The best offer, to date, had been two-and-a-half.
She was standing on the far side of the breakfast bar with a middle-aged couple who seemed to be scrutinising his home with a critical eye. Sherri gushed enthusiastically when she saw Michael. “Oh, what good luck. Here is the owner now. Michael, how are you?” But she didn’t wait to hear. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Van Agten. They sooo love your house.”
Michael glanced at the couple, whose faces conveyed a slightly different impression. But they nodded politely.
“Just take a wander round yourselves,” Sherri told them. “While I have a word with Mr. Kapinsky.” As she led him by the arm toward the office, she called back over her shoulder, “I’ll be with you in just a minute.” Immediately they were in the office she closed the door, and her smile faded. “Michael, you have to do something about the courtyard. It’s completely overgrown. A damn wilderness. It gives such a bad first impression.”
Michael wandered toward the desk where his computer’s screensaver played an endless slide show of Mora. He lifted up a pile of unopened mail. Bills. Unpaid bills. Reminders. Final warnings. “I had to terminate the contract with Mo, Blow, and Go, Sherri.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “Mo, Blow, and Go?”
He smiled sadly. “It’s what Mora called the Mexican gardeners. They would descend on us every Tuesday like a whirlwind, mow the grass and weed the borders, blow away all the fallen leaves and debris with one of those motor blowers. And then they’d be gone. Mo, Blow, and Go.” He looked up, but Sherrie wasn’t smiling. “I couldn’t afford them any longer. I’ve paid off the pool guy, too, the guy who serviced the hot tub and the reflecting pool. Oh, and the one who came every couple of days to feed the fish.”
Mora had installed a fish tank in the wall that divided the bedroom from the hall, visible from both sides. High enough that no one could see in through it, but not so high that you couldn’t stand and watch the fish darting in and out of the coral and pebbles. Feeding them was something Michael figured he could do himself now.
“Well, I wish you would do something about those boxes piled up all over the place. You should have waited until the house was sold before getting rid of furniture and starting to pack. People like to see a house that’s lived-in. You’re really not doing either of us any favours, you know.”
“Well... ” he paused for just a moment. He was going to have to break the bad news to her sometime. “It doesn’t make any difference now, Sherri. The bank’s foreclosing on the loan.”
He watched her blue eyes turn cold as she saw her commission disappearing in a puff of smoke. “That’s not fair. I’ve invested months of work in this place, Michael. In time and advertising. You can’t do this to me.”
“It’s not me, Sherri. It’s Mr. Yuri. He thinks the government made a mistake in propping up the economy with bad loans.”
She frowned. “What?”
“I’m just telling you there’s nothing I can do about it. If you can’t sell the house for me before next week, you’ll lose your commission, and I’ll lose my home and a helluva lot of money.”
They were startled by a soft knock at the door. A young man sporting a baseball cap and tennis shoes opened it and smiled in at them. He wore shorts and a tee-shirt, and a tool belt around his waist that was hung with an array of small gardening tools and a fine-spray water bottle. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Kapinsky. Just wondering if you had my check. You know, for the bill I left you last time.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Forgot about that, Tim.” Michael opened a drawer to take out his check book, and started rummaging through his cluttered in-tray to find the bill.
“I’ll go back and talk to the Van Agtens,” Sherri said, and he heard the chill in her voice. “But we’re going to have to talk about this, Michael.”
When she had gone, Michael shrugged at Tim and pulled a wry smile. “I’m in the doghouse.”
Tim smiled. “Know the feeling.”
Tim had been working for Mora for years. He arrived once a week to water and tend the myriad houseplants she had collected at great expense over time.
Michael signed the check and handed it to the young man. He smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go, Tim.”
“Is the house sold, then?”
“No, not yet. But I can’t afford to keep you on.
Tim looked crestfallen. “Who’s going to water the plants?” They were like his children.
Michael shrugged helplessly. “I’ve no idea. Me, I suppose. If I can remember.”
“You’ll need to work out a schedule, Mr. Kapinsky. Leave reminders for yourself. Some of these plants will be gone in a matter of days if you don’t take care of them.” He paused. “What are you going to do with them when the house is sold?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe the new owners will take them.”
“There’s a few thousand dollars’ worth there, Mr. Kapinsky. Maybe I could sell them for you. Some of my other clients might be interested.” Like foster parents.
“That would be great, Tim. I’d appreciate that. Mora would have appreciated that.”
Michael sat alone in his office for a while then, listening to Tim moving around the house, the voices of Sherri and the Van Agtens as they went from bedroom to hall, to dining room, to kitchen. And he felt depression settle heavily again upon his shoulders. Finally, he got up and slid open the door to the terrace and wandered out to stand with hands thrust in his pockets and gaze out over the view.
From the low parapet that contained the terrace, the ground dropped away steeply, eighty or a hundred feet down to the road below. Trees and bushes and shrubs and flowers grew thickly on the slope, a root network binding soft soil to prevent erosion in heavy rain. Boats motored their way up and down the harbour channels around Balboa, a couple of kayaks fighting against the swell and the sea breeze. In the distance, clusters of spindly, tall palms, like giant green dandelions swayed in the sunlight, and the water glittered and glistened beneath clear skies, jewels of light scattered across its ruffled surface. He felt emotion well from his chest and into his throat. He was going to miss this place, nearly as much as he missed Mora.
He turned at the sound of a door sliding open, and saw Tim stepping out to spray the potted cacti that stood sentinel on either side of it. A small, wrought-iron table was set beneath the trellis, two chairs facing each other across a chess board, a game in progress. Tim moved one of the chairs.
“Careful,” Michael called to him. “Don’t disturb the game.”
Tim glanced at the table. “Oh. Sure. Who are you playing, Mr. Kapinsky?”
“Mora.”
Chapter Six
“How often did you play?”
“Every morning. It was a kind of ritual. We got up at the same time and had an exercise and stretching program that we did together. Then we had breakfast in the courtyard, before moving out to the terrace to play chess for an hour.”
“Who was the better player?”
“Oh, Mora was. I never beat her.”
“She’d been playing a long time, then?
“No, she hadn’t. That was the irony of it. It was me who taught her to play, and right from the start she beat me every time. She had some kind of extraordinary visual memory. She could hold thousands of pictures in her head, a chess board in any number of configurations. Pure instinct. But she was unbeatable.”
“So what was the point in playing, if you both knew she would win?”
Michael smiled. They had talked about that often. “It wasn’t the winning, Angela. It was the playing. Time we shared together. Just us. No one else. A meeting of minds. The world simply went away.”