Adventures of RealtorMan

“What did you get out of all that, Mrs. James?” Hans inquired, once in the confines of her car.

“On the one hand, it all appeared crystal clear. On the other, I’m sure I’ll wake up at three, panicking over what then seems an unresolved question. Maybe that’s just me. What did you think?”

“That the POPS, as an association, is completely in the clear, your crystal clear, but that it remains to be seen whether any association member might be found individually liable, in a criminal sense.”

“Tell me, do you worry that we’ll incur extra expenses over this? I don’t mean to be crass but it is an issue for the association.”

“Depends what everyone votes to do, if we introduce alternatives. Example. Say we adopt, as a building security update, an electronic fob system, as opposed to our current standard keys. That’s going to cost us, and there are frustrations with and limitations to that technology, too. And the $64,ooo question is, does that extra layer of security, of being able to change the codes at regular intervals, offset our concerns about unwanted access to the building, as we have apparently experienced?”

“But it’s still not certain at this point that our victim got in on his own. If one of us let him in, that won’t prevent anything next time, God forbid.”

“Yes, it’s the classic solving of a problem that doesn’t exist. So, I certainly wouldn’t rush into it.” Hans knew, in this instance, that this solution would have indeed solved part of this particular problem. Peter had been gone long enough that the code would have been changed in the interim. Without that new code, he wouldn’t have been able to get in the building himself, much less bring anyone else along. Hans also knew that this wouldn’t have changed the possibly criminal behavior, individual or group-think, that had occurred, according to Mrs. James, even after Peter had ‘left’ Rusty in the pool. No, there were more problems than met the eye; swapping in new keys could never unlock dark hearts.

“Speaking of problems, was it ever a problem for you personally that the Alchemy might be built? I mean, I know you’re advising the committee. Only, my views wouldn’t have been affected and neither would yours.”

Hans was not yet ready to tell her that a move across the hall was going to mightily change his perspective on the Alchemy. “Of course I have a professional interest in any development, much less one right next door, it’s quality, whatnot. As to the impact on the entire building, that’s a Realtor type question.”

“As I understand it from R.M., if the comparable sales decline on an impacted side, they’ll tumble on the other as well. It’s a relative thing.”

“The counter argument is that several proximate, high quality buildings increase a sense of neighborhood value.”

“But how do we measure value? Not like a bunch of hack politicians going on about family values.”

“No. Not so fake as that.”

“The Alchemy is supposed to be a fake. A fake lighthouse. Can that be right? Does that offend you?”

“What if it’s an accurate fake? What if it’s made with some of that wood from shipwrecks that’s pulled out from the bottom of the Great Lakes?”

“OK. But what if that wood is assembled incorrectly, even with the best of intentions, like those badly written recipes?”

“Maybe then we are holding developers to a higher standard than everyone else. Why shouldn’t developers get to pick and choose, especially if they’re envisioning the growth of a city, dragging it into the future?”

“Well, personally, I like things that are pleasant to look at – buildings, or gloves, or pictures – but pretty is often fake, too.”

“The artist would argue that, while pleasant, those things have no meaning. They may be original in a way but they don’t add inherent value.”

“Antiques were originals, once. I mean, who hasn’t picked up an antique something or other sometime, or a small piece of art separated from it’s source? Isn’t it better to hold on to it, even if it’s only a tiny bit of the past? So we can remember? Or are you saying that remembering is more important than the memento.”

“If you apply that same reasoning to architecture, nothing ever changes, nothing new ever gets built. It’s true that the same building can be used in various ways – the old warehouse that’s converted into condos – but that doesn’t change it much on the outside, usually. In fact, the intention most often is to preserve as much of the exterior as possible. The opposite is a facade built to cover over the outside of a building that’s still sound and worth keeping but dismissed as ugly, or not worth preserving.”

“I don’t know much about either art or architecture, or antiques, for that matter. But I do know that, in history and in religion, imitation was used to change something, like Christmas superimposed on a pagan festival, so the new could absorb the old. Or, old movies become the inspiration for a new version. The same stories are endlessly retold. Recycling, or nowadays, we’d call it ‘upcycling’, or ‘repurposing’. But it’s not plagiarism, is it? Manuscripts were endlessly copied by monks…”

“Yes, to make new copies. The only thing they added was?…”

“New artwork. I take your point, Hans.”

