The Second Sister (12 page)

Chapter 19

A
s I poured more hot water for another disgusting cup of Earl Grey, the first having failed to give quite the caffeine jolt I'd been hoping for, the phone rang—the house phone, not the cell phone.

Jenna was the only one who had that number, so when I answered I said, “Hey, can you send both cases of cookies? I really think I'm going to need them.”

“Excuse me?”

The deep male voice on the other end of the line definitely did not belong to Jenna.

“Oh. Sorry! I thought you were someone else. Someone from my office. I was . . .” I stopped myself, realizing I didn't need to explain myself to a stranger.

“You know what? Let's just start over. Hello, this is Lucy Toomey.”

“Lucy, this is Ed Glazier. I'm a builder, the owner of Peninsula Property Professionals. We've built three homes in your neighborhood in the last five years.”

As he described the houses he'd built, I could picture them in my mind. None of them was anything I would have wanted, just too big for my taste and too . . . well, just
too
. Too much. But they'd been built with somewhat more taste and sensitivity for the surroundings than most of the surrounding McMansions. Glazier favored a sort of pseudo–prairie style with big, chunky pillars on the porches and leaded glass in the windows. His work was a nod to Frank Lloyd Wright that, if not completely convincing, made more sense in Wisconsin than the pseudo-Tuscan and overwrought Greek Revival styles of some of the neighboring properties. And Mr. Glazier's houses actually left room for grass and some of the larger trees.

“I was talking to a Realtor friend of mine,” Mr. Glazier continued. “He told me you might be considering selling your place. If that's true, then I'd sure like to discuss that with you.”

“I'm not sure there's anything to discuss yet, Mr. Glazier—”

“Ed,” he said warmly. “Call me Ed.”

“Okay, Ed. But you're a little premature. I don't actually own the place yet.”

Pausing now and again to take sips of my tea, I explained the unusual nature of Alice's will to Ed Glazier. I felt sure that the complexities of the situation would cool his enthusiasm, but I was wrong.

“I'm willing to wait. A piece of property like this, with that kind of lakefront view and that kind of size, doesn't come along very often. Even if you were ready to sell today, we wouldn't be able to start work until the spring.”

“Right. And I won't be in a position to sell until at least . . .”

I paused, mentally calculating how long it would take me to make up the remaining weeks of residency Alice's will required, glancing at a wall calendar to estimate how many weekends I could slip away from Washington without jeopardizing my work, definitely not more than once a month.

“I can't see me getting possession of the deed until at least the end of April, possibly even as late as July.”

“Well,” he said, “April would be better than July, but, like I said, I'm willing to wait. I've had my eye on that land for a long time.”

“Okay, then,” I said, feeling kind of odd talking about selling our cottage to a total stranger, but also knowing that was what it would come down to in the end anyway. “So why don't we talk again in the spring. Say, March? I won't be around by then, but you can call my cell.”

“Lucy, I don't mean to push you, but I'd really prefer to start the ball rolling now so I can start making plans over the winter and be ready to break ground in the spring. We've got a short building season here. I can't afford to waste a day of it.”

“I appreciate that, Ed, but as I said, I really can't make any agreements or sign any contracts until—”

“No, no,” he assured me. “I'm not asking you to put your name to anything right now. I'd just like to present you my offer, see what you think, and come to an agreement. Kind of a verbal handshake. Lucy, I'm prepared to offer you five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for your property.”

“
Five
-fifty?” I asked, certain I couldn't have heard him properly.

“Yes, five-fifty. That's more than it would appraise for, but I'm willing to pay that because it is such a unique piece of ground. Also,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “because I'd like to come to an agreement with you now and keep it off the market and out of the hands of my competitors.”

“You think there might be somebody else willing to pay more?”

“It's possible,” he said plainly. “But I'll tell you something I know for sure. No other developer around here can offer you that kind of price
and
pay cash.”

“Cash? You're just going to write me a check for five hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

“Yes. You'll get paid the entire amount upon closing and won't have to pay a Realtor fee.”

I took a sip of tea and gave myself a moment to think. In my experience, if something appears too good to be true, that usually means it is.

“Lucy,” he said in response to my silence, “I'm not making you this offer just because I'm a nice guy. I'm doing it because I know I can make a profit on it. But I want you to know that I take a lot of pride in doing quality work and building beautiful homes that fit well within their surroundings. This land has been in your family for generations. There's bound to be an emotional attachment involved. You're going to want to pass this property on to someone who will see that it's developed with integrity, sensitivity, and a respect for your family history. I'm the man who can do that.”

While Ed talked, I brought my hand up to my mouth and bit off an uneven piece of fingernail that was bothering me.

