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
“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
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