“I need to talk to Steve about it, but . . .” She gritted her teeth together to keep from giving away how much she wanted this, because she ultimately knew what the answer had to be. “It’s too much, Randy. You hardly know me. I can’t take your money; it wouldn’t be right.”
As she spoke, Randy nodded quickly over and over as though watching a ball bouncing across the road.
“Listen, I just know talent when I see it. I’ve worked in business long enough where I’ve learned your best assets are people, not properties. I know how to assess a deal and close it quickly before another buyer gets his grubby hands on it. I guess that’s what I’m doing here.”
They slowed to a stop at a four-way stop sign where four empty country highways bordering newly plowed fields of dark soil met up under a blinking light. There were no cars to be seen, no sign of human life beyond the lines in the dirt that had surely been plowed within the past few days, but he didn’t move forward.
“I think you might be losing your touch if you see all that in me.” Amelia laughed but then grew serious. “I mean, I’d love to work with you, but like I said, I just need to talk to Steve. I know he’d insist I pay you back once I get going on my own.”
“Amelia, I guess I do have one concern.” When he looked at her instead of the empty road, her heart beat a little faster, like now he was going to come forward with a list of things that made it impossible for her to ever be good enough.
“Feel like sharing?” she asked, hoping to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, uh, I’m a little worried that you’ll have a potential sale on the line and you’ll take a break to go call Steve and get advice.” They still hadn’t moved from the intersection, and the designer engine purred, nearly silent, the cabin of the car a cone of silence from the outside world.
“I wouldn’t . . . ,” she stammered, instantly defensive. It wasn’t that she was required to check in with Steve, but it had just slowly become a habit she couldn’t kick. “I think you’re being a bit presumptuous.” She placed her arms across her chest, wishing he’d start driving again.
“I just call it as I see it. If I go into a house and the blinds are broken and the carpet is stained, I make sure to point it out to my client. If they are still interested in the property, I make sure they’re willing to accept those flaws for the price they are paying.” He shrugged, unperturbed. “Maybe I’m blunt, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
As Randy stared her down, it seemed to all make sense. She should be able to make some of these choices on her own. She shouldn’t have to run every decision past her husband. Looking at Randy, thinking about his offer, she felt like she had choices for the first time in a long time.
But this fear of making a decision without Steve’s approval, this unsettled nervous feeling, it still nibbled on the edge of her thoughts like the mice that would invade the basement in the winter, gnawing through the cardboard boxes filled with old clothes and looking for a nest to birth their babies.
Rarely, one of the rodents would get brave or hungry enough to come upstairs, and that was when Amelia would put down traps and the girls would refuse to go to the basement even to retrieve ice cream from the deep freezer. But most of the time the little mice were there, stealthy, hungry, and growing. No matter how hard Amelia tried, she was never really able to free the basement from the mice. Steve said it was part of living out in the country, but she always wondered . . . what if she could just find the crack in the foundation that the mice kept nosing through and fill it, then maybe she could find a way to be rid of them—forever. What if she could be strong enough to say no more often? What if she wasn’t always so afraid? What if . . .
“You know what,” she said with resolve, ready to seal those cracks up in her life, “you might be good at assessing real estate, but I wouldn’t get too cocky. I’m going to prove you wrong this time.” Amelia offered her right hand to Randy, and after only a brief hesitation he took it.
“Sounds like a plan.” Something like relief washed over Randy as they shook hands. He gave her a little smirk and placed his hands back on the wheel. “Now, I’m a bit late for Dawson’s pickup. I hope you don’t mind if I put the pedal to the metal a little.” Just as Randy shifted his foot to the gas pedal, the familiar trill of his phone erupted from his suit coat pocket.
“Randy Mraz.”
She didn’t know if it was intimidating or impressive that he didn’t even muss with any greetings—just his name and a no-nonsense tone.
He went first pale, then a little green. When it seemed that he might hang up without saying a word, he finally spoke.
“Okay, slow down. Is Dawson okay?”
Amelia sat up straight. Oh no. This was one of those calls, the ones no parent wanted to get ever.
“The police?” he asked, an edge to his voice that seemed like either anger or panic. “Is he okay?”
She didn’t know Dawson incredibly well, but the idea of something happening to that child made her want to cry. Randy’s hands holding the steering wheel started to tremble, and Amelia was afraid he might lose his grip. A minivan had pulled up and paused for an extra second at the stop sign ahead of them as if waiting for the BMW to make the first move. But when Randy didn’t even look up, the minivan turned right toward Emmetsville.
Police. Dawson. She tried to make eye contact with Randy, tried to get some small kind of reassurance or explanation. But nothing. His trembling hands squeezed the black leather wheel three more times, his knuckles turning whiter the more frantically he gripped it.
“I don’t understand a word you are saying right now. What the HELL happened to my son?” Anger didn’t look good on the normally cool and collected businessman. Anger looked pale and sweaty. It looked like a restless body that shifted up and down in his seat over and over until he was nearly bouncing. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, and you’d better have answers.”
He batted at the earpiece in his ear until it fell out. He crushed the Answer button on the side, and the device went from glowing blue to a lifeless black. He wrapped his tan hand around the Bluetooth headset and squeezed like he was trying to kill an insect, letting out a low, guttural growl.
Amelia sat back, heart pounding, head swirling with thoughts and fears. The same thoughts that would go through her mind if Dawson were her son. Wasn’t he at day care? Wasn’t he safe? Why were police involved? But those were the last questions Randy would want to hear.
As she tried to figure out the right thing to say, Randy’s growl turned into a roar, and he took the headset balled up in his right hand and tossed it across the car. It ricocheted off the windshield and landed in Amelia’s lap. She picked it up off the taut fabric of her forest-green pencil skirt. The earpiece was still warm from the contact with Randy’s skin, and that residual heat made Amelia shudder a little.