He was saying all the right things, bringing up the issues and emotions I hadn't even had time to process or put a name to yet. His assessment of my feelings and concerns was spot on. I was going to have to sell. Heck, I
wanted
to sell, but it was all happening so quickly. Still, I of all people could appreciate the need to get out in front of your competition and grab an early lead.

“Would you be building one house?” I asked. “Or two?”

“I'm honestly not sure yet,” he said. “It would depend on what my architect comes up with, but my guess is that we'd put more than one residence on the property. We'd have to in order to make a good return. But there's so much land there, Lucy. Plenty of room to build multiple dwellings without overcrowding the lot.”

I thought about this for a minute. I wasn't too excited about the idea of knocking down the cottage to replace it with two big houses. But that was preferable to one ridiculously large mansion that would dwarf the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, wasn't it?

“Mr. Glazier . . . Ed, your offer is tempting. I can't pretend it's not. I'm about to move to Washington, DC.”

“Yes, heard about that,” he said. “Pretty exciting. I voted for Ryland. I'm expecting big things from him.”

“You won't be disappointed,” I said. “But back to the house. Having a half million dollars in my pocket would make moving to Washington a whole lot easier, but I'm just feeling a little overwhelmed. I can't quite come to terms with the idea of the house I grew up in just . . . disappearing.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. It lasted so long that for a moment I thought we'd lost the connection, but then Ed spoke and I realized he'd just been mulling over what I'd said.

“Lucy,” he said slowly, “if I could develop the property without tearing down your house, would you be willing to sell?”

I took in a sharp, surprised breath, almost gasping. “Could you do that?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice becoming lower and slower as he talked through the issues. “It'd complicate things, though. We'd have to do some major remodeling, probably knock down most of the interior walls. Maybe incorporate it into a larger structure. But . . . yes. I think it can be done while leaving all or most of the exterior walls intact. I've got a really creative young architect on my team. If anybody can do it, then Jocelyn can.

“Heck,” he said, suddenly sounding more certain and robust, “I'll just tell her that is one of the conditions of the project; the cottage
has
to stay. End of story. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

I hesitated, but not for long. What more could I have asked for?

“Yes,” I said. “We do. But I still can't put anything in writing, you know. Not until the cottage actually belongs to me.”

“I understand,” he said. “There's no paperwork yet. We'll have to get some lawyers involved when the time comes, but until then, the two of us know we have a deal. A verbal handshake, just like I said. Sound fair?”

“Absolutely,” I said, smiling as I poured the last of my terrible tea down the drain and tossed the soggy tea bags into the trash. “More than fair.”

Chapter 20

T
hough it would be months until I had the money in hand, I was feeling pretty flush after my conversation with Ed Glazier. On the drive into town, I decided that I could definitely afford to splurge a bit.

Of course, there are limits to just how crazy a person can go in a consignment shop—that's kind of the whole point of buying secondhand—but if I saw something unexpectedly gorgeous, I'd get it. No hesitation, no second-guessing myself.

Second Act Consignments was small, but every inch of the shop was packed with tables and shelves and racks of clothing. There weren't any customers aside from myself. The ginger-haired girl standing behind the counter was so intent on talking to a lanky, long-haired boy wearing a wrinkled blue-and-green flannel shirt with a rip in the elbow that she didn't say hello or even look up when I came through the door.

I went to the nearest rack and started digging. The clothes didn't seem to be classified according to any discernible system—I found an almost new pair of size-six boot-cut corduroys hanging next to a size-fourteen prom dress with a bunch of the rhinestones missing. A size six might be wishful thinking on my part, but I draped the cords over my arm anyway and continued the search, unable to keep from noticing that the conversation between the teenage clerk and her Romeo was getting increasingly intense.

When I crossed the room to get to yet another table piled with haphazardly folded clothing, I heard a snippet of the conversation, which was really more of a monologue, since he seemed to be the one doing most of the talking. He said something about it being “time to make up your mind” and asking, “Who are you going to believe?” though the way he said it made it sound more like a demand than a question.

I didn't like the manipulative way that he was talking to her, but it really wasn't any of my business, so I kept shopping.

Before long I'd collected an armload of stuff I thought might work for me. Some of it was pretty cute. The pale blue, cable-knit cashmere sweater and the fawn-colored tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows probably would have been way out of my budget if I'd been buying new, and they were both in perfect condition. My guess was they'd come from the walk-in closet of somebody who'd built one of those lakeside mini-mansions and was trying to make room for still more expensive things she wouldn't wear that often. Kind of a waste for them, but good luck for me—assuming they fit. I needed to try them on.

