Hand-Me-Down. Lee Nichols

      I lost my nerve, blurted “Paloma,” and hung up. Dammit.

      I tried to focus on work, but couldn’t. Finally gave up and barged into Rip’s office. “Would you call that sea hag at Villa Realty?”

      Rip looked startled. “Um, Anne…”

      One of the other agents sat across from him at the desk. Mike Malley. Mike was a straight-shooting, foul-mouthed man of about forty. Santa Barbara born and bred, his father had been a fisherman and Mike looked like that’s where he belonged: on some boat slippery with fish guts, drinking beer with other burly men. He mostly sold commercial space and had one great advantage as a salesman—nothing ever entered his brain that didn’t escape through his mouth, so you had to trust him.

      “Sorry, Mike,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”

      “Not a problem,” Mike said, standing. “Sea hags wait for no man. I know, I married and divorced one.”

      “No, no—stay. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

      “We’re done.” Mike motioned closing the door behind him. “You want privacy?”

      “Please,” I said.

      “You two keep it up,” he said. “And we’ll have to get a new cleaning company.”

      He closed the door, and Rip and I looked at each other—then, by common consent, decided to let Mike’s last statement go unanswered.

      “Which sea hag?” Rip said. “You really shouldn’t barge in when I’ve got—”

      “Melissa Kent,” I said. “At Villa. She won’t tell me who owns the property on Cypress—where Ny and I walk.” I picked up his phone and started dialing.

      “Wait,” he said. “Anne. No.”

      “What?”

      “I don’t want to get between you and— I don’t care if you— I think it’s great that you have your ideas for development. You could get your license and really make them happen. I know you could. But—”

      “It’s ringing,” I said, and handed him the phone. “Ask for Melissa.”

      He glared at me, but asked the receptionist for Melissa. They chattered happily for a minute—apparently they’d done some business together. Then they chattered happily for another minute. For a third. A fourth.

      I poked Rip and whispered. “Ask her!”

      He said, “Listen, Melissa, I’ve got a question for you.” But before he could ask, she apparently started spilling the goods. He said, “Uh-huh? Interesting. Great. When?”

      I handed him a pen and mimed that he should be writing this down. So he wrote. I flopped down in the other chair and waited. What I needed was a vision for the property. Maybe a long, winding drive which followed the existing trail, with just a few houses, Montecito cottages really—at two million a pop—hidden among the trees and meadows. Or possibly just one hilltop mansion, a sprawling property with an Olympic pool and more lawn than Versailles.

      “Uh-huh,” Rip said. “Right.” More from Melissa. “Okay. Great, thanks.” He made a final notation. “See you then. Bye.”

      “So?” I said, as he hung up. “What? What did she say?”

      “She asked me to lunch.” He showed me the paper. It said Tuesday, 1:30, Village Grill. “Wants some advice about a house in Summerland I sold a couple years ago.”

      “What about the Cypress property?”

      “I didn’t ask.”

      “Rip!”

      “Polliwog, I’m not getting involved in your…whatever. Especially not after Melissa tells me this funny story about a crazy woman who just called, raving about sheiks.”

      “You could have pretended you had clients,” I said. “All I wanted was the information.”

      “That’s so unprofessional, I can’t even tell you. Did you check MLS?” The multiple listing service.

      “It’s not in MLS yet.”

      “So wait.” He stood and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m off to pick up the Brenners. See you tonight?”

      “Maybe I should call the city clerk’s office,” I said. “The tax assessor. Get in touch with the owner directly.”

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know. Just because.”

      “You’re bored. You don’t like the job.”

      I didn’t say anything.

      “We can change your title,” he offered. “VP of Administration.”

      “It’s not that.”

      “Princess of Post-it Notes?”

      “I’m fine, Rip. I just want—I dunno. I’m ready for a change.”

      “Take the course, get your license. You’d be a great Realtor. You know you should.”

      “Yeah, yeah. I’m not living up to my potential.”

      He shook his head. “Do I need to bring anything to Charlotte’s?”

      “Just the plant from the back of my truck when you get there. It’s too heavy for me to lift.”

      “Sure. And Anne? Keep away from the tax assessor’s office.”

      I worked until 5:15, and didn’t place any calls Rip would disapprove of. Double-checked the weekend’s open houses, and tidied some loose ends. It was Friday, and the weather was gearing up for the weekend. I stepped out of the office into a bright and balmy afternoon, with a hot sun and a cool breeze. One of those days that even the locals go to Long-boards on the wharf to sip margaritas and eat calamari.

      In even better news, my pale lilac top and linen skirt still looked good when I got home—the true test of new clothes. The linen didn’t even wrinkle in the truck. See? It pays to spend more. Not to mention all the time I saved, not having to stare at my desolate closet, wondering what to wear.

      Hair and makeup were another story. I was nearing the end of my haircut cycle, so everything was a bit shaggy and my roots were showing. A bad sign, considering my hair wasn’t colored. I tended to be a makeup minimalist—lipstick, blush and mascara, all done in two minutes. If I wanted to go glossy I usually relied on Charlotte to fix me up, but I couldn’t ask on her birthday. Besides, she’d wonder why, and I didn’t want to explain about Ian. Not only that we’d had counterfeit imaginary sex, but that he was stopping by with her gift.

      I honestly didn’t know why I always skipped a beat with Ian. Kevin the nude model was just as handsome, and a whole lot nakeder. Rip was wonderful, and he was all mine—not engaged to some mysterious woman and a purveyor of aged yuck. Ian was an awkward childhood humiliation who kept reappearing, like an uncomfortable suspicion. At least I hadn’t invited him anywhere. Sure he was going to stop by the party, but a delivery didn’t count as an invitation.

      So I did my hair and makeup myself, adding lip gloss and foundation in an attempt to appear polished, and avoided seeing Charlotte altogether.

      I snuck in from the patio and up to the kids’ bedrooms, where I found Hannah doing handstands against the wall in the hallway. She was seven, and from birth had been the prima donna her mother had never become. Hannah ruled the house with an iron—though diminutive—fist. The only person she’d consistently obey was David, who she physically resembled and completely adored. Charlotte was too gentle to impress her, and she listened to me about half the time. I’d gone Emily on her tiny pink butt once or twice, and it had apparently made an impression. Her little brothers—Kyle, five, and Tyler, four—were her minions, and did her evil bidding with hyperactive glee.

      “I’m