Andrea surmised.
Max nodded. “Not just living there. She’s
running a business out of the house.”
“A business ?” Andrea’s impeccably
tweezed eyebrows arched so high, Max was afraid they’d collide with
her hairline.
He laughed. “Not that kind of business.
She teaches art. And that’s the thing. I can’t have her running a
school in the house, with little kids doing finger-painting and
trashing the place.”
“Is the place trashed?” Andrea’s eyebrows
soared again.
“Not that I could see.”
“We need to do a walk-through,” Andrea said,
jotting a note on the small pad on her desk. “Monica is liable for
any damage to the place. We’ve got the security deposit, but—”
“The thing is, this second tenant…” What
could he tell Andrea about the second tenant? That her hair was the
color of fire and her lips made him think of plums, sweet and tart
and juicy? That beneath her baggy apparel he could detect the sort
of enticing curves most women went on drastic diets to eliminate
and most men dreamed of? That a stupid song had scrambled his
usually orderly mind and he was no longer quite sure of who he
was?
No. He couldn’t say any of that. Just
thinking it gave him a headache.
“She needs to work,” he said. “I want to help
her find someplace else to hold her classes.”
“I don’t see how that’s your responsibility,”
Andrea said, her tone indignant. “I’m so sorry. I should have
checked to make sure Monica was honoring the terms of the lease.
I’ve known the Reinharts for years. Monica is a good girl. I
assumed she would entertain friends in the house—and I assumed she
would do so in a civilized manner. No blow-outs, no keggers, no
inviting half the world over via Twitter.”
“Forget parties. Forget trashing the place.”
Max tried to steer Andrea back to the issue that concerned him.
“You know the available properties around here. Is there any
reasonably priced space where Emma could hold her classes?”
Andrea shrugged. “I’d have to research
it.”
“Please do.” Max rose from his chair.
Andrea peered up at him. Her lipstick was as
impeccable as her eyebrows, the dark pink applied with precision.
Max had never understood the allure of lipstick. If you wanted to
kiss a woman, you didn’t want to kiss some cosmetic product. And if
you didn’t want to kiss her, lipstick wasn’t going to change
that.
“What about listing the house?” Andrea asked.
“Do you want to go ahead with that?”
“I plan to sell it,” he assured her. “But
don’t list it yet. They have two more months on the lease.”
“Selling a house takes time. Especially an
unusual house like yours. It’s fabulous, but it’s not exactly your
standard-issue Boston area home. I know we’ll get a good price for
it, but it might take longer to find a buyer who loves it as much
as you did when you bought it.”
Max wasn’t sure he’d ever loved it. Vanessa
had. He’d bought it for her.
But that was none of Andrea’s business. “If
you want to get started on some preliminary work—have it appraised,
photograph it, make sure everything is in order—that would be fine.
But don’t list it yet. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to take the
next step.”
Leaving Andrea’s office,
passing two younger brokers at their desks in the front room and
stepping outside into the sunny afternoon, Max tried to puzzle out
why he was suddenly less than eager to sell the house. Every
remotely possible explanation led back to that stupid song. Like a rainbow ? What the
hell did rainbows have to do with anything?
He strolled down the driveway to the lot in
the rear, where he’d parked his rental car, and climbed in. Had he
been at Logan Airport only yesterday, signing the paperwork in that
area of the terminal where all the rental car desks were clustered?
Had it been a mere twenty-four hours ago when he’d phoned the Hyatt
Regency in Cambridge on his way out to the rental car lot and told
them
Max nodded. “Not just living there. She’s
running a business out of the house.”
“A business ?” Andrea’s impeccably
tweezed eyebrows arched so high, Max was afraid they’d collide with
her hairline.
He laughed. “Not that kind of business.
She teaches art. And that’s the thing. I can’t have her running a
school in the house, with little kids doing finger-painting and
trashing the place.”
“Is the place trashed?” Andrea’s eyebrows
soared again.
“Not that I could see.”
“We need to do a walk-through,” Andrea said,
jotting a note on the small pad on her desk. “Monica is liable for
any damage to the place. We’ve got the security deposit, but—”
“The thing is, this second tenant…” What
could he tell Andrea about the second tenant? That her hair was the
color of fire and her lips made him think of plums, sweet and tart
and juicy? That beneath her baggy apparel he could detect the sort
of enticing curves most women went on drastic diets to eliminate
and most men dreamed of? That a stupid song had scrambled his
usually orderly mind and he was no longer quite sure of who he
was?
No. He couldn’t say any of that. Just
thinking it gave him a headache.
“She needs to work,” he said. “I want to help
her find someplace else to hold her classes.”
“I don’t see how that’s your responsibility,”
Andrea said, her tone indignant. “I’m so sorry. I should have
checked to make sure Monica was honoring the terms of the lease.
I’ve known the Reinharts for years. Monica is a good girl. I
assumed she would entertain friends in the house—and I assumed she
would do so in a civilized manner. No blow-outs, no keggers, no
inviting half the world over via Twitter.”
“Forget parties. Forget trashing the place.”
Max tried to steer Andrea back to the issue that concerned him.
“You know the available properties around here. Is there any
reasonably priced space where Emma could hold her classes?”
Andrea shrugged. “I’d have to research
it.”
“Please do.” Max rose from his chair.
Andrea peered up at him. Her lipstick was as
impeccable as her eyebrows, the dark pink applied with precision.
Max had never understood the allure of lipstick. If you wanted to
kiss a woman, you didn’t want to kiss some cosmetic product. And if
you didn’t want to kiss her, lipstick wasn’t going to change
that.
“What about listing the house?” Andrea asked.
“Do you want to go ahead with that?”
“I plan to sell it,” he assured her. “But
don’t list it yet. They have two more months on the lease.”
“Selling a house takes time. Especially an
unusual house like yours. It’s fabulous, but it’s not exactly your
standard-issue Boston area home. I know we’ll get a good price for
it, but it might take longer to find a buyer who loves it as much
as you did when you bought it.”
Max wasn’t sure he’d ever loved it. Vanessa
had. He’d bought it for her.
But that was none of Andrea’s business. “If
you want to get started on some preliminary work—have it appraised,
photograph it, make sure everything is in order—that would be fine.
But don’t list it yet. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to take the
next step.”
Leaving Andrea’s office,
passing two younger brokers at their desks in the front room and
stepping outside into the sunny afternoon, Max tried to puzzle out
why he was suddenly less than eager to sell the house. Every
remotely possible explanation led back to that stupid song. Like a rainbow ? What the
hell did rainbows have to do with anything?
He strolled down the driveway to the lot in
the rear, where he’d parked his rental car, and climbed in. Had he
been at Logan Airport only yesterday, signing the paperwork in that
area of the terminal where all the rental car desks were clustered?
Had it been a mere twenty-four hours ago when he’d phoned the Hyatt
Regency in Cambridge on his way out to the rental car lot and told
them
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