+. weird, world.
still lizz's fault.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Charlie muttered.
“If you’re having second thoughts-” Robbie began.
“No, it’s-it’s the groveling. It’s having to sit here in her goddamned waiting room, where she damn well knows I’m stewing, in the knowledge that the bitch is almost certainly gonna make me fucking beg,” Charlie said between gritted teeth.
The woman sitting two chairs over, dressed in an elegant blue pantsuit, looked up from her catalogue in alarm before trying to edge away discretely and put another two chairs between them.
Robbie said nothing. He only reached out and folded his hand over Charlie’s where it was gripping her knee. He had known, when she first started talking about this, that it was serious with a capital S. For Charlie to a) sacrifice her pride and b) ask something of her long-hated Aunt Lydia, it couldn’t be some idle fantasy or pipe dream. And after twenty minutes of sitting in the waiting room of her wedding boutique, surrounded by breathless, giggling women, sparkling lace, and tasteful pastel shades, there could be no doubt left as to her conviction. Charlie was putting herself through a significant amount of suffering to achieve her goal.
The phone at the receptionist’s counter buzzed. “Miss Hawthorne?” the perky blonde called, flashing teeth so bleached they were practically luminescent. “Lydia will see you now. Just go straight back.”
She’d stared down skinless monsters from nightmare, and raving madmen with knives, and the barrel of a .45 in the hand of a fanatical cult leader-she could do this. She could be civil and fake some respect for a few minutes; she could smile at a woman she’d rather slap.
For the kids. And for Harry.
Lydia’s office fit the textbook definition of ‘immaculate’. Everything was color coded on the shelves, and those colors were uniformly pale and soothing. The pictures had been hung on the walls with a level, equally spaced down to the centimeter, and the theme was unrelentingly bridal. Smiling, laughing faces-entirely white, mostly crowned with blonde hair-stared down at them. Lace and diamonds and tulle and pearls were much in evidence. There was an enormous porcelain vase full of white roses on a side table, directly beneath an antique clock with a mother-of-pearl face.
Charlie wished she had a can of black spray paint. Or a flamethrower.
“I must say, Charlotte, I was very surprised when my receptionist told me you’d called yesterday about setting up an appointment,” Lydia said, looking up from her desk. The leather planner spread out before her bristled with tabs. She made a quick addition to a bulletpointed list before dropping her pen. “Surprised and confused. Given the fact that you and-” she looked blankly at Robbie for a beat before her internal filing cabinet threw out a card. “Robert, yes? Made things official several years back. Are you here on behalf of a friend?”
The stress on ‘official’ didn’t escape her; she still managed to drudge up a tight smile. “No, Aunt Lydia. We have an offer for you.”
“An offer?” Lydia repeated, a furrow appearing between her eyes. While the larger and more uncharitable part of Charlie thought, Careful, you’ll ruin your Botox, another couldn’t help but recognize it as the same gesture of confusion Ben sometimes wore. She didn’t like being reminded of the familial connection they had to the woman, so she thrust the observation away. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I fail to see how you could ever have anything to offer me that I’d be even slightly interested-”
“I wanna buy the house,” Charlie cut in, too impatient to be tactful. Her right foot had begun to bounce; Robbie again laid a hand over her knee to steady her.
“The house?”
“Harry’s house. The one you’ve had boarded up for years, the one you never use.”
“You mean the house that he left to me in his will,” Lydia said pointedly, French manicured nails tapping gently on her desk. Just how much hairspray did the woman use every day to seal her hair into that complicated knot? Perhaps she just shellacked the whole damn thing once a month, to save time and effort.
“He wanted someone to live there,” Charlie said firmly. “He wanted it to breathe-he wouldn’t like the way you’ve treated it.”
“It’s a house, not a dog,” Lydia said sharply. “You make it sound as if I’ve been mistreating it, which is impossible for an inanimate building. An inanimate building which is still in perfect upkeep, thanks to the bevy of repairmen and cleaners I employ. And Harry is dead. He doesn’t know nor does he care how I’ve handled his former house.”
