Upstairs, his suggestions were similar: painting the walls, removing clutter, fixing anything conspicuously broken (such as the pocket door on the tiny bathroom in Mary’s room, which had for at least a decade closed no more than halfway). In Kitty’s room, Liz said, “In case this isn’t obvious, my three younger sisters still live here. I’m not sure if it’s the boomerang generation thing or just their personal immaturity, but they basically—”
Before she could complete the thought, a form rose from the swirl of sheets and pillows on the double bed and took the shape of Kitty herself. Bleary-eyed and messy-haired, yet still displaying her unconcealable native beauty, Kitty squinted at Liz and her guest. “Why are you in my room?” She pointed to Shane. “Who are you?”
Uneasily, Liz said, “This is my friend Shane. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“Shane Williams,” Shane said warmly, and he waved. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Kitty stood, apparently unself-conscious about wearing a T-shirt, a pair of pink-striped underwear, and nothing else. She glared at Liz. “I’m not immature.”
“I didn’t mean you,” Liz said. “You know what? We’ll give you privacy.”
Hastily, Liz led Shane to the third floor and then to the basement. “Steel yourself for the worst,” she said as they descended to the Tudor’s lowest level, and Shane said, “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen.”
In the front hall again, Liz said, “Be totally honest. How much do you think my parents can get?”
“Hyde Park is always desirable, and this is one of the premier streets. But I can’t lie: Your folks will see better offers if they do some updating.”
“But it’s still worth at least a million, right?” Liz said. “Even in the condition it’s in?”
“Let’s say you declutter like crazy,” Shane said. “Because you’re just shooting yourself in the foot otherwise. But if that’s it and you do nothing else, yeah, I’d say asking a million is reasonable. Or maybe we price it at 1.1 million with the hope of grossing a million even.”
“You’re trying to sell our house?” Kitty said, and Liz looked up to see her sister on the stairs; though fifteen minutes had elapsed since their last encounter, Kitty still wore nothing other than the T-shirt and underpants. “Do Mom and Dad know?”
Liz exchanged a look with Shane. “They’re getting old, Kitty. They can’t stay here forever.”
“We won’t do anything without your parents’ blessing,” Shane said. “Here—” He walked up a few steps and passed Kitty a business card. “Any questions I can answer for you, anything you want to talk about, call me twenty-four/seven.”
Kitty glanced at the card, then looked between Shane and Liz. “Shane and I went to Seven Hills together,” Liz said. “I didn’t just meet him for the first time today.”
“I’ve got a showing now out in Sycamore,” Shane said, “but, Kitty, really, don’t be shy.” Was he, Liz wondered, hitting on her sister? To Liz, he said, “You and I can touch base later today or tomorrow.”
“Please don’t say anything to anyone else,” Liz said to Kitty after Shane left. “I’m only doing due diligence.”
“But we’re happy living here.” Kitty’s expression was petulant. “It’s not fair for you to kick us out, then go back to New York.”
NEED TO TALK to u, the text from Charlotte read. Got a min?
“What’s up?” Liz said after she’d called her friend.
“I hope you won’t be weirded out,” Charlotte said, and Liz detected in Charlotte’s tone both pleasure and genuine nervousness. “I’m pretty surprised myself. But here goes: After you and I had drinks last week, I sent an email to Willie. Just like, Hey, heard your trip to Cincinnati may have ended on a strange note, hope you’re taking care. He emails back right away and wants to know if he can call me, and I say sure. We end up talking till four in the morning. Then the next night, the same thing. To make a long story short, he’s invited me to visit him this weekend.”
“We’re talking about Cousin Willie, right?” Liz said. “That Willie?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “That Willie.”
“You shouldn’t feel sorry for him,” Liz said. “Willie’s a big boy.”
Some retracting on Charlotte’s part occurred. “I don’t feel sorry for him.”
As if she were unaware of the retracting, as if this conversation had not become deeply strange, Liz said, “How did you have his email?”
“We’d exchanged cards at Chip’s dinner party.”
Which in itself, in light of subsequent developments, seemed suddenly suspicious. There was something displeasing to Liz about this unexpected association between Charlotte and Willie, and an additionally displeasing awareness of her own displeasure. If Charlotte was happy, and indeed this was how she sounded, shouldn’t Liz be happy for her?
“Obviously, you can do whatever you want,” Liz said. “But you don’t think he’s, like, a tech doofus?”
Coldly, Charlotte said, “No, I don’t.”
“I don’t mean doofus like he’s an idiot. He’s very smart. He’s just, I don’t know—he’s so awkward. You don’t think?” She was making things worse, not better, and she could hear herself doing it, but Charlotte and Willie? Really?