Stiltsville: A Novel - By Susanna Daniel Page 0,105

well enough, but he was just starting out—and this had slowed the house-hunting process considerably, even before the hurricane. They’d called half a dozen home owners before the hurricane had brought down the phone lines. “She’s going to open up for us on Friday,” said Margo.

“We’ll go with you,” said Dennis, who was concerned about Margo’s poker face. He wanted to knock on walls and declare them sound.

Margo yelled upstairs for Stuart. “What?” Stuart called.

“There’s a house!”

“What?”

Oh, just go up there, I thought.

“A house!” she called again.

Stuart’s steps on the stairs rattled through the kitchen, and he appeared. “Was that the phone?” he said.

“It was that woman from Battersea Road,” said Margo.

He took her in his arms. “Which one was that?”

“The two-bedroom we saw in the paper.”

He swiveled her and she dipped. I looked away. “Excellent,” said Stuart. To Dennis, he said, “No offense, but we’re ready for some solo time.”

“So are we,” I said. I hadn’t intended to say it. Margo and Stuart righted themselves and stepped away from each other. I turned to the sink and opened the faucet, then busied myself washing dishes. Margo and Stuart left the room, and Dennis put his hands on my shoulders. He reached over me to turn off the faucet.

“All right,” he said. “You have to be nicer.”

“She’s my daughter,” I said, thinking: I want someone different for her. Someone taller, smarter, richer, more handsome. Things I never would ask for myself, I want for her.

Dennis turned me to face him. “This isn’t like you,” he said. “You’re generous.”

“I feel stingy.”

“None of it will matter. They’ll stay together or they won’t.”

“You think they’ll break up?”

“Who knows? Either way, you’ll want to know you were fair.”

Dennis was so reasonable, so conscientious. “I’m trying,” I said.

“No, you aren’t,” he said. “You are not trying.”

We set out on foot—this was Stuart’s idea—to meet Penny Morales at her home. We carried mosquito repellent and bottles of water, and upon arrival received a delightful surprise: electricity, that elusive and munificent commodity, had returned to a several-block radius in Coconut Grove, including 4044 Battersea Road. We stood in the living room as the sweat dried on our skin, grinning. Dennis had given Margo and Stuart a little lecture about keeping their opinions to themselves in the presence of the seller, so we did not speak, but I’m sure our faces gave us away: the place was great. An oasis.

It was not, beyond the chill in the air, a remarkable house. The kitchen lacked counter space, there was no room for entertaining, and the closets were small—but the bedrooms were large and the ceilings high. Margo and I walked through the back den, which was flanked on two sides by sliding glass doors, and I saw a shadow of anxiety cross her face—surely she could not choose a house without evaluating its safety, even in a good neighborhood like this one. But then the look was replaced by determination, and she led me away, toward the dining room. There, our attention went immediately to the floor: glossy dark green tiles patterned randomly with dime-size black shapes. Margo checked over her shoulder for Penny Morales. “I love this floor,” she whispered.

I nodded. I loved it, too.

Stuart came in. “What in heaven’s name?” he said, staring down.

“You don’t like it?” whispered Margo.

“It looks like squashed bugs.”

“I think it’s elegant,” she said, and he looked down, reassessing.

Dennis joined us. “She’s out front,” he said in a low voice. It was great fun, this conspiring. “We have a few minutes.”

“How did you get her to leave us alone?” said Margo.

“I asked her to,” said Dennis.

In the kitchen, Margo opened all the cupboards and I watched her, imagining the dinners they would prepare there, stir-fries and omelets and shish kebob: newlywed food, no recipes required. Before we’d added an addition, our first house had looked much like this one, with its particleboard cabinets and cheap windows. We’d supplied charm in small doses, with area rugs and fresh paint.

Stuart opened the sink faucet and out ran a steady stream. He’d told Dennis he knew a lot about commercial real estate, but next to nothing about residential. “What should we be looking for?” he said.

“Well,” said Dennis. He walked to the refrigerator, opened and closed it, then spoke in a hushed voice. “It’s no bigger than the houses around it—in fact, it’s a little smaller. That’s a good thing. You see why?”

“Resale,” said Stuart.

“Right,” said Dennis. “The wiring’s been updated. The water pressure’s good. We’ll