Page 89 of Your Every Wish
To be fair, I’ve lived in worse. For four weeks, Madge and I lived in her friend’s seven-by-sixteen-foot Airstream in a Walmart parking lot when Mom was out of work. One year, we moved fifteen times, each place worse than the last. Madge would split whenever she didn’t have rent money, which was most of the time. She always spent it faster than she made it.
At least the trailer is spacious and each of us has our own bathroom. There was a time when I would’ve killed for that. But it still has that funky smell that never quite seems to go away. And living with a dead woman’s possessions is depressing.
I check my watch to gauge my time. One mile in eleven minutes, not bad. By the time I get to the clubhouse, I’m getting a second wind and contemplate tacking on an extra half mile. I can swing around the bocce ball courts and head to the entry sign and back.
I get as far as the highway when the sky opens up, and it starts to pour. I could smell it coming, the scent of fresh earth in the air. But I suspected it would only spit. This, though, is a freaking deluge. I slip out of my windbreaker and put it over my head, which in hindsight makes me cold and does very little to protect me from the rain.
I start to head back when a big black pickup truck skids to a halt in front of me. The passenger widow slides down and none other than Bent McCourtney wants to know if I want a ride.
“That’s okay.” I wave him on.
“You sure?”
The rain is coming down so hard I can barely see in front of me and I’m dripping wet. “All right.”
He leans across the cab and pushes open the door for me to get in. I have to use his running board to hoist myself up. The truck is so high, he must be compensating for something.
“You look like a drowned rat.” That’s what he says to me. Not hello. NotHow are you?Not evenI’ll crank up the heat so you can get warmbecause I’ve begun shivering. Just “You look like a drowned rat.”
I remove my jacket off my head and make sure to let it drip in his lap.
“Which way?”
“Straight, then hang a right on Ponderosa and follow the sign to the office.”
“Why were you running in the rain?” He takes the rutted road, which doesn’t feel nearly as bumpy in his all-wheel drive.
“It wasn’t raining when I started. It just opened up on me.”
“Yeah, it’ll do that up here.”
“Let me ask you something. Did Sheila Bruin tip you off that we may be putting Cedar Pines on the market?”
His lips curve up. “She might’ve said something. Why?”
“Because it wasn’t her place to tell anyone. I find it very unprofessional and won’t use her as our agent if we ever do decide to sell.”
“Let me get this straight. You tell a real estate agent you may want to sell. She tries to bring you a buyer and you’re pissed off about that? That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
“Well, it wouldn’t to you because you’re a bottom-feeder.”
He tilts his head back and laughs. “A bottom-feeder?”
“Twenty thousand dollars for a profitable eighty-six-acre resort in one of the most scenic areas in America. That was just insulting.”
“You got one of the most scenic areas in America right, if notthemost scenic.Profitableandresortis a stretch, though. But yeah, I may have low-balled you a bit. I’m a businessman.”
“And a bottom-feeder.”
“Kennedy, if you want to sell, I’m interested. Give me a price and we’ll take it from there.”
“I already told you that we’ve decided to hang on to the place.”
“Right. How’s the soundstage and the pickleball courts coming along?”
“We’re a little strapped for cash right now. But when my late father’s estate is settled, we’ll be flush.”
“The great Willy Keil, huh?”
