walking away from my desk and twirling her putter. “Just don’t forget to call Jack Trenholm.”
I didn’t dignify her comment with a response and hung up the phone before turning to my computerized calendar to check out what appointments I had that day. I had three home previews to make in the morning, but my afternoon was blocked to show several houses to a single professor, Chad Arasi, moving from San Francisco to teach art history at the College of Charleston. From our lengthy phone conversations, in which he’d finished just about every sentence with the word “cool,” I’d decided to narrow our search to the new trendy condos and refurbished warehouses on East Bay Street. My evening hours, as usual, were completely blank. Maybe I’d have time to rearrange my sock drawer.
I was just picking up the phone to call Chad to confirm our first appointment when Nancy appeared at my desk again and slapped down a thick hardback book. “I Googled him and found out he’s single and lives in the French Quarter.”
“Who . . . ?” I started to ask but she’d already left. I hung up my phone and picked up the book and read the title: Remember the Alamo: What Really Happened to Davey Crockett. Under the title in even bigger print was the name Jack Trenholm. I was pretty sure that I didn’t know him, but his last name was certainly familiar. Trenholm. Trenholm. I said the name a couple of times just to see what it would recall, but my mind remained blank. I flipped over the book to read the back-cover copy and came eye to eye with a full, glossy black-and-white of the author.
As a single, career-oriented woman approaching forty, I wish I could say that I’m impervious to a pretty face, and try to stick with my straightforward business attitude. But Mr. Trenholm, well, let’s just say that I was suddenly in sixth grade again, swooning because they’d assigned Ned Campbell a locker next to mine.
He had one of those gorgeous all-American faces that said, I can throw a football, bake a cake, bring you roses, and make the bed shake, and it was just starting to dawn on me that I actually had his phone number and that he had called me first.
I held the book in my hand and stared at the picture for a full minute, remembering what Nancy had said about making myself approachable and thinking about my social life, or lack thereof. Putting the book down, I scattered the pink message slips across my desk until I found his and yanked up the phone before I could talk myself out of it. Before I could dial, Nancy buzzed me on my intercom. “I told you so.”
Without answering her, I hung up, pulled out my cell phone, and walked to Mr. Henderson’s office, where I could close the door and speak in private.
I took a deep breath and pretended to myself that I was making a business call. Quickly, I dialed the number on the message slip and waited until it had rung nine times before the answering machine picked up. Assuming that a writer must also be an early riser and therefore thinking he might have been in the shower when I called, I hung up without leaving a message and let it ring nine times again, figuring he had plenty of time to get out of the shower by now. This time my efforts were rewarded with a voice on the other end.
“Who the hell is this? And do you have any idea what time it is?”
I froze in horror. My mouth, for the first time in my life, was unable to come up with a single lowering or sarcastic comment. At that point, I should have done what any other self-respecting woman would do and hang up. But Nancy Flaherty was right: I had suddenly reverted to a tongue-tied twelve-year-old girl calling a boy for the first time. For reasons unknown even to me, I chose to disguise my voice so that it sounded something between a Mexican maid and a Russian diplomat. “I’m zorry. Wrong numberrr.”
“Wait a minute. Henderson Realty. I know that name. . . .”
Shit. Caller ID. “One moment, pleaze, sir, while I connect
I didn’t dignify her comment with a response and hung up the phone before turning to my computerized calendar to check out what appointments I had that day. I had three home previews to make in the morning, but my afternoon was blocked to show several houses to a single professor, Chad Arasi, moving from San Francisco to teach art history at the College of Charleston. From our lengthy phone conversations, in which he’d finished just about every sentence with the word “cool,” I’d decided to narrow our search to the new trendy condos and refurbished warehouses on East Bay Street. My evening hours, as usual, were completely blank. Maybe I’d have time to rearrange my sock drawer.
I was just picking up the phone to call Chad to confirm our first appointment when Nancy appeared at my desk again and slapped down a thick hardback book. “I Googled him and found out he’s single and lives in the French Quarter.”
“Who . . . ?” I started to ask but she’d already left. I hung up my phone and picked up the book and read the title: Remember the Alamo: What Really Happened to Davey Crockett. Under the title in even bigger print was the name Jack Trenholm. I was pretty sure that I didn’t know him, but his last name was certainly familiar. Trenholm. Trenholm. I said the name a couple of times just to see what it would recall, but my mind remained blank. I flipped over the book to read the back-cover copy and came eye to eye with a full, glossy black-and-white of the author.
As a single, career-oriented woman approaching forty, I wish I could say that I’m impervious to a pretty face, and try to stick with my straightforward business attitude. But Mr. Trenholm, well, let’s just say that I was suddenly in sixth grade again, swooning because they’d assigned Ned Campbell a locker next to mine.
He had one of those gorgeous all-American faces that said, I can throw a football, bake a cake, bring you roses, and make the bed shake, and it was just starting to dawn on me that I actually had his phone number and that he had called me first.
I held the book in my hand and stared at the picture for a full minute, remembering what Nancy had said about making myself approachable and thinking about my social life, or lack thereof. Putting the book down, I scattered the pink message slips across my desk until I found his and yanked up the phone before I could talk myself out of it. Before I could dial, Nancy buzzed me on my intercom. “I told you so.”
Without answering her, I hung up, pulled out my cell phone, and walked to Mr. Henderson’s office, where I could close the door and speak in private.
I took a deep breath and pretended to myself that I was making a business call. Quickly, I dialed the number on the message slip and waited until it had rung nine times before the answering machine picked up. Assuming that a writer must also be an early riser and therefore thinking he might have been in the shower when I called, I hung up without leaving a message and let it ring nine times again, figuring he had plenty of time to get out of the shower by now. This time my efforts were rewarded with a voice on the other end.
“Who the hell is this? And do you have any idea what time it is?”
I froze in horror. My mouth, for the first time in my life, was unable to come up with a single lowering or sarcastic comment. At that point, I should have done what any other self-respecting woman would do and hang up. But Nancy Flaherty was right: I had suddenly reverted to a tongue-tied twelve-year-old girl calling a boy for the first time. For reasons unknown even to me, I chose to disguise my voice so that it sounded something between a Mexican maid and a Russian diplomat. “I’m zorry. Wrong numberrr.”
“Wait a minute. Henderson Realty. I know that name. . . .”
Shit. Caller ID. “One moment, pleaze, sir, while I connect
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