tumbler could be heard. Opening her own door, Christina was so relieved not to have to talk to her that she didn't even register the insult.

A
ndy me
t Christina at the door and immediately offered her a glass of wine. Although she didn't usually drink on the job, she bent her own rule and said yes. She was actually a little nervous; they were meeting to discuss how to handle what had been his late wife's home office. A small room off the kitchen, it held a desk, a chair, a computer, and a couple of shelves of books. Christina had seen it only once, but she knew Andy had left everything exactly as it had been when Rachel died. She also knew that any discussion about it would require sensitivity and tact.

“White would be lovely,” she said, putting down her bag and following him into the living room. The ebbing light on the river had turned the water a dark, metallic blue; she stood, rapt for a moment, until she sensed him behind her and accepted the glass he held out.

“Cheers,” she said, tapping the rim to his; at the same moment he said,
“L'chaim.”

“I know that anything we do in this room is going to be difficult,” she began. “So why don't you tell me what you had in mind?”

“I thought I could turn it into a guest room,” he said. “Not that we have all that many guests. Still, my mother stays over sometimes and it would be nice for her.” He took a sip of his wine. “I want it to reflect Rachel somehow. But I don't want a shrine.”

“Of course not.” Christina also took a sip; the wine was excellent. “I was thinking we could involve Oliver in some way too.”

“That would be good,” Andy said eagerly. “Great, in fact. How?”

“Well, if you want to order some new furniture for the room, I could show him the options, get his input. Same with any window or floor treatments. Maybe even let him choose some of the colors.” The wine was crisp and refreshing; it went down so easily.

“Do you think, I mean, I know it's unorthodox, but do you think he could come to a showroom or two with you?” asked Andy. “He's been moping around here all summer, not seeing any of his friends.”

“I don't see any reason why not,” Christina said. She twirled her goblet between her fingers as she spoke; this was one of the glasses she and Andy had bought at the estate sale. Just thinking about their trek in the rain, and how she'd been for a brief moment so exposed, was unsettling. It took her a few seconds to realize that the memory was actually exciting to her; she was aroused. She looked over at Andy, so earnest in his desire to help his son, so clueless as to how. She had an urge to lay her hand on his cheek.
Bad
idea. What was wrong with her anyway? It was the wine. The wine and a long, dry spell in her romantic life.

She set down the glass. “I'll look at my book and see what kind of time I have next week. And do you want to go take a look at the room together?”

“Good idea.” He stood and finished his wine. If he noticed that her glass was still partially full, he didn't mention it. Christina followed him through the kitchen and waited while he stood in front of the door. “I keep it closed,” he said. “Lucy goes in to dust and vacuum, but that's all.”

The room was white, with a simple white shade at the window. Over the desk was a bulletin board filled with photographs, torn magazine pages, business cards, ticket stubs, and a menu. Against one wall was a sewing machine. Some of the books contained quilt patterns, or photographs of antique patchwork quilts. “She liked to sew?” Christina asked. Andy nodded. “She used to make all of Ollie's Halloween costumes. Then she got into the blanket thing.”

“You mean quilts?” Christina asked.

“Right. Quilts.”

“Did she ever finish one?” Christina took a book from the shelf and began leafing through it. Two small squares of fabric fluttered out and to the floor.

“She got sick. . . .” He trailed off.

Christina knelt to retrieve the squares. “Do these look familiar?” Andy just shook his head. Someone—presumably Rachel—had circled one of the patterns in the book using red marker.
Wedding Anniversary Quilt.
There was a diagram on the facing page and beneath the title, a description.
This charming design utilizes some of the traditional motifs of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century quilts. The two interlocking circles represent the two wedding bands, locked together in an eternal embrace. . . .

“It looks like she was planning to make this.” Christina looked more closely at the squares of fabric. One was a tight plaid of dark red, cream, and taupe; the other used similar colors but was a tiny and bustling floral print. “Maybe these were two that she liked.” What if she found them, these two patterns, or ones very much like them? The fabric could be used for shades or curtains and, because there would need to be a bed in here, for a bed skirt, or a fabric headboard. On the walls, she saw wallpaper, no, not wallpaper, but fabric—maybe a raw linen or a muslin of some kind—something that would give the room some warmth and texture, as well as refer to Rachel's interest in textiles. And of course there ought to be an actual antique quilt—or two; one for the bed itself, and another she could hang from the wall, suspended on a dowel. When she looked again at the bulletin board, another idea came to her. She would get a blank scrapbook and arrange everything from the bulletin board in it. It would be a nice way to gather the last bits of ephemera from Rachel's life and give those fragile pieces a meaning, an order. And she could enlist Oliver's help in that too.

“You're not saying anything,” Andy pointed out.

She looked over at him. “Sorry. The wheels were turning. Let me tell you what I was thinking.”

“Sure,” he said. “Would you like another glass of wine? Or even better, what if I ordered us some takeout? Lucy's got the night off and I was going to do that for myself anyway.”