How the fuck is this woman actually related to me? Charlie fumed. She’s less sensitive than a plank of wood. “If you’re so attached to the place,” she countered. “Then why aren’t you living there?”
Lydia hesitated. “…The commute would be too long,” she finally said, blithely, but Charlie had been paying attention. She saw the flash across her aunt’s face. She knew that for a month following the funeral Lydia had lived in the house, too enamored by the vistas and prestige of the place to care all that much that it added an extra forty minutes to her drive. And then, practically overnight, she had packed up her things and retained a housekeeping staff to manage the place. Perhaps the loneliness had weighed too heavily-she had been between husbands at the time-or perhaps the commute had gotten too onerous. Or, perhaps, Lydia had recognized that the house was still Harry’s-that it would never welcome her.
Had there been a cold spot or two? An inexplicable whisper from the trees? The sense that maybe she wasn’t alone after all?
“I know you’ve been talking to Dad,” Charlie pushed on, resolute. “You’ve been hinting that you’d be willing to sell the place. I know the taxes every year must be frustrating for you; seems a waste to pay taxes on a place you’ll never call home.”
Lydia fixed her with a rather shrewd look. It had ‘businesswoman’ stamped all over it. It was the kind of look that came with an expensive price tag. “I’ve had it appraised, you know. I’ve been told what its market value is. I can’t, in all good conscience, sink too far below that estimate purely because we’re family.”
“I expected no less from you, Lydia,” Charlie smiled, showing perhaps a little too many teeth.
“I know that Harry’s parting gift to you was a rather tidy windfall, but it has been over a decade-are you certain you have the funds to cover such an investment?”
“Do you know who my mother is, Ms. Scott?” Robbie said. His question made her turn to him sharply; she had written him out of the conversation, what with his persistent silence.
“I’m afraid I can’t recall, Robert,” she said pleasantly.
“Tilda Beechum, of Beechum, Hart, and Roebuck. Perhaps the largest law firm in America. Offices in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. She’s very successful, is what I’m telling you, and she’s been very good to me. This isn’t to say that Charlie doesn’t have the funds to cover this ‘investment’ on her own-her business has been very lucrative, too. I’m simply trying to reassure you that we’re not a, well, a bad or risky bet. And,” here he leaned forward over her desk, voice dropping to a confidential tone. “Not to alarm you, but I suggest you change your dinner plans tonight.”
“Oh?” A perfectly waxed eyebrow arched in question.
“I understand it’s rather difficult to supervise weddings with a broken leg.” He leaned back with a crooked smile.
Lydia glanced from one placid face to the other, unnerved. “…I will mull over your offer, Charlotte,” she said finally, closing and latching her planner with a snap, gathering up pens and papers. “I have another meeting now. Give me a day or two to decide. You’ll be hearing from me.”
Just after eight that night Charlie’s phone rang. It was her father; Franklin sounded rather rattled on his end of the line. “I’m at the hospital,” he said, “Lydia was in a car accident.”
“Not bad, I hope?” Charlie said, pulling back the hotel curtains and looking down into the pool, where the twins were practicing their cannonballs under their father’s watchful eye.
“Mostly bruises, but she did break her right leg pretty badly. The docs think she might have a concussion, too, because she was screaming something about how you and Rob ‘hexed her’ when the EMTs pulled her out of the car…?”
“We did nothing of the sort,” Charlie said with complete sincerity. “Rob just warned her that she should be careful tonight. He sorta had a feeling something would happen. Not our fault she ignored him.”
“Well, the timing worked in your favor, anyway,” Franklin said dryly, not wholly convinced. “She’s insistent that you two come in and sign the deed for Harry’s old house ASAP. Seems she’s worried you’ll do something worse to her if she doesn’t get it sorted right now.”
“Tell Lydia we’re more than happy to take the place off her hands,” Charlie said through her smile. “And tell her we’ll have the bank wire her the money first thing in the morning. Fair’s fair, after all.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Charlie muttered.
