Swindlers by D.W. Buffa Page B

remarks of prospective buyers who
did not know what they wanted, and could not afford it if they did,
going back to her small condominium and kicking off her shoes,
lighting up a cigarette and tossing down a beer.
    “Last year, wasn’t it?” she asked as she
unlocked the front door. “You were on television, on all the time –
some trial that had everyone’s attention. You won, didn’t you?”
    She gave me the look of someone who wished
things had turned out differently, not the trial, but what had
happened with her daughter. It was what she had told me at the
time, when the engagement had been broken off.
    “You were too serious for her. You were
starting law school. Jean wanted to have a good time, and, well…you
remember. I told her she was making a mistake.”
    Her eyes brightened with encouragement, the
same look she had given me the last time I had seen her, just after
the engagement ended and I did not think anything would ever be any
good again.
    “And I was right,” she went on. “You’ve
become everything I thought you would be, and Jean’s now been
married and divorced and married again.”
    She took a picture from her wallet and handed
it to me. Jean, the girl I had fallen in love with and wanted to
marry, was standing with her arms around three small children. The
carefree look had gone from her eyes and even her smile seemed
solemn.
    “Three kids and a couple of husbands will do
that to you,” said Carol, who, when it came to her daughter, had
always been able to read my mind. “Are you married?”
    “Me? No.”
    “Close?” she asked, eager to know.
    I laughed and told her that I had not felt
about anyone what I had felt about Jean.
    “You’ll say hello for me?”
    “Of course. She asks about you. She won’t say
it, but she wishes she had it to do over.”
    She left the front door open and led me into
the kitchen in back. Pouring a glass of water from the tap, she
took a sip and sighed with small pleasure. She tossed the rest in
the sink, wiped the glass dry and put it back in the cupboard.
Opening the refrigerator, her eyes lit up.
    “Here,” she said, handing me a cold bottle of
beer. “They won’t mind. After standing outside, waiting for me in
that heat, you deserve it.”
    We sat down at a table next to the window and
I took a drink, and then I took another. Carol watched me, waiting
for me to tell her why I had suddenly called and asked to see her.
A car stopped outside. Her eyes darted down the hallway to the
front door, but the car started up again and with a shadow of
disappointment her gaze came back to mine.
    “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you earlier, that I
had to ask you to meet me here,” she started to explain. “It’s too
warm in here, isn’t it? I better check the thermostat.”
    She disappeared down the hallway, her steps a
hard echo on the gleaming hardwood floor. A few moments later, she
was back, nodding to herself as she made a mental note.
    “They had it set too high. A big, expensive
house – and they’re trying to save a few dollars on the electric
bill. Everybody’s desperate now, trying to sell in a market like
this,” she mumbled. Suddenly, her eyes brightened, and she bent
forward, wondering, from the delighted expression on her face, why
she had not thought of it before. “Have you ever thought about
living out here? Thought about getting out of the city? This would
be a wonderful place for you, perfect for someone who likes his
privacy.” She turned her head toward the window, making sure my
eyes would follow. “Look out there: a pool, a tennis court, and
with that vine-covered fence you don’t even know you have
neighbors! I can get you a very good price,” she promised
confidentially.
    After years of selling real estate, it was
what Carol Llewelyn had become, her identity. Saying no was a
little like telling her that you preferred someone else. Even if
she had not been the mother of the only girl I had ever really been
in love with, even