“All right,” Christina said. Was it a good idea to have dinner here? She decided that as long as they remained focused on the job, it would be fine. Jordan was going to be at Alexis's tonight, so there was no one at home anyway. Andy ordered up Japanese food, which they ate in the kitchen as Christina outlined her plans for the new guest room. Oliver came shuffling in, and though at first his responses were merely monosyllabic, he did show some interest in the quilts, and especially in the scrapbook.

“I remember some of this stuff,” he said. “The movie ticket. That menu. The pictures.” He nodded, and Christina was sure she could smell pot emanating from him; did Andy smell it too?

“And what about the quilts?” Christina asked. “Could I show you some of the ones I'm considering?”

“She once took me to some quilt exhibition,” Oliver said. “At first I thought it was going to be stupid and, like, too girly, but it was actually pretty cool. Those things took years to make. Decades even.”

“What exhibit?” Andy asked. “I don't remember it.”

“You weren't there. It was that summer I went to camp in Vermont. She came up for visiting day, but you didn't.”

“Right . . . I was at a medical convention that year. Geneva, I think.”

“They were having this show at some, like, art center in town and Mom wanted to go.” Oliver continued as if his father had not spoken.

“So you saw the kinds of quilts she liked,” Christina prompted.

“Yeah. All these different patterns. And colors. She loved the colors.”

Christina looked over at Andy, who was nodding. “I know you're going to be a big help in this, Oliver.”

“You think?” He looked at her, eyes bright beneath the fringe of blond curls.

“I know.” To Christina, he didn't seem high; his pupils were not dilated and he seemed alert. Maybe he'd only been with some kids who had been smoking?

After he'd gone to his room, Christina wanted to help clean up, but Andy told her not to bother. “There's nothing to clean,” he said. “Just some recycling and some trash.” Without asking, he refreshed her glass of wine—Christina had sipped a bit during the meal—and they took their drinks into the living room.

“Thank you for being so gentle with Ollie,” he said.

“I have a teenager too,” she said.

“Nothing I say seems to penetrate,” Andy went on. “Or else it does—in the wrong way. I make him angry. Upset.”

“That's because you're his father. He knows you love him, so it's safe to act out with you.”

“You're a good mother,” Andy said, sitting up very straight. “I can tell.”

“Thank you,” she said, not sure how to interpret this sudden declaration.

“Being a good mother is a very important quality in a person. A woman. I mean, in a woman.”

Christina smiled down at her glass. They had switched to red now and the wine looked almost black. “Yes, I guess it is.” It sounded to her like alpha, always-in-control Andy was a wee bit tipsy. Yes, Dr. Stern, Dr.
Stern
, was drunk. Why she found this amusing, she was not sure, but she did.

“That's the trouble with Jen,” Andy was saying. “I like her, but when I see her with her daughter . . .”

“Jen?” asked Christina. She knew who Jen was. But why was he talking about her now? And to her of all people?

“Jen Baum,” Andy said. “You met her, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Christina said, and nothing more.

“I told Gus I'd give it another try. So we went out last Friday. Her daughter wasn't even there; she was staying with her dad. And everything was great, but then—” He stopped.

“And then?” asked Christina. Who was Gus? And what did he have to do with anything? Oh, Andy was drunk all right. Drunk and rambling.

“I got to thinking that if I were going to get serious with this woman, I'd have to spend time with both of them. Because her daughter would be a big part of our lives. So I suggested we spend a day together—the zoo, a playground, gelato. . . .” He trailed off. “But Jen doesn't have any empathy!” he said. “And I can forgive or explain away a lot of things. But not that.”

“What do you mean?” She knew, though; that woman looked brittle, like she'd been shellacked.

“The entire day, she acted like she wanted her daughter to go away so we could be alone together. Like her daughter—her five-year-old
daughter
—was some major annoyance. A bother. And of course the kid feels this and tries even harder to get her attention. Which her mother just will not give her.”

“She does sound a bit obtuse,” Christina ventured.

“The kid looked miserable, so I suggested we stop into FAO Schwarz—we were right nearby—and I would get her a little toy. But she says, ‘No, Mommy. I want
Daddy
to buy me a present.' And Jen says, ‘Well, Daddy's not here, but Andy wants to buy you a present.' Kid digs her heels in; she wants Daddy's present and
only
Daddy's present. I'm ready to let it go; it doesn't matter.”

“But her mother was not as understanding?”

“Not a bit. Told her she was a spoiled brat. So of course the kid has a meltdown.”

“What did you do?” Christina asked.

“I told Jen to wait there. I raced into the store, grabbed the first thing I saw, which happened to be this big stuffed kangaroo, and I bought it. When I got back out, Drew—that's her name—Drew was crying and Jen was standing there not even looking at her. I gave Drew the kangaroo, hustled them both into a taxi, and went home.” Andy drained the last of his wine. “What a
day
.”

“Exhausting,” said Christina.

“You see what I mean? No empathy. But you—you would have handled it differently, wouldn't you? I know you would have. Because
you
, Christina Connelly, are an empathetic woman.” And before Christina could respond, Andy had leaned over and planted a kiss on her most astonished but quickly parting lips.