“But even when you get inside these high-rise buildings, there’s still the imitation or repetition you describe. In our building, as in most others, we have what’s called a stacked floor plan, with every floor essentially the same. We all think we’re so unique but so much of our daily lives must be the same, the same walk from the elevator, into the similar bathroom, the same piece of the sky out the windows, night and day.”

“I’ll bet mine’s the only one with a yarn stash, though!”

“I’ll give you that difference. Of course, there are differences between us but similarities might balance out the scale.”

“That’s only human, perhaps. So, will the Alchemy ever be built? What do you think?”

“First, we wait for the engineering report, the extent of the instability of the bluff.”

‘I knew you’d say that. I guess I’m also asking about intention. Do you think that these events will have blown the wind out of Morrie Mangold’s sails?”

“Will he back out, do you mean, for personal reasons? Two bad omens, a death and a mudslide, making this an unpromising place to continue?”

“Things like that, yes.”

“There’s a lot of money in play, Mrs. James. Not sure. The real lighthouse might not be replaced by a fake one, after all.”

“Grave robbers.”

“Grave robbers?”

“Thieves who take money or treasure from graves, or even right from on top of the ground. It just comes to mind. When R.T. and I visited the White Sands in New Mexico, I confess that I, rather furtively, gathered a sample of that gypsum sand, even though that was prohibited. I wanted some for the collection on my mantelpiece. It was so different from the loess sandbanks in Missouri, or Mississippi mud, or the Lake Superior dunes. I rationalized this theft of natural resources as I observed the busloads of schoolkids on field trips there, repeatedly sledding down those dunes. There must have been acres of sand exit, in their shoes alone.”

“Whether it was intentional or not, the net loss is the same.” Hans concluded, as they pulled into the POPS driveway and waited for the door to open. “Sledding down sand? Seriously?”

“Would you all care for something to drink?” Seth offered. “I usually have a cup of coffee about now. It’s pretty good since we got one of those instant machines.” Four different beverages and a plate of tempting pastries later, followed by four bathroom breaks, they resumed the consultation.

“How much we have to prove? Do we meet the ordinary care standard, based on what Seth says?” Mrs. James lisped over ‘Seth says’. She coughed a little, pretending the slip came from the crumbs of the buttery biscuit she had just enjoyed. After the Doyle woman’s running insults with names, she wanted to be pitch perfect at pronunciation. Mr. Hough would have to do as a form of address, in future.

Seth Hough, stepping politely into the awkward silence, undaunted by the various interpretations of his name that occurred despite the endless repetition of it over the airwaves, answered, “There’s typically language in docs to say that an association isn’t liable for damages to a unit owner as a result of injury that occurs in a common area. That extends to a guest, too. Always assuming that there’s been no wanton, willful, or negligent act by the association. If there were, then the association wouldn’t be immune.”

“But a trespasser has no claim.” Hans stated. If Peter was a trespasser, then Rusty was the guest of a trespasser. Two degrees of separation from a possible, though an unlikely claim; less unlikely, if he’d given permission for their visit. Perish that thought.

“A trespasser has no claim.” Seth reiterated. “And, to address the rest of your question, Mrs. James, there is apparently no evidence in this case that any actions, or omissions, by the association, were the proximate cause of the drowning.”

“But there may be evidence, Mr. Hough, that, other than bringing him into the building in the first place, a resident might have been involved somehow in the actual drowning, or in the failure to report the drowning. The police are still asking for residents to come forward with additional information.”

“Well, as I said, that’s a whole new ball game, when we get into personal responsibility for possibly criminal behavior. It is a felony to abandon a body.”

“You mean if someone left him there, in the pool?”

“That depends on what the meaning of the word ‘left’ is.” Seth parsed. “If a person abandons, deserts, or ‘leaves’ a corpse, as in, ‘I found him there and I left him just where I found him,’ or, ‘I just left him alone, right where he was,’ without reporting the location to proper law enforcement, that’s a felony, but it doesn’t involve a sufficient relationship with the deceased to criminalize it.”

That’s Peter’s goose cooked then, thought Hans. And mine too, if I cover it up? He hadn’t actually seen it happen. It was all hearsay from Peter.

“It’s a crime to take, deposit, or ‘leave’ a body, as in “I put him there and I left him there.” The police will be trying to establish this sequence, as well, I’m sure, whether anyone ‘contributed’, shall we say, to his death.”

“The other point Mrs. James is making, though,” continued Earnest, “is that these, if there turn out to be any, actions of a resident, or residents, will still have an ongoing effect on the whole association.”

