Page 56 of A Matter of Pedigree
Poopsie heard Connie’s voice and was suddenly alert, listening to every word, just like Carole. “How exactly is he involved?”
“Well, he’s the one Vanessa got the mortgage from, one of those interest-only deals from American Dream, which ought to be called American Nightmare, and she’s been calling him, trying to refinance, but she never gets him.”
“What, like he’s hiding?”
“More like he’s been fired, Ma. American Dream cut their workforce by fifty percent last week.”
“That explains a lot,” said Carole, as Poopsie resumed her sniffing progress along the edge of the parking lot.
“I’m glad I could help,” said Connie. “I gotta go now.”
Carole suddenly remembered that Celerie was coming over and glanced at her watch. Actually, she was probably on her way. She had to get back upstairs and out of her disguise, fast.
Carole was just zipping up her jeans and slipping into her leopard-print Manolos when Celerie arrived, accompanied by Pinky, who was toting an enormous ladder, easily eight feet long. Poopsie most certainly didn’t approve of the ladder and started barking, so Carole locked her in the bathroom.
“Sorry about that,” apologized Carole, returning and holding the door wide open for them. As Celerie whisked past her, she did a double take and gave Carole a puzzled look, then snapped her fingers at Pinky, who wasn’t bringing in the ladder quickly enough for her.
“Where do you want it?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.
“You can just take it over to that window,” Celerie said, pointing across the living room.
He carried it carefully past the furniture and set it up, spreading out the legs, then joined them by the door. “You can call me when you’re ready to leave,” he said.
“Thanks, Pinky.” Carole gave him a big smile and slipped him a ten, taking it out of the purse she’d left on the hall table. After he was gone, Carole turned to watch Celerie, who was climbing up, stepping lightly in her heels and pencil skirt. Minutes later, she was unrolling a massive con tractor’s steel measuring tape, asking Carole to hold the bottom.
“Twelve feet even,” she said, snapping the switch and rerolling the tape. Back down, she busied herself measuring the width of the window.
“Can I get you some tea or something?” offered Carole.
“No, thanks,” said Celerie, jotting down the measurements.
“Uh, how’s your husband?” asked Carole, wishing she’d been able to phrase the question rather more subtly.
“Mark?” Celerie shut her notebook. “He’s fine.”
“And how’s he weathering this mortgage meltdown?” persisted Carole. “I heard American Dream made some big staff cuts lately.”
“Well, you know what they say, when one door closes another one opens. Mark got a good severance package, and he’s going into consulting.”
Carole wasn’t fooled; she knew consulting was just another word for unemployed. “Is the consulting business good?”
“As good as can be expected,” said Celerie. “It’s early days yet.” She was descending slowly, carefully negotiating her way down the ladder. “Your husband is involved in the Factory project, isn’t that right?”
“Capobianco and Sons has the plumbing contract.”
“That’s all?” persisted Celerie. “He’s not an investor?”
“No, no,” said Carole. “Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered if they’re soliciting bids for interior decoration. You know, choosing fixtures, carpet, colors, things like that. I’ve done quite a bit of corporate work.”
“Oh,” said Carole, as light dawned over Marblehead, Celerie was networking, looking for a referral. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
“Just thought I’d ask,” said Celerie, struggling to close the legs of the ladder together.
“You don’t need to do that; I can call Pinky,” said Carole.
“No. It’s not heavy. I’ve got it,” she said, hoisting the ladder on her shoulders and carrying it through the living room, stopping to pause at the doorway. “By the way, the design for the windows is more complicated than I thought at first.”
