says, slinging her arm around my shoulder. “He’s such a character.”
“That he is.”
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “It’s almost time to eat.”
Trevor has his famous ribs on the grill, and chicken, and a turkey in the fryer, pretty much every kind of meat a person could want. The rest of the meal is catered. Not that you’d know it. Everything has been meticulously arranged to look as though it were homemade, although Dana doesn’t pretend. She wants people to know she can afford a caterer, but also that she appreciates presentation.
Dana can only find her way around a kitchen so far as to sell it to you. But it’s this that makes her relatable, knowing that underneath her tough, capable exterior there are flaws she hides, just like the rest of us.
Although it’s hard to know what to feel about her currently. The Clairmont house did receive an offer, and it was a good one. The extra money will certainly help, and I am one step closer to making gold status. Still, her reaction to my situation last night wasn’t what I expected.
My falling apart was superseded by her lies about the security cameras and then by my request to have two agents attend future open houses. The suggestion was met with a level of harshness I hadn’t seen coming. She said I was overreacting, and that she hates agents who bring personal drama to their jobs. She said it has the power to infect entire teams. She’s “seen it happen.”
I didn’t know what to say. When I texted Greg from the booth, he only asked what I had expected. I didn’t have an answer. He wrote back asking if the quarrel would mean we could sit this barbecue out. We couldn’t, I’d said, and really it was just to spite them both.
Then Blair went missing, and neither of us could deny it was my fault. If I hadn’t been texting over petty bullshit that could easily have waited, Greg wouldn’t have been distracted. That’s why we have rules.
Nerves or avoidance or the like draws me to the kitchen. It could use a bit of tidying up, and I could use something to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. Anything to keep me from thinking about Jack Mooney, or my missing dog, or the fact that I lost my child. Once I’ve cleared empty plates from the countertop and wiped them down, I realize the trash is full. I almost leave it. But then, I find myself on autopilot, pulling the bag, walking around the side of the house, and tossing it into the bin. As I close the lid, I am struck by laughter coming from the other side of the fence. Dana’s laughter. We haven’t spoken, other than just the once, which isn’t like her. I am her favorite sounding board. Maybe she’s avoiding me. Maybe I’m avoiding her. Maybe it’s a little of both, and maybe that’s why I’m helping to clean, trying to make myself useful. Dusting my hands off, I turn to go in search of Greg. Then I hear my name.
“It’s crazy, I know,” Dana sighs. “But then I’ve seen some things you wouldn’t believe in my eighteen years in the field.”
I can’t see them, not unless I strain and peek through the fence, but I can easily imagine the women she’s standing with. I know who’s leaning in, who’s hoping to glean some of her wisdom, and who’s standing back.
“I mean… how cliché. A stalker.”
“Well, you never know,” a voice says. Emma. “I’ve heard of stranger things.”
No one says anything for several beats.
“She probably just likes the attention.” Sarah. “I’ve heard a lot of women do that. Lie for the attention of it all.”
“I wouldn’t say she was lying,” Dana quips. “Just confused.”
“Yeah, why would a guy from a million years ago show up here?”
“She’s not even from here, anyway.”
“Nothing ever happens in Sunset Canyon.”
“Poor thing—” Sarah laughs. “Imagine being so desperate you’d make up having a stalker.”
“Oh, Sarah. Stop being such a bitch.” There’s an audible gasp and then a flurry of laughter. “You’ve always had it out for Amy.”
“That’s just because Sarah has a thing for Greg.”
“God, who doesn’t have a thing for Greg?”
More laughter erupts. “How many of these have you had, anyway?”
“Just enough to be tipsy,” Sarah retorts with just enough slur to tell everyone differently.
“More like just enough to tell the truth.”
“Oh, give me a break—Amy Stone is an attention whore, and you