The boy was still there, standing behind the girl with his arms draped over her shoulders. I cleared my throat loudly, trying to get their attention. It didn't have any effect on the boy, but the girl was more responsive. She pushed his arms away like she was shrugging off a too-heavy shawl and hissed, “Stop it! I'm working. You're not even supposed to be here,” then looked up at me, her cheeks a little pink.

I felt like it was a good sign that she at least had the sense to be embarrassed, because,
yes,
she was working, at least theoretically, and,
no,
he shouldn't have been there. I asked if they had a fitting room.

“Kind of,” she said and pointed to her left.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a green curtain hanging across the far corner, hidden behind a clothes rack. I struggled to roll the rack out of the way. It wasn't easy with my arms full.

Behind me I heard another whispered conversation, more of an argument, and mostly unintelligible. But when I accidentally dropped some of the clothing I was carrying while pushing aside the heavy rack, the girl said, “Go away! I'm working!”

The boy snarled and stomped out of the shop. A moment later, the girl was by my side, crouched down next to me on the floor, helping to pick up the things I'd dropped.

“Sorry,” she said without looking at me, swishing her hand back and forth across the corduroys to erase a streak of dust they'd picked up from the floor.

“Don't worry about it. It's not your fault I'm a klutz,” I said, pretending that both of us didn't know that she was apologizing for her behavior, not my clumsiness. Why make her feel worse than she already did?

She rolled the rack against the wall. I stepped into the corner and drew the green curtain closed and started trying things on. A couple of minutes later, I looked down and saw a pair of feet clad in black ballet flats.

“How's it going?” she asked.

“The black jeans were too big, but that's actually good news. Maybe I'm losing weight. The cords are good, though.”

I slipped a soft gray sweater over my head and pulled back the curtain.

“What do you think?”

She looked me up and down.

“Nice! Those pants are a perfect fit. And that sweater looks really good on you. We've got a pink scarf with some little gray and black flowers that would go great with that. I'll try to find it for you. Oh, and did you see this?” she asked and held up a gorgeous black suede jacket with silver belt loops and subtle silver top stitching on the collar, cuffs, and pockets. “Just came in yesterday.”

“Wow. That is beautiful.” I reached out to touch the collar. It was wonderfully soft and supple. “How much is it?”

She made a sort of a wincing face, as if she was almost afraid to tell me.

“One hundred and twenty,” she said apologetically. “But I think you'd look amazing in it.”

She held out the jacket so I could slip my arms into the sleeves. I turned left and right, looking at my reflection.

One hundred and twenty dollars in a consignment shop in rural Wisconsin is serious money. But if I'd been buying new, it would have cost three or four times that much. And, after all, I had promised myself that if I saw something gorgeous, I'd get it. That black leather jacket definitely fit the description.

“I'll take it,” I said, slipping out of the jacket and stepping back into the dressing corner. “Can you hang on to it while I finish trying on the rest of this?”

“Sure,” she said with a smile. “I'll have it up at the counter for you.”

Three hundred and twelve dollars later, I walked out of the shop with a brand-new wardrobe of old clothes, perfect for an extended sojourn in Wisconsin—casual, comfortable, and warm. And, if you didn't count the two pairs of jeans, there wasn't an inch of navy blue in the bunch. Joe would have been so pleased.

 

Save-A-Bunch, the only grocery store in Nilson's Bay, isn't exactly a Whole Foods.

It was on the smallish side to begin with, and 80 percent of what square footage they did have was devoted to the sale of canned or frozen food. There was a small deli counter where you could get cold cuts and cheese sliced to order, but no specialty cheese section or olive bar. The meat counter had only a tiny selection of seafood, all of it previously frozen, which was odd considering how much fresh fish we had access to this close to Lake Michigan. The produce section was small, too, carrying only iceberg and romaine lettuce. The only available fruits were apples, oranges, bananas, four sad-looking melons, and six avocados, all as hard as rocks.

I wheeled my cart around the perimeter of the store three times, trying to figure out what I should buy. In the end, I settled on salad in a bag, pre-peeled baby carrots, potatoes, oranges, bread, canned soup and chili, frozen pizza, a precooked rotisserie chicken, coffee, milk, cat litter, pretzels, and two boxes of Cap'n Crunch—regular and the kind with Crunch Berries.

I finished filling my cart and wheeled it to the front of the store. There were two checkout lines, but only one clerk. Rinda Charles was manning the register. My face broke into a smile when I saw her.

“Hi! I'm Lucy, Alice's sister. I'm so glad I ran into—”

“Got a rewards card?”

