Page 82 of This Is How It Started
Chapter 29
Edinburgh
May is a whirlwind, and June rolls in with the fog. I spent a good portion of last month fighting City Hall for permits. Thank goodness for Hannah and the Esq. after her name. Between the two of us, we redefined the meaning of take no prisoners.
The Queen Anne on Vallejo is officially a party house now. Our permit allows us to hold events with up to two hundred guests twice a month, and ten times a month as long as we entertain no more than fifty people at a time. The only requirement is that we provide private parking and adhere to the neighborhood’s noise restrictions.
For the last week, we’ve been running around the property in preparation for Shireen’s big day. The wedding is only a week away.
Shelby has booked us for two winemaker dinners later this month. The first is to showcase the Grenache Blanc of a vintner from a Yountville winery. Shelby’s bringing in a fancy chef to cook dinner for twenty of the winery’s gold club members. The second is being billed as a night of chocolate and wine. That’s all I know, but I’m definitely down for it.
In the meantime, the cottage and pool house are booked solid until November. And to add to the chaos, I’m on my way to meet with an old client who wants to sell his house. It’s a small apartment in Nob Hill. The apartment isn’t much but the location stellar. It’s right on the cable car line with breathtaking views of the bay and Yerba Buena.
It’s my first nibble since I sold Campbell his house, which according to Adam is coming along nicely.
On my way to the appointment, I call Mom. “I’ve only got a few seconds to talk.” Which is never a good way to start a conversation with Shana. But if I don’t, she’ll talk my ear off, and I’m crunched for time.
“Well, that’s a nice way to greet your mother.”
See?
“Sorry, but I’m just about to meet someone about a potential listing.” That’ll hopefully shut her up. “Do you know where those glass balls are that we used to put in the pool that look like bubbles?”
“Why?”
I grit my teeth. “For that wedding I told you about.” I’ve only been talking about it for the last week to anyone who will listen, including Mommie Dearest, who pretends not to be interested but is constantly adding her two cents to my plans for the party.
“Rachel, honey, I don’t live there anymore. How would I know where the glass balls are? Did you ask Brooke? It’s her house now.” She says that last part like it’s a news flash, like I needed her to tell me that.
“Yes, Mom. She doesn’t remember ever seeing them.”
“For all I know, your father threw them out.”Like he did meis what she’s implying.
Ugh, I don’t have time for this. “All right. I thought it was worth a shot. Thanks.”
“You might check the attic. I’m not saying they’re there, and it’ll probably take you a year and a day to sort through the mess up there. Your father was a hoarder.”
I start to say that hoarders don’t throw things away. But the contradiction would be lost on her. “I’ll go up there later. Thanks, Mom. I’m here now, so I’ve got to go.”
I’m five minutes late and decide it’ll be faster to take six flights of stairs rather than wait for the slowpoke elevator that’s probably a remnant of the Gold Rush. I’m not entirely sure they even had elevators during the Gold Rush, but if they did it was this one.
By the time I get to the sixth floor, I’m out of breath and trying not to pass out. I wait a second to recuperate, then knock on the door.
Wade answers in a pair of faded jeans and bare feet. “Rachel!” He gives me a great big hug, then a long assessing glance. “You look fantastic.”
Not as fantastic as you, Dr. Booth.
He’s an anesthesiologist who occasionally used to work with my father. Half my dad’s staff panted after Dr. Booth. It’s those broad shoulders and laid-back attitude. He looks more surfer than he does doctor.
He was married to his college sweetheart, an archeologist who died in a plane crash on her way home from a dig. It was their tenth anniversary. A year after her death, he needed a change of scenery and decided to buy a home. I was just getting started in real estate. My dad gave me a sterling recommendation, and Wade gave me a chance.
“How are you?” He tilts his head to one side, his eyes meeting mine, silently saying,I know what you’re going through.I’ve been there.“It never really gets better, does it?”
“No,” I say and sigh. “It just gets different.”
“Don’t knock different. Different can be good. Come take the tour, see what you think.”
I follow him into the living room. Other than the fantastic view, it’s rather bland. Lots of white walls and nondescript furniture. But it’s nothing that a good stager can’t fix. The dining room is more of the same. The kitchen, on the other hand, is outstanding.