“Enter the Realtor.” directed Seth. “It’s possible that your sellers could take some knocks in the market because of this, depending on how it’s handled, or what particular buyers care about. But it’s not a defect nor a disclosure item, so far, under the definition. Different Realtors will handle it different ways. Some might regard the building as the scene of a suspicious death, or even a murder, consider it to be stigmatized, and avoid it. Others might be upfront about it, just to be clear. ”

“Is there a difference between a defect and a stigma?”

“A bit hazy, like the ghosts that are sometimes reported to take up residence in a property, after a death.”

“Oh, I never thought about that, at all!” Mrs. James looked up, quite startled. “Oh Earnest, can’t you just hear Poppy and Pansy asking, “Will there be a ghost, Mrs. James?”" Seth pressed on with his answer.

“By definition, a ghost cannot easily be seen during an inspection of the property. There would be no physical sign of a defect, unless this were a damaging type of ghost, not the rattling of chains type. The seller might not even experience the ghost; no reason to disclose it, then. Even if the seller tells the listing agent, the agent is not obliged to disclose it. It’s not a defect. A buyer isn’t likely to hear of haunting until after moving in and meeting the neighbors, who will be delighted to tell all, probably even before the buyers have an opportunity to meet their ghost.” Mrs. James reminded herself that, in the minds of some, she was this neighbor.

“Is that the only way to look at it?” Earnest didn’t see the pun.

“Legally, you mean? This where stigma comes into it. The property could be seen as stigmatized, not based on a physical defect but on a psychologically based situation. Some, but not all, people might think this would devalue the property. Some could have a religious or cultural objection. There are others who might think it charming, adding to the historical value of the place. It really depends on the potential buyer. For those reasons, wise agents suggest to the seller that a death, much less a supposedly haunted house or other types of potentially disruptive or upsetting activities, be disclosed to buyers simply to avoid subsequent objections or contractual challenges.”

“Is exorcism ever attempted?” Mrs. James wanted to know. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“I believe it has, yes, though to what effect, I can’t say. Perhaps it’s enough to provide some ease. Not my department, I’m afraid.”

“And what about the rest of us, not ghosts or zombies, that continue to really live there?” Hans asked.

“Well, if you’re not moving, you’re not losing any property value, not for that reason anyway. Unfortunately, drowning is not rare. Fortunately, memory is short. Whatever your residents decide to do about the pool is really your own business. If you vote to discontinue it, it’s just a normal amendment or two to the docs. If you keep it, draining, cleaning, a bit of paint, and some replacement signs and equipment – just for your own peace of mind to meet the standard – and you’re done, basically.”

“Life goes on.” Mrs. James concluded, quietly annoyed that they’d just spent a lot of money to discover a platitude.

“In other words, Mrs. James.” Earnest consulted his notes.

“While we’re still on the subject of the pool, there was also a question raised about installing one of those closed cameras? That’s not part of the standard care?”

“No. If you operate a CCTV, where will you put it? Just for the pool, or for the entrances, as well? It’s not a requirement but the implication is that someone will be attending to it. Would you hire someone else? Your concierge is only full time, isn’t he, not 24/7, like your recreation amenities? Or, you might consider limiting the times of pool use. There’s nothing to say you can’t hire a lifeguard for those hours. Any decisions like this would affect the monthly fees, of course.”

There goes the budget, thought Hans.

Hans was dreading the whole thing; he was a man who knew too much. His life was now revolving around keeping secrets and he needed to get through this meeting without giving anything away. Although he was adept at keeping sequences of numbers in his head with ease, he was unpracticed in the agility of mind required to bring some order and perspective to the multiple story threads drifting through his thoughts, as the trip in with Mrs. James had just demonstrated. He expected to be riveted by the consultation but decided to say as little as possible, and to ask only questions, if he had to speak at all. He’d brought along a notepad, just in case he needed a prop.

Mrs. James, vastly preferring that the drowning would prove to be an accident, was reluctantly, increasingly afraid that somebody in the building must have left the victim in the pool. Surely this made them all look bad, by association – she should be pardoned the expression – as they lived so much in each others’ pockets, and floor by stacked floor; more so than if some neighbor from down a residential street were in trouble with the law. There was a case, before they’d moved away, of some angry husband literally tossing his wife out the door. This was dreadful behavior of course, and the man was charged for it, but somehow it didn’t involve her or her property value, as this would.

