Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (21 page)

I murmur something polite in agreement, but I still think Lou’s the lucky one here. He’s okay, but I like Izzy better.

“You and Tom are planning to get married one day, right?” she says, then quickly adds, “If I’m prying, you can just tell me to butt out.”

“No, it’s fine. We definitely plan to be together forever. We’re just in no rush to do the ceremony thing. Too much dealing with family.”

 “I was younger than you when we got married, but part of it was I felt like I couldn’t move out and leave Mom and Dad to deal with Stanny alone unless I was married. It just wouldn’t have felt right.” Stanny is her brother with special needs. “That wasn’t why we did it, though,” she adds quickly. “We just really wanted to.”

 “Planning a wedding seems so overwhelming to me right now. And there’s no rush.”

 “You’re right,” says my always-agreeable friend. “There’s no rush at all. But when you do get married, I want to be a bridesmaid, okay?”

“I don’t know,” I tease her. “Then everyone will be looking at you instead of me.”

“Don’t be silly. The bride’s always the most beautiful woman there.” Izzy takes the subject of weddings seriously. “And I want to be in charge of doing your hair or at least of telling a professional how it should be done. You know how much I love your hair. And I’ve already decided how you should wear it for your wedding—half up—”

“Kate?” calls out the woman at the cash register. “Your order’s ready.”

“—half down with some ringlets pulled out on both—”

“Hold on,” I say, standing up. “I think that’s our food.”

“She said ‘Kate.’ ”

“I know,” I say with a sigh, and we go up and get the food I ordered.

* * *

Cameron Evans can’t stop staring at me. “Wow,” he says. “Keats Sedlak. I’d recognize you anywhere. I sat right behind you for all of ninth grade English.” He circles around me. “The back of your head hasn’t changed at all.”

“Thank you,” I say since it seems to be meant as a compliment.

His father, who pumped my hand energetically when they first arrived, now beams delightedly at both of us. “You don’t forget hair like that!” he says, then turns to my mother. “Look at them. Two minutes ago they were little kids, and today they’re all grown-up and smarter than we are. How’d that happen?”

“Time passed?” my mother suggests drily.

“Ex-act-ly.” He looks like a blown-up version of his son. They’re both tall with big heads and straight, fair hair that’s parted and brushed down, but Cameron is superthin and his father’s shoulders and waist are padded with flesh under the wool suit jacket he wears. His shrewd, dark eyes dart around, assessing the house, assessing my mother, assessing me. “So do you remember Cameron as well as he remembers you?” he asks me.

I nod. He’s changed, though. He was awkward and self-effacing in high school, but he’s become slick and outwardly confident.

He swipes his hand through his hair, smooths it down on top, leans his hip against the dining room credenza, and says smoothly, “You were a lot more memorable than I was.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, you were. She was,” he tells my mom. “She was just so smart. The teacher loved her. Everyone waited to hear what she had to say. If Keats didn’t know the answer, no one did.”

“That is so not how I remember it.” I’m trying to be a good sport, but I’m finding this conversation excruciating. This guy is a salesman, just like his dad. It’s the house that’s exciting them, this big old house that my mom is dying to get rid of and doesn’t owe any money on—it should be an easy sale; she won’t hold out for an impossible price. They’ve got the scent of it, and it’s clearly giving them both a hard-on. They’ll say anything right now to make us happy.

But my mom seems enthralled by all this reminiscing. “Yes, teachers always loved Keats.”

“No, they loved Hopkins,” I say. “Sometimes they loved me for being her younger sister.”

She shakes her head. “Hopkins drove most of her teachers nuts.”

“Only because she knew more than they did before class even started.”

Mom shrugs. No argument there.

“Oh, I looked up that article you mentioned,” Mr. Evans says to Mom. “The one in
Harvard Magazine
. And the one in the
Wall Street Journal
, too. Sounds like your daughter’s doing some groundbreaking work.” Mom’s clearly told him a lot about Hopkins. He turns to me. “And what are you up to these days, Keats? You must have graduated from college a few years ago, yes?”

Mom’s clearly told him nothing about me. Well, what is there to tell?