“Umm . . . no. I don't really live here now. Listen, I'm really glad that I—”

“Coupons?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do. You. Have. Any. Coupons.” She uttered each word distinctly and a little louder than was necessary, as if I might be hard of hearing.

“No coupons.”

With an expression as flat as her voice, Rinda started punching numbers into the register. Apparently, the store didn't have a computerized checkout system. Rinda had to key in the price of each separate item. It was clear that she'd memorized most of them, which was pretty impressive, but still inefficient. This was going to take a while.

“I'm Lucy Toomey, Alice's sister.”

“I
know
who you are,” she said, stabbing her forefinger against the register keys like she wanted to teach them a lesson. “I was
at
the funeral.”

“Right. Of course.”

This wasn't going very well. But Rinda was one of Alice's best friends and people respond differently to grief, so I decided to overlook her snippy tone.

“I saw you and your friends at the funeral and really wanted to talk to you. But by the time I was able to get to that side of the room, you'd already gone.”

Rinda went right on with what she was doing without giving any indication that she'd heard me. She weighed my oranges and keyed in the price before she shoved them across the counter into the bagging area and rang up the total.

“Eighty-one dollars and twenty-six cents.”

I flipped open the flap on my wallet and pulled out a credit card.

“We don't take American Express,” she said.

I flipped to another section of my wallet and reached for a pen.

“
Or
out-of-state checks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Seriously? Come on. You know who I am.”

“Uh-huh. Alice's sister. So you say. Since I've never seen you around here before now, I guess I'll just have to take your word on that. But even if you think you're all that just because you got yourself interviewed by some blowhard on television, and even if you do spend your life playing politics and figuring out ways to waste the taxpayers' hard-earned money instead of getting a real job, if you don't live in Nilson's Bay, we won't take your check. Store policy.”

She pressed her lips together, crossed her arms, and stared as I took all the cash from my wallet and counted it out, giving me a little harrumph as I asked her to take back one box of cereal and one of the frozen pizzas.

When she finished and announced the new, reduced total, I handed her the money and said, “Rinda. I'm starting to get the feeling that you don't like me.”

She stabbed a button to open the cash drawer. “Thank heaven you're smarter than you look.”

She handed me back my change with a triumphant little smile. I smiled back. I've always respected people who let you know exactly where they stand and what they think. It's so much easier to handle somebody who despises you outright than someone who pretends to be polite.

I dumped the change into the bottom of my purse. Rinda had given me back three dollars in quarters, even though there were plenty of bills in the register.

“Rinda, let me ask you something; does your dislike of me stem from the fact that I didn't come see my sister as often as you thought I should? Or because I work in politics?”

“Both,” she answered. “But if you stuck around long enough for me to get to know you better, I'm sure I'd be able to find plenty of other reasons not to like you.”

“Well, you might just have the chance,” I said with my sweetest smile, enjoying the look of confusion on Rinda's face.

Really, if she thought I was going to burst into tears over a few insults, she needed to think again. After thirteen years in the political arena, not only am I immune to the stings of verbal sparring, I actually enjoy them.

“I'm staying in Nilson's Bay until the end of December. Maybe even longer,” I informed her, adding the last part just for the pleasure of seeing the distress in her eyes deepen. “So I'm sure we'll be seeing lots of each other.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said, giving another harrumph.

I began loading the filled grocery sacks back into my cart since it didn't look like Rinda was planning to do it for me.

“Since there's only one grocery store in town and I eat on a pretty regular basis, I don't see how you'll be able to avoid it,” I said as I hefted the fourteen-pound box of cat litter onto the top rack of the grocery cart. “But you'll get used to me. I grow on people.”

“I bet you do. Like fungus on a rotten log.”

I laughed and prepared to push off, but not before remembering what I had wanted to say to her in the first place.

“Rinda, listen. I just want to thank you for making that quilt. It really was beautiful.”

Her jaw twitched and tightened, as if she was swallowing hard. For a moment, I thought I saw a tear come into her eye, but she turned her back to me so quickly that I couldn't be sure.

She slammed the cash drawer closed.

“We didn't make it for
you
.”

“I know,” I said and started pushing my cart away from the counter. “But I thank you anyway.”

And I meant it too.

The way that people had responded to them at the funeral told me that Rinda and her friends had been there for Alice when I couldn't be. People around town saw them as sisters of the heart, almost a single unit, the FOA. You never saw one without the others, they said. But what did they think of me? Her actual sister?

My guess was that Rinda's words summed up what a lot of people thought but were too polite to come right out and say.

It was raining. I ran from the store to the car, the shopping cart clattering as I pushed it ahead of me, trying to jump across puddles and dodge the raindrops.