She had received the promised information from R.M. on the language about disclosure, and passed it along to Earnest. The ‘adverse material fact’ was defined by the three tests that a purported defect must meet; if it did, that defect ought then to be included in a description of a property listed for sale. The defect would have a significant, adverse effect on the value of a property, and it had to significantly impair the health, or the safety of future occupants of the property. Or, if it wasn’t repaired, it would significantly shorten or adversely affect the expected, normal life of the premises. In short: value, safety, and normal life expectancy.

Earnest had written out an agenda of his own of sorts, including these questions, so felt prepared for the meeting, if not for the possible answers. He regretted very much having to deal with such a spate of issues during his tenure; the encroaching development next door, the unresolved drowning, and then the slipping bluff. Not to mention an irksome water stain on a common ceiling and the equally irksome owner undoubtedly responsible for it. He’d been more than ready to accept the board presidency, as a social position; he was good at that. He was more than a little worried that he wouldn’t be up to understanding and handling many of these problems, much less demonstrating his effectiveness at communicating to the residents about any possible ramifications. He was also put out that it was all taking so much of his time. Seth Hough ushered them into a conference room.

“I’ve reviewed your condo docs, even though I wrote them for the association, in the first place. It’s a lot to remember.” They sat together around one end of a table of imposing length. Earnest consulted his list.

“Very true. We are assuming that the relevant sections, as far as the drowning is concerned, are those that deal with the association responsibility for common areas, especially as these relate to the pool area.  The pool is still closed, of course.”

“You’ll also be wanting to know if any further action is required to meet safety standards when it re-opens, what procedures you should follow.”

“Though there are murmurings about whether to even open it again at all, so we’d need to hear about that, too.” Mrs. James added.

“I suppose it’s the usual consideration. If not everyone is using it, why is everyone paying the same rate for it?” She nodded.

“The question of ‘can we be sued?’ has also come up.” Earnest introduced another subject.

“Let’s begin there.” said Hough. “I’ll give you some background first, some terms and language.” They all settled back in their chairs, ever so slightly, relieved that they need not frame the correct questions, right away.

“The law says, that without a duty – for duty, think responsibility – there cannot be a liability. The association’s duty is defined in the docs. You have a duty to control the security of the common elements. Next, we ask, what is an appropriate standard of care for that security? Everybody still with me?” he asked, to nods all round.

“Good. We say ordinary care offers a reasonably safe use for residents, and their guests. But not for trespassers. There isn’t any special relationship with a trespasser.”

“No one claims to have brought him in.” interjected Mrs. James. “Although some residents, like Hans and Earnest even, apparently knew him enough to identify him.”

“There would appear to be only the two possibilities, though, for this particular distinction. That a resident allowed him in and that therefore he was a guest, or that he effectively broke in and was a trespasser. To clarify, let me just mention another case where a condo resident was injured, while using a prohibited area for storage. Since access to that area was prohibited, the association did not have to meet the standard of reasonable care for that area, and so was not liable for any injury sustained.”

“So even a resident isn’t necessarily always owed a duty, as you call it.” Earnest restated.

“Exactly. More about that in a moment. The law also differentiates the duties owed, depending on whether the party is a condo owner, an invitee, or a trespasser. To the owner, and this also includes his social guests, the duty is for reasonable care and to warn of known or obvious dangers but not of hidden dangers, unknown even to him. To any other invitee, such as a letter carrier, for example, there is a duty for the reasonable safety of that invitee on the property. There are few, if any, duties owed a trespasser.”

“So the signage we have up, about swimming at your own risk, warns of obvious danger?” asked Mrs. James. “What about having a lifeguard?”

“Failure to provide a lifeguard isn’t a negligence to exercise ordinary care. Not at a private swimming pool, once again where reasonable care was taken for the safety and rescue of swimmers, including signs, equipment, and access to medical attention.”

“So accidental drowning isn’t a crime? And there’s no liability for the association.” Hans, leapfrogging, decided he wanted this point crystal clear.

“Accidental drowning in itself, no, not in this instance. There may be other factors. If the drowned guest had consumed excessive alcohol, that would be his wanton failure to exercise ordinary care. He would be negligent, given that the association had met its ordinary care standard. Remember now, that we are the discussing the association as an entity, not the actions of individuals within the association.”

“Are there fine lines drawn in some of these definitions?” Earnest asked.

“I would say they’re pretty clear, really. Wanton misconduct shows indifference to the safety or property of others. Willful misconduct shows intentional or a conscious disregard for the rights, or safety, of others. Negligence is a failure to exercise due caution.”