“If you’re having second thoughts-” Robbie began.
“No, it’s-it’s the groveling. It’s having to sit here in her goddamned waiting room, where she damn well knows I’m stewing, in the knowledge that the bitch is almost certainly gonna make me fucking beg,” Charlie said between gritted teeth.
The woman sitting two chairs over, dressed in an elegant blue pantsuit, looked up from her catalogue in alarm before trying to edge away discretely and put another two chairs between them.
Robbie said nothing. He only reached out and folded his hand over Charlie’s where it was gripping her knee. He had known, when she first started talking about this, that it was serious with a capital S. For Charlie to a) sacrifice her pride and b) ask something of her long-hated Aunt Lydia, it couldn’t be some idle fantasy or pipe dream. And after twenty minutes of sitting in the waiting room of her wedding boutique, surrounded by breathless, giggling women, sparkling lace, and tasteful pastel shades, there could be no doubt left as to her conviction. Charlie was putting herself through a significant amount of suffering to achieve her goal.
The phone at the receptionist’s counter buzzed. “Miss Hawthorne?” the perky blonde called, flashing teeth so bleached they were practically luminescent. “Lydia will see you now. Just go straight back.”
She’d stared down skinless monsters from nightmare, and raving madmen with knives, and the barrel of a .45 in the hand of a fanatical cult leader-she could do this. She could be civil and fake some respect for a few minutes; she could smile at a woman she’d rather slap.
For the kids. And for Harry.
Lydia’s office fit the textbook definition of ‘immaculate’. Everything was color coded on the shelves, and those colors were uniformly pale and soothing. The pictures had been hung on the walls with a level, equally spaced down to the centimeter, and the theme was unrelentingly bridal. Smiling, laughing faces-entirely white, mostly crowned with blonde hair-stared down at them. Lace and diamonds and tulle and pearls were much in evidence. There was an enormous porcelain vase full of white roses on a side table, directly beneath an antique clock with a mother-of-pearl face.
Charlie wished she had a can of black spray paint. Or a flamethrower.
“I must say, Charlotte, I was very surprised when my receptionist told me you’d called yesterday about setting up an appointment,” Lydia said, looking up from her desk. The leather planner spread out before her bristled with tabs. She made a quick addition to a bulletpointed list before dropping her pen. “Surprised and confused. Given the fact that you and-” she looked blankly at Robbie for a beat before her internal filing cabinet threw out a card. “Robert, yes? Made things official several years back. Are you here on behalf of a friend?”
The stress on ‘official’ didn’t escape her; she still managed to drudge up a tight smile. “No, Aunt Lydia. We have an offer for you.”
“An offer?” Lydia repeated, a furrow appearing between her eyes. While the larger and more uncharitable part of Charlie thought, Careful, you’ll ruin your Botox, another couldn’t help but recognize it as the same gesture of confusion Ben sometimes wore. She didn’t like being reminded of the familial connection they had to the woman, so she thrust the observation away. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I fail to see how you could ever have anything to offer me that I’d be even slightly interested-”
“I wanna buy the house,” Charlie cut in, too impatient to be tactful. Her right foot had begun to bounce; Robbie again laid a hand over her knee to steady her.
“The house?”
“Harry’s house. The one you’ve had boarded up for years, the one you never use.”
“You mean the house that he left to me in his will,” Lydia said pointedly, French manicured nails tapping gently on her desk. Just how much hairspray did the woman use every day to seal her hair into that complicated knot? Perhaps she just shellacked the whole damn thing once a month, to save time and effort.
“He wanted someone to live there,” Charlie said firmly. “He wanted it to breathe-he wouldn’t like the way you’ve treated it.”
“It’s a house, not a dog,” Lydia said sharply. “You make it sound as if I’ve been mistreating it, which is impossible for an inanimate building. An inanimate building which is still in perfect upkeep, thanks to the bevy of repairmen and cleaners I employ. And Harry is dead. He doesn’t know nor does he care how I’ve handled his former house.”
