“It’s right here,” I had the immense pleasure of saying after allowing her to prattle on and on, the most she’d spoken to me in nearly a week. I led her into the laundry room. It had sleeted overnight, but the day had been warm and the mail soggy and full of grit. I had spread it out on a dish towel to dry.
“Were you planning on telling me it was there, or were you waiting for me to ask where it was?” She didn’t give me a half second to answer before moving on to my next offense. “And you need to find another place to park that bike if you’re going to be using it again. I can’t get to anything I need with where you have it in the garage now.”
That was when I started snapping up my coat. I didn’t have to leave for another hour, but it was time to go.
* * *
Tina lived in the Spanish-style mansion in Clyde Hill. Everybody knew the house. A few years back, some old Texas millionaire blew into town and built a six-bedroom behemoth with a red barrel-tiled roof and a grand central courtyard. On either side, two ranch-style homes squatted like the estate’s ugly stepsisters. People had been up in arms, and I learned a lot of new words then: gaudy, ostentatious, arrogant. I knew what arrogant meant because I had a sister-in-law. I just hadn’t realized it was something a house could be too.
I’d never actually laid eyes on the Texas millionaire. He was rarely in town, and when he was, he remained in his fortress. The Spanish mansion was not his main residence, and it was a mystery as to what he was doing in the Seattle area. Rumors flew—he was there to buy out Dixon Group, to run for mayor. But he never did anything except build a gaudy, ostentatious, arrogant eyesore too close to the neighbors, and then he died. I saw his picture in the paper and barely registered the news. He looked like someone who would die. He was at least eighty years old. I could not believe that was Tina’s late husband. I imagined sharing a bed with him, his scabby legs sanding mine in the night. I was a little bit disgusted with her, a little bit impressed.
I approached the house, taking small, demure steps, the way I had when I walked down the aisle to CJ. I was never one to be self-conscious or intimidated by people with money. Quite the opposite—their privilege triggered a sort of serenity within me, ums and uhs lifted from my speech, and my ankles wound like those of a noblewoman taking her seat in a European court. The etiquette came so naturally that I almost believed in reincarnation. In another life, I’m sure I was a wealthy woman.
* * *
No one came to the door for a while, but I could hear voices inside. Angry voices. Two women, fighting. There was another car in the driveway, next to Tina’s, but I had just assumed that was hers as well. If she’d had to have sex with that old man, I hoped she’d at least gotten a second car out of it.
When the door finally opened, I could tell Tina had been crying. She’d made a poor attempt to cover it up. Her bloodshot eyes were ringed with a foundation much too pink for her skin tone. “You’re early,” she said, “but come on in.” She held the door open resentfully.
Whatever was going on, this felt fair to me. She had witnessed an ugly scene inside my house, and now it was her turn under the microscope.
The house was spectacular and freezing cold. I must have shivered, because Tina said with rancor, “The heat is on. It’s just always cold in this fucking ghost house.” The weighty wood door clobbered closed behind me, rattling a glass vase on a table.
“I was just about to set out some coffee and snacks,” Tina said, walking in the direction of the kitchen, I supposed. “You can help if you want.”
I was dying to check out the rest of the house. I followed Tina with my head tipped back, admiring the wood beams on the ceilings. The walls were pure white stucco, absolutely nothing painted or wallpapered. There were no photos or art hanging up; there was no need. The wrought-iron grillwork on the windows and the bronze candle-style chandeliers were decoration enough. I wished everyone who had called this place gaudy could see the inside. Tina knew what not to do with money, and I approved. My approval probably didn’t matter to Tina, but I felt she should know it was not easily earned.
On the kitchen table there was a dead flower in a clay pot. Nothing on the countertops—no sugar or sponges or cooking utensils. Tina opened the refrigerator and removed a tray of vegetables and dip that she had bought preassembled from the grocery store. My mother was always pointing to it and saying what a rip-off it was. You could buy three bags of carrots and a bottle of ranch for a dollar less.