While Hans was thinking that Rusty and Peter were guilty of all three of those, wanton, willful, and negligent, Mrs. James and Earnest were increasingly hopeful that the association might be in the clear.

On their Monday morning drive downtown, Mrs. James looked at Hans, “Now that I have you in the car,” – his heart froze – “I  have to ask you something.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“It’s really about your friend, Peter.” Fear now Jack-Frosted icy fractals across his mind. “I wanted to know,” she interrupted herself to watch the traffic change at a busy intersection, “if he’s still interested in helping us, on the cookbook.”

Hans let out a sigh; overlong, but the best he could do to hide his relief. “I don’t think you can count on him any more – that is…” As he hesitated, she supplied another question.

“And do you still want to include his contribution, then?”

“Let me guess.” Hans loosened his tongue, just a little. “Banana bread?”

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t bother about it. It wasn’t that great, anyway, and had a lot of expensive, health-foodie ingredients.” That he’d had to pay for.

“I had noticed that about some of the ingredients, and with his permission, was going to suggest including some substitutions.” She wondered if Peter himself had been substituted, but wouldn’t ask, of course. “Was there something else you’d like to swap in? It’d be good to include you, as you are a board member. I guess you’ve seen the flyer, by now. Gertie Steinhardt is reviving the project as a morale and public relations booster for us. We’ll be looking for additional volunteers. It all begins to sound more promising, with her energy involved.”

“I did see it. No pets to report, by the way. You don’t mind having your ‘pet’ project usurped?”

“Not at all! It had become quite a chore, and with me the house nag! At last we can have some fun with it. Her notion is to include pictures and memories of pets we know, or knew, and love. Everybody can relate to that in some way or other. You strike me as a cat person, Hans. Mullins approved of you.”

“Mullins is cool. I grew up with a string of cats, but…” again he stopped, just in time. He’d been going to say Peter didn’t like cats; too much competition, probably. “Maybe someday.”

“Of course. There’ll be one waiting for you, when you’re ready.” They were snarled up in a construction zone, with only oncoming traffic. They wouldn’t be late, yet. “Do you like to cook?”

“Not much of a cook. Always thought it might be fun to learn but Peter…” It slipped out into this unguarded moment. She scooped him up.

“If you can’t think of some familiar family dish, maybe we could attribute one of mine to you.” All she’d ever seen him ingest was plain tea and the coffee, from down the hill. “How to properly brew tea, for example.” she offered, trying to ease his way out of obvious discomfort. He could certainly use a bracing cup now, she observed. “A mostly unknown recipe here, and worth including.” Hans thought of something to say.

“I prefer to read cookbooks than to work the recipes. Most recipes are so poorly explained. I find myself doing re-writes.” Too bad I can’t go back and re-write conversations, he thought.

“There’s our answer, then. I’ll put you to editing as your contribution, if you will, that is. Why didn’t I think of your abilities before?” How was it that she seemed always to go right where it hurt the most, and make it better.

“I can do that, if you give me some guidelines.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, about recipes being poorly written. I think that most cooks develop ways of doing things and then adapt recipes to their own methods and tastes. It’s very seldom that I follow a recipe to the letter, any more. Burnt too many times, you should pardon the expression! I read through first, to try and grasp what is meant to be done, and with what. I always, and I mean always, make sure I have all the ingredients, or what I intend to swap in, before I begin. I usually stop and write out what I end up doing as I’m going along, so I don’t have to go through it all over again, if there is a next time.”

“That sounds even worse than I expected from just reading them. Why is it that way?” The cars in their lane crept forward.

“Not sure but cookbooks do sell, don’t they? Maybe people like to look at the food art, and neglect the basics. Though the compilers claim to kitchen test everything, I wonder if it isn’t just about differing standards and availability of equipment.”

“I’ve wondered about that, too. What happens if you make something with another pot, for example. Does it really make that much difference?”

“It certainly does with baking, a whole other kettle of fish. Sorry, if we digress into food play on words, we’d never be done. If you don’t think it through first, you can end up using so many more utensils and bowls than are actually needed, for instance, and end up with a bigger mess, over more counter space, so more clean-up, too.”

“I also don’t know very well what ingredients go with other ingredients but I do see that there are so many ways of grouping them – in a list at the beginning, in the body of the directions, highlighted, or not. That’s confusing.”