“I work over at Waltham Community College.”

“Teaching?”

Mom answers him. “Keats manages their English department.”

“The English department office,” I correct her sharply. “I don’t run the department. I run the office.”

“Interesting,” says Cameron, even though it really isn’t.

“What do you do?” I ask to be polite. Then I realize what a stupid question that is.

“Um…this?” He gestures around us, indicating the house.

I flush. “Right. I knew that.”

“Cameron didn’t come with me last time,” Charlie says. “He hasn’t gotten a good look at the property yet. How about you give him the grand tour while I sit down with your mother and start throwing some boring numbers at her?”

Oh, great.
It occurs to me that maybe Mom had me come out today just so she could fix me up with Cameron. But all I can do now is try to sound cheerful as I tell him to follow me. As we walk out into the hallway, I hear Charlie saying, “We’re truly honored that you chose us to represent this amazing property, Eloise. I can see that this is a house that’s been cherished, and I promise you that we will find a buyer who’ll love it just as much as you have.”

“They can set fire to it so long as they give us our asking price,” Mom replies.

I trot Cameron swiftly through the downstairs. I’m a little bummed to see Mom hasn’t made much progress since the last time I was here. There are some boxes scattered around, so I guess she planned to start packing, but they’re still empty, and the shelves and tables are still crammed with junk.

“I love the way your house rambles,” Cameron says as we head up the stairs. “It has so much character.”

“It always felt kind of rabbit warreny to me. Not necessarily in a good way. But I will say, there are lots of excellent places to hide here.”

“Did you hide a lot when you were a kid?”

We’re upstairs. “Not really hide. I just liked to crawl into tight places where no one could find me.”

“How is that different from hiding?” he asks seriously.

“I’m not sure.” I point down the hallway. “That’s my brother Milton’s room—he still lives here—and the one next to it used to be mine, but he’s spread into it, and over there—”

“Wait—spread into it? Did he break down any walls?”

“No, he just leaves the doors to the shared bathroom open.”

“Let me see.” He’s already at the door, turning the knob.

“Wait! We have to knock first. He’s probably in there.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize he was home.”

I knock and Milton says, “What?”

“It’s me. And”—I hesitate, not sure what to call Cameron—“and a real estate agent. Can we come in so he can see your room?”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes,” I say and open the door.

Milton’s sitting at his computer. He’s got some major bedhead, but otherwise looks adequately presentable in sweats and a T-shirt. “Hi,” he says, swiveling in his chair. My companion starts to introduce himself when Milton cuts him off. “You’re Cameron Evans.”

Cameron blinks. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

Milton shrugs. It’s something he’s always been able to do—remember virtually every person he’s ever seen. He used to read through the school yearbook once a year just so he could put a name to each face. And from then on, he knew who everyone was. It’s an unusual skill, and I’m jealous of it. People remember me because of my red hair and weird name, so I’m at a disadvantage at parties.

“You’re a real estate agent now?” Milton says to Cameron.

Cameron reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small silver business card holder. (Really? A business card holder? The guy is
my
age. Why is he pretending to be fifty?) He extracts a card and hands it to Milton.

“Evans and Evans?” Milton reads.

“My dad and me. Although the company name predates me. He and my mother were the original Evans and Evans, but now she uses her maiden name professionally.”

“Why?” Milton asks.

“They got divorced and don’t work together anymore.” He says it easily. I wonder if it’s a function of how much time has elapsed or if it just wasn’t all that traumatic for him.

“Ours are in the process of getting a divorce,” I say in the spirit of unity.

“Your mom mentioned that. It’s one of the most common reasons for people to sell their houses, you know.”

“Did yours?” asks Milton.

“What?”

“Did your parents sell their house when they got divorced?”

“Actually, no. Mom still lives in it.”

Milton hands him back the card even though he was probably supposed to keep it. “Home prices are down about twenty percent from four years ago,” he says. “That must be rough on your business.”

“We’re doing okay.” Cameron’s smile is looking strained.

“How much do you think you can get for this house?”

“My father’s discussing that with your mother right now.”

