Holy Rollers (7 page)

David R. Carlyle IV often comported himself as an important person in publishing, and many people were willing to believe it. But although his father had co-founded the firm Palmer / Midkiff / Carlyle, David had never quite lived up to the family name.

Yes, he had worked his way into the title of Senior Editor and had been responsible for a number of bestsellers, but the position of Editor-In-Chief had eluded him, let alone his dream title of Publisher…a position that would finally have him living up to his legacy. In addition, his proclivity for a lavish lifestyle and the second home in the Hamptons on the east end of Long Island had never made financial sense, much less in a difficult economy.

Fortunately, Lisa Cochrane had swept into his life at just the right moment. The four or five million dollars she seemed to think she could get for the property would keep him in champagne and Brooks Brothers for years to come, even if it was less than he thought a beach-adjacent home should fetch. But he knew that real estate, like publishing, was a cruel, cruel business.

She’d already been through the house a few times but wanted to take one last walk-through. He was happy to escort her, since someday soon his Hamptons house would be only a vague memory.

“You know,” she said as they passed through the living room, “I got top price for Romeo Romero’s home in Water Mill a few years ago. I’m sure I can do the same for you.” Lisa Cochrane continued to ooze reassurance. Her voice might have sounded like she’d gargled lye, but she knew how to play it like a musical instrument, finding just the right note she needed at just the right moment.

He laughed. “Romeo Romero. Now
there
was a scoundrel.” She nodded knowingly. “But he did have a beautiful home.” He led her into the formal dining room. “Have you had other celebrity clients?”

“Oh, yes. I showed more than a few homes to Madonna…”

“Really!”

“I could tell you stories, David. So many stories…”

A stroke of inspiration came to him. “Have you ever written?”

David Carlyle was not a short man, but Lisa stood several inches taller, so she leaned closer.

“Me? No, why?”

He took her by the arm and began guiding her toward the kitchen. “Here’s my thought. How about if you write the copy for an illustrated book—a coffee-table book—about the homes you’ve sold and your celebrity clients?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“We could send photographers out to capture images of the homes and décor, wrap your text around them, and…
Oh
, I can see this selling well during next year’s holiday season!”

“David, I’m flattered, but…”

Caught up in his thoughts, he walked her through the kitchen and out the back door without stopping. As his pace quickened, the long white strands of hair carefully arranged over his scalp began to unravel; once outside, they danced in the breeze.

Lisa could hear the Atlantic Ocean surf breaking on the other side of the dunes. Two women—one in her late forties, short, scowling, and modestly dressed; the other taller and younger and wearing a swimsuit that was suggestive but not too revealing—sat in lounge chairs watching them. If David Carlyle noticed them, he was too consumed with his brainstorm to bother with introductions. Lisa—who’d figured him for gay about ten minutes
before
they’d met—couldn’t quite figure out why the women were there.

“I even already know what it should be titled:
Celebrity Bedrooms I’ve Known…and the Walk-In Closets, Too
!”

She scrunched up her nose. “Celebrity Bedrooms I’ve Known?”

“
And
the Walk-In Closets,
Too
!”

“I don’t know, David. Again, I’m flattered, but…”

The older, shorter one spoke. “Don’t do it, lady. Carlyle talks a good game, but take it from me: publishing sucks.” With that, she lifted a glass to her lips and drank. “It buys decent bourbon, but it still sucks.”

That, at least, brought David out of his daydream.

“Ignore her, Lisa. She’s just jealous because her sales are down.”

“Not my e-book sales.”

He said to Lisa, “You might like her when she’s speaking for herself and isn’t letting the bourbon speak
for
her.”

Still not smiling, the short woman rose from her chair. Her voice had the authority of a woman who got what she wanted or went down fighting. “Since Carlyle isn’t going to introduce me…”

“Sorry.” Chastened, he said, “Lisa Cochrane, this is Margaret Campbell. Lisa will be selling this house. Margaret”—he nodded in the direction of the woman—“probably needs no introduction.”

Lisa’s face went blank for a moment, then came alive with recognition. “The
novelist
Margaret Campbell?”

“Guilty.” Lisa couldn’t tell from her expression if she appreciated or loathed the recognition.

“Yes, that’s our Margaret,” said David. “Palmer / Midkiff / Carlyle’s best-selling novelist. ‘Grande Dame of the American Mystery.’”

“According to
People
,” Margaret said with a snort as she took another sip of bourbon. “Not according to me.”

“Nor me,” David said, and then wondered why he’d said it out loud. It would only come back to haunt him.

He tried to cover himself by pointing to the younger woman in the swimsuit. “And this is Denise Hanrahan. An old friend of mine.”

Denise waved and shifted in her lounge chair, showing a bit of leg that Lisa thought she might have looked at for a second too long, not that anyone seemed to notice. “Pay no attention to the David and Margaret Show. I’ve known them forever. Deep down, they have quite a bit of affection for each other.”

It must be buried
way
deep down
, thought Lisa, but what she said was, “Nice to meet you, Denise.”

Margaret took a step forward. “Remember what I said. Stay away from publishing.”

“Nonsense,” said David. “Real estate porn is so hot right now…”

That caught Lisa off guard, especially after hearing his proposed title. “Real estate porn?”

He waved away her concern. “A term to describe the way people look at pictures of property they’ll never be able to afford. I really think this could be a profitable collaboration.”

That caught her interest. “Profitable?
How
profitable?”

He barely thought about it. “I could probably get you a fifty-thousand-dollar advance. Maybe more. And if sales are strong when your royalties kick in…”

“Lady, just run,” said the Grande Dame of the American Mystery, and Denise Hanrahan—more comfortable than Lisa with their back-and-forth—laughed. As she laughed, she stretched, unintentionally showing a tiny, harmless patch of stomach and once again drawing Lisa’s eyes.

