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He left the apartment without trying to figure out what was bothering her—and therewassomething bothering her. He just didn't know what it was. She had brought up this agreement, and yes, he had agreed to it because he would take whatever she would give him, but it seemed as if she wasn’t exactly happy about what was going on. He couldn't broach the subject though; that was on her.
He found his car—along with a parking ticket—and got in. Driving as fast as he legally could, he managed to get back to John’s place with forty-five minutes to get to the lunch meeting. He showered and changed, then got back into his car to make his appointment.
Beau walked into the restaurant where the Realtor asked him to meet, putting on his game face.
"Beau Jenkins?" a stuffy middle-aged woman asked, standing up as he approached the table.
"Yes. Alicia Rawlings?"
She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you." She gestured to the empty seat in front of her. "Please. Sit down." He did. "Why don't you tell me about the property."
Beau laid it out for her, including what kind of price he wanted to get. His mother had made it abundantly clear that she wanted top dollar for her house so that Beau could set himself up properly.
"Look, the market has just gone into a decline," Alicia said. "How low this decline goes is anybody's guess, but I will try to get you the most for your mother's property."
"I appreciate that," he replied, suddenly overwhelmed with the prospect of selling.
A server came over to take their orders.
“Just water for me,” said Alicia, glancing at Beau.
“Ah, water is fine,” he said, confused.
"Of course," the server said with a smile, excusing herself from the table.
Alicia pulled out her phone. "I can swing by to take a look at the property this afternoon. Around four thirty? Would that be okay?"
"Of course. I can show you through, although it will be filled with boxes. I'm still in the process of sorting through my mother's things."
Another one of those emotionless smiles. "It's no problem. I'll meet you at the property at four thirty, but if you'll excuse me, I have another meeting to get to." She stood up.
"Right." He stood up, holding out his hand to shake hers. "Thank you. And thank you for seeing me."
"No problem, Mr. Jenkins."
Beau left, annoyed that he couldn’t have had this conversation with Alicia over the phone rather than losing time he could’ve spent with Vee. Recalling her number with perfect clarity, he pulled out his phone and finally did what he didn’t have the courage to do in the last four years: send her a message.
Getting back in his car, he started back to his mom’s house. He had to shift those boxes into the garage, then figure out exactly what he was going to do with them. Goodwill was a no-brainer, but some of those figurines may have some actual value. The drive was quick, and as soon as he put the car in park, the memories of his mom's decline in health and ultimate death crashed into him. He sucked in a breath, let it go, then went through the action one more time. He'd already laid her to rest and packed up the house; he could do this too. Outside, the sun was hot on his skin, sweat beading almost instantly. This was going to be hot work.
Unlocking the house, a wall of heat hit him as he stepped inside. Looking around the living room, he counted the boxes—at least thirty in this room alone. Add her furniture on top of that and it was going to be a long afternoon. There was no reason to put it off though. Pulling off his shirt, he tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and got to work.
A couple of hours of hard labor later, Beau stopped when his phone pinged with a message. It was John. Instead of texting a reply, he called.
"Yo, Beau, what's happening?"
"I've got the Realtor coming around in”—he checked his watch—"shit, like an hour to check out my mom's house. I'm moving the boxes into the garage so she can start showing it as soon as possible."
"Man, I wish I could come and give you a hand, but I have a work dinner tonight."
"It's fine, man. I can move most of it before she comes and then finish off the rest tonight."
"Still, I wish I could help. If you still need help tonight, I'll swing by after the dinner."
Beau wiped his brow with his forearm. "Don't stress, John. I'll see you when I get home."
Pocketing his phone, he cursed for not bringing any bottled water with him and walked into the kitchen. Opening up the faucet, he cupped his hands under the flow and drank his fill. He splashed some water onto his face, but it hardly made a difference. He turned off the tap and rested his hands on the sink, his gaze focused on the lemon tiles on the backsplash. Reaching out, he ran his fingers over the floral pattern his mom had loved so much. Even after all these years it was still bright despite their recent years of heartache.
"I miss you, Mom." He whispered the words into the empty house—and that's all it was now: a house. It was only a home because his mom was there. But she was gone. His head drooped between his shoulders, suddenly too heavy to even hold up. He felt his grief rise up, the grief he had tried to hide behind a wall of stoicism. The sob that broke free of his throat sounded too loud in the empty house, but once the tears started, he found he couldn't make them stop.