“I’ve checked out the comps,” Milton says. “A house two streets over sold for one point five million eighteen months ago, but since then, two similar houses in the neighborhood have gone for less than a million, and there are about four currently on the market. Several of them have lowered their prices more than once. What do they call that? Chasing the market? Don’t you represent one of them?”

“We represent quite a few houses in your neighborhood.” Cameron wipes his hand across his forehead. “Not sure which one you’re thinking of.…It’s a moderately slow market right now, but you guys don’t have to worry about that. This house is unusually stunning, and with no mortgage—”

Milton shakes his head condescendingly. “Perrin Barton in the
New York Times
said a few weeks ago that no one should be selling right now. Hold on to your real estate, she said. If anything, buy more. Every sign says prices are depressed below market value because buyers are nervous about the economy, but in a couple of years, real estate should regain some momentum.”

I’m listening, amazed as always at how Milton—the guy who can’t boil water for pasta or run a simple errand—can easily track down, synthesize, and remember information. It’s no wonder he was a straight A student, but it’s easy to forget his strengths when I only ever see him fading into the background here at home.

“Huh,” Cameron says. I can literally see the sweat beading on his forehead. To be fair, it
is
warm in Milton’s room. He never opens a window. “Interesting. I’ll have to read that article. But no one really knows what the future will bring. The important thing to remember is that sometimes it’s just the right time in your life to sell, no matter what the market’s doing, and that’s where your mother seems to be right now.”

“She owns this house outright,” Milton says. “No mortgage means she’s not paying out every month, and the taxes are low since they bought it so long ago. It doesn’t cost her much to carry it. In fact, any place she moves, even an apartment, would probably cost her more per month. Seems to me it makes sense to hold on to it until the market gets stronger.”

“That’s definitely a conversation you should have with her.” Cameron’s edging toward the door. “My sense is she’s ready to just be rid of this big, old house. But it’s always a personal family decision—”

“Come on,” I say, taking pity on him. “I’ll show you the upstairs office.” I grin at my brother behind his back. “I’ll be back later to talk, Miltie.”

“Bring some toast with you,” he says and swivels back to his computer.

* * *

Later, after the Evanses leave, I tell Mom what Milton said about waiting to sell the house.

She shakes her head. “He’s not the one who has to take care of this monstrosity. I just want to get rid of it at this point.”

“I know. And I think Milton knows that, too, but he’s not losing his home without a fight. Oh, and also? He wants some toast.”

Mom follows me into the kitchen. “So Cameron seemed very happy to see you again,” she says pointedly.

“Only in your imagination.”

She goes over to the refrigerator, studies its contents, closes the door without taking anything, and whirls around, her skirt billowing up. “If he calls you, you should at least have coffee with him. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Tom wouldn’t like it,” I say flatly. I put the bread in the toaster and press it down.

Her eyebrows go way up. “How medieval of him. And of you to think that means you can’t do it.”

“I’m not saying he’d
forbid
me. He lets me do what I want. But I’m not going to do something that makes him uncomfortable.” Good thing she doesn't know what a hypocrite I am.

She folds her arms across her chest. Then unfolds them and fingers the dangling silver earring in her right ear. “This is the time in your life to be meeting lots of people, Keats. I understand the attraction of a steady boyfriend, but you’re losing out on so many opportunities by playing house too soon.”

“Mom, no one’s playing at anything here. Tom’s the guy I’m going to spend the rest of my life with and you need to—”

She cuts me off. “The rest of your life? You’re not old enough to know anything about the rest of your life. I’m not sure
I’m
old enough to make those kinds of statements, and I’ve got thirty years on you.”

“Fine,” I say. “As far into the future as I’m capable of seeing, I expect Tom to be at my side, first as my boyfriend and then as my husband and eventually as the father of my children. When we do get married, I hope you can find enough affection for me to congratulate us and to accept Tom into our family.” My voice is breaking, but I don’t even know what’s making me emotional, whether it’s my mother’s attitude or my own recent screwup. I open up a cabinet to get out a plate, hoping it’ll hide my weird overreaction.