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Abigail’s smile was wide and bright. “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard. Hell, I’d stay in a cool boutique hotel downtown just to get away from my big empty house!”
I laughed, relief swamping me. “I thought you’d tell me I was crazy. I still kind of think it might be a pie-in-the-sky plan. It can’t possibly be as profitable as a huge tower. How would I even pitch it?”
“Practice tonight,” Sophie suggested, “at Hooker’s Paradise! You can tell the rest of the ladies about your plan, and they can poke holes in it until you realize how amazing an idea it is.”
I let my lips slide into the first genuine smile of the day. “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Good idea.”
We finished our drinks, got a second round, and by the time we toddled out of there to head to Evelyn’s place for tonight’s edition of crochet club, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
It helped when the rest of the ladies gushed over my idea like they’d never heard anything better. Even stone-faced Ida had a sheen in her eyes as she reached over and squeezed my forearm.
“I was sad to think about that place going,” she told me quietly. “Mervin and I had our first date there.” Her late husband had been devoted to her, and Ida had never remarried after he passed.
My heart grew so much it crowded out my lungs. I didn’t even pretend to work on my granny square, content to eat snacks, avoid Evelyn’s tea, and rehearse my pitch to my captive audience.
TWENTY-THREE
SEBASTIAN
It had been twenty-four hours and Charlie still hadn’t spoken to me. I sat in bed staring at the emails on my laptop screen. Nothing from her. Work was usually a worthy distraction from any vexing life issue, but tonight it wouldn’t hold up. I glanced up at the patched-up hole in the ceiling, hoping somehow she’d fall through again so I could at least talk to her. But I knew she wasn’t home. I wandered around the old, empty apartment. This was turning out to be the loneliest Friday night of my life. And to make matters worse, I was out of gin.
I didn’t normally drown my sorrows with alcohol, but New Elwood just seemed to bring the best out of me. And by best, of course, I meant worst.
I took a drive to the liquor store up the road and grabbed a bottle of whisky, maybe my only friend in the world. When I got back, I sat there for a moment and stared at the tattered sign—Radcliffe House Apartments—and felt a tightness in my chest.
On the way up to my floor, I passed by Albert’s door. He hadn’t said anything about the notice, but I was sure he was just as surprised as Charlie. A twinge went through my chest at the thought of the old man becoming homeless.
What was wrong with me? I was a real estate developer. I’d become accustomed to sending notices like these. It wasn’t personal. It was just good business. How had I let myself get involved with this place?
So I knocked to see if he was home and the door quickly swung open, the voice of a baseball sportscaster blaring from the TV. Albert stood there dressed in an old, threadbare T-shirt with a logo that read New Elwood Wine Festival 2003, and his usual warm smile was absent. “You’re not kicking me out already, are you?”
I cleared my throat and rubbed the back of my neck. “No. I just wanted to apologize about the notice. I should’ve given you and Charlie a heads-up.”
“Yeah, you should have.” The man didn’t have tears in his eyes, but I could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled that he was losing his home. “You look like hell, Sebastian.”
I managed a small laugh and ran my fingers through my hair. “I feel like hell. Charlie won’t talk to me.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
I held up my paper-bag-covered whisky bottle. “So I got this to keep me company. Fancy a glass?”
Albert exhaled a reluctant sigh, then stepped aside. “Sure, come in.”
I’d never been in Albert’s apartment. It was homey with a couple book stacks on the coffee table, an empty bowl with popcorn seeds at the bottom, and a strong menthol, Bengay kind of odor in the air. “Nice place you got here.”
“Enjoy it now while it lasts,” he called, and I swallowed hard, following him to the kitchen. He retrieved a couple of lowball glasses from the cabinet and set them on the counter. I twisted the liquor top and poured us each a glass, mine slightly fuller than his.
“To Radcliffe House Apartments,” he said, and we clinked our raised glasses together.
I took a small sip but found myself distracted by the stained glass window over the sink. Bright yellow, blue, and green tiles fit together in the shape of a honeypot. I examined the window a little closer.
“Is that a fly trapped in that honeypot?” I asked.
My downstairs neighbor chuckled. “It sure is.”
“Huh, I’ve never seen a stained glass window design like that before.”
“That’s because it’s one of a kind,” he said, staring at the window. “Charlie picked it out at Piedmont Antiques when she was just a girl. I helped her dad install it as a gift for her mom.”