How the fuck is this woman actually related to me? Charlie fumed. She’s less sensitive than a plank of wood. “If you’re so attached to the place,” she countered. “Then why aren’t you living there?”
Lydia hesitated. “…The commute would be too long,” she finally said, blithely, but Charlie had been paying attention. She saw the flash across her aunt’s face. She knew that for a month following the funeral Lydia had lived in the house, too enamored by the vistas and prestige of the place to care all that much that it added an extra forty minutes to her drive. And then, practically overnight, she had packed up her things and retained a housekeeping staff to manage the place. Perhaps the loneliness had weighed too heavily-she had been between husbands at the time-or perhaps the commute had gotten too onerous. Or, perhaps, Lydia had recognized that the house was still Harry’s-that it would never welcome her.
Had there been a cold spot or two? An inexplicable whisper from the trees? The sense that maybe she wasn’t alone after all?
“I know you’ve been talking to Dad,” Charlie pushed on, resolute. “You’ve been hinting that you’d be willing to sell the place. I know the taxes every year must be frustrating for you; seems a waste to pay taxes on a place you’ll never call home.”
Lydia fixed her with a rather shrewd look. It had ‘businesswoman’ stamped all over it. It was the kind of look that came with an expensive price tag. “I’ve had it appraised, you know. I’ve been told what its market value is. I can’t, in all good conscience, sink too far below that estimate purely because we’re family.”
“I expected no less from you, Lydia,” Charlie smiled, showing perhaps a little too many teeth.
“I know that Harry’s parting gift to you was a rather tidy windfall, but it has been over a decade-are you certain you have the funds to cover such an investment?”
“Do you know who my mother is, Ms. Scott?” Robbie said. His question made her turn to him sharply; she had written him out of the conversation, what with his persistent silence.
“I’m afraid I can’t recall, Robert,” she said pleasantly.
“Tilda Beechum, of Beechum, Hart, and Roebuck. Perhaps the largest law firm in America. Offices in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. She’s very successful, is what I’m telling you, and she’s been very good to me. This isn’t to say that Charlie doesn’t have the funds to cover this ‘investment’ on her own-her business has been very lucrative, too. I’m simply trying to reassure you that we’re not a, well, a bad or risky bet. And,” here he leaned forward over her desk, voice dropping to a confidential tone. “Not to alarm you, but I suggest you change your dinner plans tonight.”
“Oh?” A perfectly waxed eyebrow arched in question.
“I understand it’s rather difficult to supervise weddings with a broken leg.” He leaned back with a crooked smile.
Lydia glanced from one placid face to the other, unnerved. “…I will mull over your offer, Charlotte,” she said finally, closing and latching her planner with a snap, gathering up pens and papers. “I have another meeting now. Give me a day or two to decide. You’ll be hearing from me.”
Just after eight that night Charlie’s phone rang. It was her father; Franklin sounded rather rattled on his end of the line. “I’m at the hospital,” he said, “Lydia was in a car accident.”
“Not bad, I hope?” Charlie said, pulling back the hotel curtains and looking down into the pool, where the twins were practicing their cannonballs under their father’s watchful eye.
“Mostly bruises, but she did break her right leg pretty badly. The docs think she might have a concussion, too, because she was screaming something about how you and Rob ‘hexed her’ when the EMTs pulled her out of the car…?”
“We did nothing of the sort,” Charlie said with complete sincerity. “Rob just warned her that she should be careful tonight. He sorta had a feeling something would happen. Not our fault she ignored him.”
“Well, the timing worked in your favor, anyway,” Franklin said dryly, not wholly convinced. “She’s insistent that you two come in and sign the deed for Harry’s old house ASAP. Seems she’s worried you’ll do something worse to her if she doesn’t get it sorted right now.”
“Tell Lydia we’re more than happy to take the place off her hands,” Charlie said through her smile. “And tell her we’ll have the bank wire her the money first thing in the morning. Fair’s fair, after all.”