Page 36 of This Is How It Started
“Yesterday, Matthew wanted Rich’s stuffed fish to bring to show-and-tell. It’s a huge blue marlin Rich caught in Cabo a few years ago and insisted we mount over our fireplace. The thing is hideous. Like seriously disgusting. I can’t tell you how many times we fought over that goddamn fish. But my baby wanted to show off his daddy’s trophy at school, and I was going to move heaven and earth to make sure that happened. I climbed up on a foot ladder and pried the son of a bitch off the wall. It probably weighs as much as I do. Still, I managed to wrangle it to the floor, cursing the entire way down. Words my darling Matthew has never heard before.”
The room breaks into laughter, but I sense there is more, that she hasn’t yet delivered the punchline to a heartbreaking story.
“The awful thing is lying on my good rug, and in my head I’m strategizing on how to get it to the car without breaking my back in the process. Its bugging eyes are staring at me. It feels as if the fish is following my every move. And like a crazy woman, I say, ‘Rich, are you in there?’ And then for no damned reason, I start blubbering over the piece of shit, hugging it to my body like it’s a living thing, uncontrollably crying. And when I finally get a hold of myself, I start all over again, petrified that I won’t be able to get it back over the mantel after Matthew’s show-and-tell. I’ve always hated the thing, and now all I can think about is how much I miss it looming over our living room.”
The Indian man reaches over and takes her hand. “It’s okay. We all have those moments.”
I think about Brooke and my father’s newsboy cap and am astonished to wonder if that was her blue marlin moment. There are so many things I don’t know about her. I think about all the silly items I’m still unable to part with because they meant something to Josh. All the books and records and hats that embody his memory.
The stories move around the table. The Indian man is Raj, and he lost his wife of thirty years to breast cancer. Vivian’s husband was killed by a drunk driver. He’d survived two tours in Afghanistan but, yeah, a fucking drunk driver. Doris’s husband died from complications of sickle cell on his seventy-fifth birthday. They were high school sweethearts and best friends.
Each testimony is more heartbreaking than the last. But there’s something uplifting about them, too. Their stories of undying love, their resilience, and their will to move forward, alone, fills me with hope.
When the group leaves, I help Brooke clean up. We don’t say much, as I’m still digesting the revelation that she’s part of a grief group to mourn the death of my father. It’s not anything I saw coming. So far, nothing about Brooke is. She’s definitely an enigma.
After the last coffee mug is loaded into the dishwasher, I climb the stairs to my room. It’s too early to go to bed, but I want to give Brooke space. It’s her house, after all. I’m just a guest here.
To while away the time, I open my laptop and scroll through emails. Most of it is spam, including an ad for enlarging my penis and a congratulatory note that I’ve won the lottery in Malawi.
There’s a message from Chip that says it was good to see me on the brokers’ tour. That it looks like I’m getting back into the swing of things. And if there’s anything I need...blah, blah, blah. The one that catches my eye, though, is from Martin, Owens and Luckett. I haven’t talked to anyone from Josh’s architecture firm since the funeral. A few of his friends have tried to stay in touch, but like everyone else, I’ve blown them off.
I open the email to find a nice note from Josh’s old boss. He hopes I’m doing well and says he thinks of Josh all the time. “The firm isn’t the same without him.” He asks how my real estate “business” is going and says someday soon he’d love to take me to lunch, which is very sweet. But it’s clear that the real reason he’s written is he’s looking for a set of plans Josh was working on right before he was killed. Do I have access to his laptop or know how to get into Revit?
I definitely have access to his laptop, but Revit is another story. I know it’s the software program Josh used for his job but have no idea how to work it. It’s late, so I decide to tackle it first thing in the morning.
Except, Kyle and the boys are back at the crack of dawn with their power tools. Again, I go traipsing across the lawn to inspect their work and pretend to know what I’m doing. They’re still in demo phase, ripping out the walls to the bare studs.
Kyle says they expect to start pouring the concrete footings for the expansion sometime next week. Then they can begin framing. He assures me that everything is running on schedule.
Although Josie is still seeing tech boy, I make some discreet inquiries into Kyle’s romantic status.
I guess they’re not as subtle as I think, because he responds, “Why? You want to go out?” He does a slow turn over my body.
I’m slightly mortified, even though he appears highly amused. And I think truly interested, because he makes sure I know that he’s single, straight and “really into” brunettes with brown eyes.
I hightail it out of the pool house as fast as I can before Kyle gets any more ideas. Only a few feet from the back door, the gray sky opens, and I’m caught in a downpour. I cover my head with my arms and make a run for it, my flip-flops squishing in the sodden grass with every step I take. It’s the first real rain we’ve had this winter, and it feels like it’s going to be a soaker.
I had plans to go into the office today but don’t want to drive in this weather. As it is, I’m hesitant to drive even when conditions are good. I could call an Uber or Lyft, or even take Muni, but these days I look for any excuse not to go in, despite promising myself that in January I would hit the ground running. I tell myself I will work from home today but not before I wash down one of the leftover Tartine pastries from last night with a cup of coffee. First, I strip out of my wet hoodie and toss it into the washer and slip into a pair of fuzzy slippers.
Brooke’s nowhere to be found, so I assume she’s still sleeping. I run up and grab my laptop and scroll through emails while I munch on a morning bun.See, I can be productive.Nothing stands out in my inbox, except an email from Campbell. I pretend to ignore it, then can’t help myself and open it.
“You up for showing us some real estate? Jess likes this one.” It’s a link from Realtor.com.
I click on it, gaze at the price, and suspect it’s already gone. I sort through the pictures anyway. It’s a Craftsman bungalow in Dolores Heights. Great neighborhood, but the house is a dump and that’s with good lighting and a flattering camera lens. There’s no telling what it really looks like. According to the description, there’s only one bathroom. From the photograph, I’d call it circa 1970 prison cell. Just a wall-mounted sink, old toilet, and a rust-stained tub. The original built-ins in the living room have been modified and not in a good way. And unless the camera was held at a weird angle, the floor appears unlevel. Not a good sign. In my experience, it usually means a bad foundation. But Campbell would know better. The kitchen is a total gut job, though in this price range they typically are.
Still, it’s a steal of a deal. Which makes me question whether the house has more wrong with it than just aesthetics. I switch over to the MLS and check the house’s status. There’s nothing that says pending, but the Multiple Listing Service isn’t always up-to-the-minute correct. I grab my cell off the counter and dial the listing agent.
“Hi, this is Rachel Ackermann from Windham. Is the Craftsman on Liberty still available? I have a client who may be interested.”
“Why it absolutely is. But I’m sure it won’t last. It’s priced to sell,” the agent trills.
I don’t know her by name, but she’s from my old shop. “Okay. Let me get back to you.”
“Don’t wait too long.”
That last line annoys me. It’s pushy. And that’s probably why she’s better at her job than I ever was. I don’t do pushy. Hell, I don’t even do passive aggressive. I’m not a natural-born salesperson. But I have nearly ten years invested in selling real estate, so to have this epiphany now...well, it’s a waste of time.Just get out there, Rachel.
But Campbell...I grimace and consider calling Niki to give her the referral. Let her make Campbell and Jessica’s dreams come true.
