Sarah winked as she took her coffee, and I returned to restocking the small fridge where we kept lemon slices and cream.
As soon as Sarah was gone and there were no other customers lingering within earshot, Glenn clomped to me and put his hands on his hips. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. No one wants to hear about your sex life.”
I looked up at him, a little indignant, a little confused, and a whole lot pissed off. “I didn’t say a word about sex,” I countered.
“And you damn well better not.” He pointed at the fridge. “Spotless,” he said. “And I need you to open tomorrow.”
I gaped at him. “I’m off tomorrow.”
“Not anymore.”
I stood up, accidentally kicking over a pitcher of iced coffee in the process.
“Aw, Christ, Katrina. Clean that mess up, too, and hurry up about it. We’re gonna be getting all the students any minute now.”
I ignored the growing puddle of coffee. “I’m closing on my house tomorrow. I’ve had tomorrow scheduled off for weeks now.”
“Beth quit. Got a job filing at some law firm. That makes you the next in line.”
“Dammit, Glenn, I can’t.”
He stared at me. “Fine. What time is your closing?”
“Ten.”
“You come here, you open. I’ll relieve you at nine-thirty. You come back by eleven-thirty.” He raised his hands in anticipation of my protest. “Best I can do.”
On the one hand, I wanted to kill him. On the other, I thought the fact that he remained alive said a lot about my incredible powers of self-control.
“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to get this house? How much it means to me?”
“And you should remember that they don’t give mortgages to the unemployed. Do your thing and then get your tush back here and clock in.”
“Glenn,” I said sweetly, “do you know what I like about you?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”
“Not a goddamn thing.” And then, with as much flourish as I could manage, I yanked off my Perk Up apron, tossed it at his face, and marched out the door.
fourteen
I didn’t have a reason to go by the house, but Glenn had pissed me off enough that I wanted to see it. Maybe I wanted reassurance that it was real and that tomorrow it would be mine.
I didn’t know.
All I knew was that I let myself in again, then stood at the center of the dingy room with the dingy walls and thought about all of this hidden potential.
And there was so much, I thought. Like people, so much of a property lay hidden beneath the surface.
I’d tried to say as much to Cyndee on a day when she’d been dragging me all over the city, looking at dozens of cookie-cutter houses with neutral-tone walls, flowers in just the right places. Fresh paint, fresh carpet.
Pretty, but sterile.
And I couldn’t help but wonder what evils those fresh coats of paint hid. Or what gateways to hell lurked under the safely beige rug.
Maybe it’s just the way I was raised, but the whole process of staging and showing, praising and selling seemed just one small step away from the grift. A short con that no one ever complained about. Set the stage, bring in the pigeon, and take the completely legitimate commission.
The process had a certain beauty that I admired, and the job had the kind of lifestyle that appealed. No countertop to trap you, no manager who smelled faintly of rotten milk yelling at you.