me.’ ”
On my drive home from work, I bought a bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay at the Drive-Thru Liquor Barn. Later that night, after three mugs of wine, four Tylenol PMs, and a few hours of the World Series of Poker , I fell asleep.
At some point, Gerry came to bed. The way he curled around me was one of my favorite things about him. I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck, his slow, sleepy exhalations. It was too good to last, I knew. So I tried not to grow accustomed to being loved, to being held in the night. I tried not to believe he would always be there, so I wouldn’t be too crushed when everything went wrong.
In the morning Gerry told me I had been snoring.
9
I met the Hendrixes outside the main terminal at the airport. A tanned couple wearing bright fleece vests, they were moving from New England to Texas, Betty Hendrix had said in her emails. They were looking forward to warm weather!!! I’d polished off a grande latte and was still so tired I felt stoned.
“Whew!” cried Betty Hendrix as I held open the passenger door of the Neon for her. She had short brown hair and a ruddy complexion, as if she spent time outdoors, cross-country skiing or chopping wood. “It is sweltering!” she said gaily. “Nothing like Boston.” She spat out Boston as if saying poison .
“Can I help you with your bags?” I asked. I felt a headache beginning to bloom.
“Oh, Benny’s got them,” she said, dismissing her husband, a distinguished-looking man who had thick reddish hair, with a swipe of her hand. Amid the gaseous fumes from passing buses and idling cars, I could smell her fruity lotion.
Benjamin Hendrix slammed the trunk shut and joined us, holding out a pink hand. “Hello, hello,” he said. “You must be Lauren.” He smiled kindly, and I wondered if he had children, and if they knew how lucky they were.
“I am,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix.”
“Ben, please. Ben and Betty.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Please, climb in. Let’s go find you two a house.”
“Let’s do,” said Betty. She slid into the backseat, and surprising me, Ben settled himself into the front passenger seat. We pulled out of the airport and promptly got embroiled in traffic on 71. “Feels just like home,” said Betty drily.
“Now, come on, dear,” said Ben, gesturing to a topless club along the highway. “We don’t have anything called the Landing Strip near Logan.”
“Hmph,” said Betty.
From my attaché case, I took the stack of stapled papers I had spent the previous afternoon preparing. “Take a look,” I said. “I’ve selected some wonderful homes for you to preview. I think you’ll be pleased.” In fact, the Hendrixes’ price range was well below the cost of fulfilling Betty’s dream of acquiring “a big Victorian-style home with at least an acre of land, four or five bedrooms, and a few fireplaces, but in the city, no gated communities, please.” For a half million, the Hendrixes were either going to be well into the ’burbs or giving up the land and the fireplaces; and they wouldn’t be getting four bedrooms unless they went for the utility-closet-as-bedroom, which I doubted they would.
Ben slipped his glasses down his nose and peered at my printouts, frowning. “Where are these places?” he asked. “Steiner Ranch? Circle C? Are these the suburbs?”
“Not officially ,” I said.
“I’m confused,” said Ben. “I thought we were looking at condos. I want a downtown feel, an urban lifestyle.”
“I told her close in,” said Betty. “I told her, Benny. Oh, look at this one! Three fireplaces!”
Ben took the printout and squinted. “Where the hell is Round Rock?” he said.
“It’s close,” I murmured, “to many things.”
“I can just feel a warm fire with Yo-Yo Ma—our cat—curled in my lap,” said Betty.
“Mr. Hendrix,” I said. “Ben. What are you looking for, exactly? I’ll call my assistant and have him send some more listings
On my drive home from work, I bought a bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay at the Drive-Thru Liquor Barn. Later that night, after three mugs of wine, four Tylenol PMs, and a few hours of the World Series of Poker , I fell asleep.
At some point, Gerry came to bed. The way he curled around me was one of my favorite things about him. I felt his warm breath on the back of my neck, his slow, sleepy exhalations. It was too good to last, I knew. So I tried not to grow accustomed to being loved, to being held in the night. I tried not to believe he would always be there, so I wouldn’t be too crushed when everything went wrong.
In the morning Gerry told me I had been snoring.
9
I met the Hendrixes outside the main terminal at the airport. A tanned couple wearing bright fleece vests, they were moving from New England to Texas, Betty Hendrix had said in her emails. They were looking forward to warm weather!!! I’d polished off a grande latte and was still so tired I felt stoned.
“Whew!” cried Betty Hendrix as I held open the passenger door of the Neon for her. She had short brown hair and a ruddy complexion, as if she spent time outdoors, cross-country skiing or chopping wood. “It is sweltering!” she said gaily. “Nothing like Boston.” She spat out Boston as if saying poison .
“Can I help you with your bags?” I asked. I felt a headache beginning to bloom.
“Oh, Benny’s got them,” she said, dismissing her husband, a distinguished-looking man who had thick reddish hair, with a swipe of her hand. Amid the gaseous fumes from passing buses and idling cars, I could smell her fruity lotion.
Benjamin Hendrix slammed the trunk shut and joined us, holding out a pink hand. “Hello, hello,” he said. “You must be Lauren.” He smiled kindly, and I wondered if he had children, and if they knew how lucky they were.
“I am,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix.”
“Ben, please. Ben and Betty.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Please, climb in. Let’s go find you two a house.”
“Let’s do,” said Betty. She slid into the backseat, and surprising me, Ben settled himself into the front passenger seat. We pulled out of the airport and promptly got embroiled in traffic on 71. “Feels just like home,” said Betty drily.
“Now, come on, dear,” said Ben, gesturing to a topless club along the highway. “We don’t have anything called the Landing Strip near Logan.”
“Hmph,” said Betty.
From my attaché case, I took the stack of stapled papers I had spent the previous afternoon preparing. “Take a look,” I said. “I’ve selected some wonderful homes for you to preview. I think you’ll be pleased.” In fact, the Hendrixes’ price range was well below the cost of fulfilling Betty’s dream of acquiring “a big Victorian-style home with at least an acre of land, four or five bedrooms, and a few fireplaces, but in the city, no gated communities, please.” For a half million, the Hendrixes were either going to be well into the ’burbs or giving up the land and the fireplaces; and they wouldn’t be getting four bedrooms unless they went for the utility-closet-as-bedroom, which I doubted they would.
Ben slipped his glasses down his nose and peered at my printouts, frowning. “Where are these places?” he asked. “Steiner Ranch? Circle C? Are these the suburbs?”
“Not officially ,” I said.
“I’m confused,” said Ben. “I thought we were looking at condos. I want a downtown feel, an urban lifestyle.”
“I told her close in,” said Betty. “I told her, Benny. Oh, look at this one! Three fireplaces!”
Ben took the printout and squinted. “Where the hell is Round Rock?” he said.
“It’s close,” I murmured, “to many things.”
“I can just feel a warm fire with Yo-Yo Ma—our cat—curled in my lap,” said Betty.
“Mr. Hendrix,” I said. “Ben. What are you looking for, exactly? I’ll call my assistant and have him send some more listings
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