Mustn’t do this
, Lisa cautioned herself.
Stay professional.

That was the fortunate moment a car horn sounded from the front of the house, startling Lisa out of her exercise in self-control. It was just as well. She’d never actually do anything, but it was nice to look every now and then.

“That’s my ride,” Lisa said, adding her good-byes to the two women. She thought maybe Denise gave her a particularly friendly send-off, but she didn’t dwell on it. Because she was a professional. And because there was nothing she could do about it. And because, well…because Mary Beth was waiting out front.

David walked her back through the house to the front door. In the driveway, Mary Beth Reuss—face hidden behind large, dark sunglasses—sat at the wheel of a rented BMW.

“David, once again thank you for the opportunity to list your house.”

He held her hand. “It’s my pleasure. And please think about the book. I’m sure it will make us both a lot of money.”

She smiled noncommittally and walked down three brick steps to the driveway where—after moving a half dozen heavy shopping bags to the backseat, because Mary Beth had clearly been a busy, busy girl while she’d been working—she climbed into the passenger seat next to her girlfriend.

Mary Beth raced the engine, put the car in gear, and drove off.

When David Carlyle turned around, Margaret Campbell was standing behind him.

“Don’t you think she’s kind of a phony, the way she turns the charm on when she wants something?”

He harrumphed. “I thought she was fine. Even so, who cares? I hired her to sell a house, not invest my trust fund.” He looked into the distance. “Not that there’s much left since Madoff…”

Margaret wasn’t listening. “And what about those looks she was giving Denise. Not to mention the woman who picked her up. That spells lesbian to me.”

David looked at her and sighed. “I seem to recall someone calling
you
a lesbian on a Barbara Walters special a few years ago, and you continue to be the Grande
freakin’
Dame of the American
freakin’
Mystery. Now go drink your bourbon and leave me alone.”

It was only after Margaret Campbell skulked away that David looked at the dust still settling over the driveway in the wake of the BMW and thought,
No, not Celebrity Bedrooms. Celebrity
Boudoirs
!

No one could accuse him of not always thinking creatively about the Next Big Book.

$ $ $

As a real estate professional, Lisa Cochrane strongly encouraged her clients to wildly overspend on property, the better to feather her nest in commissions. What point was there in scrimping and saving, she’d ask her clients, if you’re not happy? And how can you put a price on your own happiness?

She practiced strict frugality, however, when making her own real estate decisions. She was not about to sacrifice luxury or scrimp on comfort—Lisa wouldn’t like that, and Mary Beth wouldn’t allow it—but she knew how to find a bargain.

She also wasn’t a slave to convention, which made the bargain-hunting much easier. That’s how the high-end Realtor ended up being among the first to move into Aquaterra Tower II when it opened several years earlier, days after the luxury high-rise cut the ribbon on its leasing office. That it was in Long Island City—meaning it was in the Borough of Queens and not in the Borough of Manhattan—had no impact on her decision. She’d doubled her square footage, cut her rent, and had a great view, which was more than one could say for most Manhattan properties in her frugal price range.

And she already had one money pit in Mary Beth Reuss. She loved her partner deeply, but it was clear she’d made the right decision when they moved to Queens, since Mary Beth—who paid none of the rent but seemed to dominate most of the space—had put up such a fuss about leaving her dear, and dearly expensive, Manhattan. Mary Beth was used to getting her way, but the move to Long Island City had been one of the occasions when Lisa’s eye for a deal and stubbornness had won out.

Mary Beth did grow to love it—or at least
tolerate
it—over time, but there was a lot to love. Expansive views of Manhattan from across the East River, a host of amenities, a terrace, and even the all important in-unit washer and dryer, so hard to come by in Manhattan’s older housing stock. There was even the convenience of being only one subway stop from Grand Central Terminal, which few locations in Manhattan could boast, even though Grand Central was
in
Manhattan.

Until Lisa Cochrane was ready to buy a home, Aquaterra Tower II would do quite nicely. And since she had no inclination to buy—despite her profession and healthy bank balance—that wasn’t a decision she anticipated making in the near future.

It was just past 7:30 p.m. when Lisa and Mary Beth entered the building and greeted the gray-haired concierge, who in turn nodded toward the lobby.

“Some gentlemen”—he rolled his eyes slightly at the word—“have been waiting to see you.” With a glance at his watch, he added, “For quite some time.”

Their eyes focused on the lobby, which was every bit as impressive to look at as it was uncomfortable to be in, due to the management company’s not-so-subtle efforts to meld pleasant aesthetics with the firm desire to keep tenants in their units.

Mary Beth saw them first. “Oh, Christ.”

Then it was Lisa’s turn. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Grant Lambert and Chase LaMarca sat in the austere lobby, doing absolutely nothing while they waited except waiting.

“We came to see you.” Grant looked at Lisa, pointedly ignoring Mary Beth.

“I figured. I don’t know what you’re peddling, Lambert, but I’m not buying. My dance card is more than full for the next couple of weeks.”

“I’m not looking for a dance partner, so that works for me.” He glanced around. “Can we talk?”

“I really don’t see what…”

He leaned forward and whispered, keeping his voice low so the doorman wouldn’t hear. “It’s not about you. And it’s not about your dancing. It’s about your money.”

“If it’s about my money, that makes it about me, right?” She sighed. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. “Okay, let’s go up to the apartment and talk.”

They rode the elevator to the twenty-eighth floor in silence, barely acknowledging each other until Lisa unlocked the door to her unit and ushered them out of the hall. She flicked a few switches and brought the track lighting to life, then closed the door and got down to business without bothering with pleasantries.