Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,58
Ellen, getting into her car before my sanity was restored.
“You can live with me, you know,” Juliet said.
“We’d kill each other. It might scar the girls, seeing their mother and aunt lying in pools of blood.”
“True. Well, you have a nice view, I’ll give you that.”
“That’s why I bought it,” I said, turning around to look out to sea, like the wife of a sea captain from long ago. Or like a regular person who enjoyed pleasant views. Because the view was incredible. The house, teetering though it may have been, was on what had become a nature preserve, which meant it couldn’t be expanded or torn down for a rebuild (which is what would’ve happened in a heartbeat otherwise, and a grotesque “cottage” would sit here now). Ten years ago, a monster storm had devastated this area, and none but this house had survived. The owner died in the fall, and the market for tiny, decrepit houses was soft, so I was in luck.
“You haven’t signed anything yet,” Juliet said. “It’s my professional opinion that you shouldn’t. I happen to know a few things about buildings, Sadie. This is a money pit.”
“I enjoyed us getting along for ten minutes,” I said.
“Seriously. You’ll regret this. I can loan you some money for a rental if you need it. A rental with a flushing toilet and everything.”
“I’m only staying in Stoningham till Dad gets better, and I’m not working. I’ll spruce this place up, slap on some paint and sell it at a profit.”
“Stop watching HGTV. It’s all make-believe.” She sighed and looked at me critically, as our mother taught her. “Hard to believe you have enough money for anything more than a paper bag.”
“Please. I can afford an entire refrigerator box.”
“You’re a teacher at a Catholic school.”
“It’s my art, Jules. Some people actually like what I do.”
She got that constipated look I loved so well.
As an architect of super-fabulous buildings, my sister could have recommended me to some of her clients, or commissioned me to make lobby art for, say, that corporate headquarters she designed in San Fran a couple of years ago.
She did not. She wasn’t in charge of artwork, she said, and besides, DJK usually went with . . . other artists.
By which she meant important artists. And hey. I got it. Plus, I didn’t want to make it because my sister used nepotism and threw me a bone. Still, it would’ve been nice to be able to turn her down (and have her competitors start a bidding war for me, but so far, nada).
I put my hands on my hips. “Well, I have my work cut out for me. Want to drive me to Home Depot?”
“Will you let me make you a list, at least?”
“No thanks! I got this.” I smiled.
Her jaw hardened. Oh, it would drive her crazy to have me buy laminate flooring, some fake plants and a couple of throw pillows to sex the place up, but that was exactly my plan. There was nothing wrong with Ikea chic. I should know. I’d been living with it since college. My apartment was currently drawing $175 a night on Airbnb, thanks in large part to my new throw pillows.
I’d make this house adorable, too, thank you. And, as my mother pointed out, I did have a rich boyfriend. If he wanted to help me out, that would be quite lovely, especially as I was ninety-five percent sure he was going to propose, now that Dad’s crisis had stabilized and he was on the mend.
“Instead of having me chauffeur you around, why don’t you borrow the Volvo while you’re home? That little shitbox you’re renting is a death trap. You get hit in that, you’re dead.”
Death trap, money pit, shitbox. So judgy. “Can I have your Porsche instead?”
“No.”
“I had to try. Sure, I’ll take the Volvo. Thank you so much, Jules.” It was awfully nice of her.
She nodded. Pushed her hair back and sighed again, looking at my house.
“Everything okay, Jules?” I asked. “Aside from Dad?”
“Sure. Listen. About Dad. I think you better . . . prepare yourself. He might be like this for the rest of his life. Which could be really short.”
“Jesus. Why don’t you dig his grave while you’re talking?”
“Just facing facts.”
“The facts are, the brain is very elastic. People have come back from far worse. Clara, that nurse at Gaylord? She said they’ve had people in comas who—”