rent. “Do you have a budget, Mr. O'Connor?”
“Not really,” he said quietly and then glanced at his watch. He had to run to an appointment with a family about two of their foster children. “I'll see you at five then.” But she was no longer quite so certain that he'd be the right tenant. Someone who worked in Watts was not going to be able to afford Cooper Winslow's gatehouse. And when she saw him late that afternoon, she was certain of it.
Jimmy arrived driving the beat-up Honda Civic that Maggie had insisted they buy, although he had wanted to spring for something a lot more jazzy when they moved to California. He had tried to explain to her that living in California was all about having a great car, but in the end, as usual, she convinced him otherwise. There was no way they could do the kind of work they did, and drive an expensive car, no matter how easily he could afford it. The fact that he came from money, very old money, and quite a lot of it, had always remained a well-kept secret, even among their friends.
He was wearing worn jeans with frayed edges and a torn knee, a faded Harvard sweatshirt that he'd had for a dozen years, and a battered pair of workboots. But in the places where he visited families, there were often rats and he didn't want to get bitten. But in contrast to his clothes, he was clean shaven, intelligent, obviously well educated, and had a recent haircut. He was an interesting conglomeration of conflicting elements, which confused the agent completely.
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. O'Connor?” sheasked chattily as she unlocked the door to the gatehouse. She had already shown it three times that afternoon, but the first man she'd shown it to said it was too small, the second one thought it was too isolated, and the third one really wanted an apartment. So it was still free and clear, although she was certain now that Jimmy couldn't afford it. Not on a social worker's wages. But she had to show it to him anyway.
As they came through the hedge, she heard him catch his breath. It looked like an Irish cottage, and reminded him of the trips to Ireland he'd taken with Maggie. And the moment he stepped into the living room, he felt as though he could have been in Ireland or England. It was a perfect little house for a bachelor, it had a manly, unpretentious, unfussy feel to it, and he seemed pleased when he saw the kitchen. And he seemed satisfied with the bedroom too. But what he said he liked most of all was the feeling that he was out in the country somewhere. Unlike the man who had seen it that afternoon, he liked the isolation. It suited his mood.
“Will your wife want to see it?” the realtor asked, probing delicately to see if he was married. He was a good-looking guy, in great shape, and as she glanced at the sweatshirt, she wondered if he actually had gone to Harvard, or just bought the shirt at the Goodwill.
“No, she…” he started to say in answer to the question about his wife, and then didn't. “I'm… I'd be living here alone.” He still couldn't bring himself to say “widowed.” It sliced right through his heart like a knife each time he tried it. And “single” sounded pathetic and dishonest. At times, he still wanted to say hewas married. He would have still been wearing his wedding band if he'd had one. Maggie had never given him one, and the one she'd worn had been buried with her. “I like it,” he said quietly, walking through all the rooms again, and opening all the closets. Being on the estate seemed a little grand to him, but he wondered if he could tell people he was house-sitting, or paid to work on the grounds, if he brought anyone home from work.
There were a lot of stories he could tell if he had to, and had over the years. But what he liked best about it was that he knew Maggie would have loved it. It was just her kind of place, although she would never have agreed to live there, because she couldn't afford her share. It made him smile,
“Not really,” he said quietly and then glanced at his watch. He had to run to an appointment with a family about two of their foster children. “I'll see you at five then.” But she was no longer quite so certain that he'd be the right tenant. Someone who worked in Watts was not going to be able to afford Cooper Winslow's gatehouse. And when she saw him late that afternoon, she was certain of it.
Jimmy arrived driving the beat-up Honda Civic that Maggie had insisted they buy, although he had wanted to spring for something a lot more jazzy when they moved to California. He had tried to explain to her that living in California was all about having a great car, but in the end, as usual, she convinced him otherwise. There was no way they could do the kind of work they did, and drive an expensive car, no matter how easily he could afford it. The fact that he came from money, very old money, and quite a lot of it, had always remained a well-kept secret, even among their friends.
He was wearing worn jeans with frayed edges and a torn knee, a faded Harvard sweatshirt that he'd had for a dozen years, and a battered pair of workboots. But in the places where he visited families, there were often rats and he didn't want to get bitten. But in contrast to his clothes, he was clean shaven, intelligent, obviously well educated, and had a recent haircut. He was an interesting conglomeration of conflicting elements, which confused the agent completely.
“What sort of work do you do, Mr. O'Connor?” sheasked chattily as she unlocked the door to the gatehouse. She had already shown it three times that afternoon, but the first man she'd shown it to said it was too small, the second one thought it was too isolated, and the third one really wanted an apartment. So it was still free and clear, although she was certain now that Jimmy couldn't afford it. Not on a social worker's wages. But she had to show it to him anyway.
As they came through the hedge, she heard him catch his breath. It looked like an Irish cottage, and reminded him of the trips to Ireland he'd taken with Maggie. And the moment he stepped into the living room, he felt as though he could have been in Ireland or England. It was a perfect little house for a bachelor, it had a manly, unpretentious, unfussy feel to it, and he seemed pleased when he saw the kitchen. And he seemed satisfied with the bedroom too. But what he said he liked most of all was the feeling that he was out in the country somewhere. Unlike the man who had seen it that afternoon, he liked the isolation. It suited his mood.
“Will your wife want to see it?” the realtor asked, probing delicately to see if he was married. He was a good-looking guy, in great shape, and as she glanced at the sweatshirt, she wondered if he actually had gone to Harvard, or just bought the shirt at the Goodwill.
“No, she…” he started to say in answer to the question about his wife, and then didn't. “I'm… I'd be living here alone.” He still couldn't bring himself to say “widowed.” It sliced right through his heart like a knife each time he tried it. And “single” sounded pathetic and dishonest. At times, he still wanted to say hewas married. He would have still been wearing his wedding band if he'd had one. Maggie had never given him one, and the one she'd worn had been buried with her. “I like it,” he said quietly, walking through all the rooms again, and opening all the closets. Being on the estate seemed a little grand to him, but he wondered if he could tell people he was house-sitting, or paid to work on the grounds, if he brought anyone home from work.
There were a lot of stories he could tell if he had to, and had over the years. But what he liked best about it was that he knew Maggie would have loved it. It was just her kind of place, although she would never have agreed to live there, because she couldn't afford her share. It made him smile,
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