“That’s less of a problem for me, if I review it all from the top. Some recipes are easier to read one way, some the other. It depends on how you have to measure and mix.” Out of the construction and nearing their destination, Mrs. James was scanning for street parking. “Keep your eyes open for a spot.”

“Those measure and mix directions are the worst part, from an “how to do this” point of view. Every one of those writers must have been out sick the day schools were teaching explanatory writing.”

“It’s like that with older knitting and crochet instructions, too. No specifics, nothing to compare. Much easier, now. You can even follow a diagram. Still need to know the basics of how to do it, though.”

“Directions – A Reader’s Guide.”

“Cooking, baking, knitting, reading, life…”

“A guide book for life has been tried. Many tries. By the time each one is written, each author believes so implicitly in the truth just revealed that no other truth can be possible.”

“The writing makes it so?”

“You seem to have found a way around it with recipes, at least. Let’s decide on our own standards, then. We can aim for some consistency, anyway, even if I don’t know what I’m writing about.”

“No, you won’t have to test. I’ve others in mind for that step. Ah, this spot looks open.”

“And the artwork, who’s on tap for that?”

“We’ve nobody in mind, yet. Here we are.”

Minutes later, Hans and Mrs. James joined Earnest Arbuthnot in the waiting room of the offices of Horton, Hearst, and Hough, for their appointment with the association attorney, Seth Hough. Though on time, they waited, each lost in thought, the glossy magazine each was nonchalantly paging through an advertisement saturated blur. The firm’s signature jingle was, mercifully, not echoing through the office either; it had successfully completed its task of enticing those unfortunate enough to require legal services and, inside these walls at least, was laid to its clamorous rest; ‘Hough rhymes with who’ doggerel need no longer occupy the mind of a fully materialized client.

Bert had thought long and hard about the events of last weekend. And even though it was he who’d suggested it, he worried about bringing Gertie and Mrs. James – she was so easy to talk to, that one – together on this new project. Gertie might be tempted to confide about seeing young Mangold at, though not in, the pool, before he drowned. He reasoned that Gertie, not only because he’d asked her not to but in her own self-interest, wouldn’t tell. He’d remind her one more time, nonetheless.

“I’m back!” he called out, for Gertie’s benefit – it was a big place – stepping into the penthouse foyer. Gertie slipped into view, chatting on her phone, and slipped away again. He wiped down the dog while he waited for her to be done.

He had a twinge of his own about the way it had turned out for Mrs. James. He faced it out. He wasn’t the least bit contrite about his own actions, just sorry that two women, one before the drowning event and one afterward, had gone through a disgusting experience. Still angry, Bert assumed that the jerk’s own outrageous behavior was more than likely the direct cause of death. However it had played out, going over and over it would yield nothing more, change nothing.

What the association did about it all, what level of responsibility they’d assume after speaking to Horton, Hearst, and Hough, was an entirely different matter. But what if it did all come out, would it make any difference? Even if questioned by the police, his Gertie would be in the clear, at least in terms of cause of death. He was fairly sure that they all, he, Guy, Gertie, and whoever was the next visitor to the scene, the one with the rope who’d left the scene resembling a macabre game of Clue, shouldn’t have left a drowning victim unreported. That wasn’t right, but Bert had decided that it was unnecessary for each of them to risk a worse rap for something none of them had caused, especially when it would all be so awkward. This drowning had nothing to do with any of them; no point in going all soft about it, now. He had no axe to grind, now that Mangold had paid a price, his many pounds of flesh, for his sexual and social advances, although he admitted to some relish in his own spite-fueled, poolside contributions.

“You were gone awhile, Dad. I was beginning to wonder if you were caught in the rain, after all.” They stood by the floor to ceiling windows, watching the lake mists meld with the thunderclouds, as the storm sped eastward.

“Nope. Got chatting downstairs, with Mrs. James, though not about your party plans. She was just seeing off those girls she takes care of, into the waiting arms of their droll aunt, Gina. Ever met her?”

“Not yet, no. Though I’ve heard she’s regular, like clockwork. Maybe comes from working for the police.”

“Police, you say? She’s a cop? Let’s sit down. I’m weary.” Bert sank into his favorite armchair and put up his feet.

“Administrative, I think.” Gertie took over a couch, fighting with pillows in search of maximum comfort before sharing what more she knew. Pocano, flopped on the floor, resigned to the chair-less consequences, in damp weather, of a bad fur day. “It was Poppy and Pansy’s mother, Georgia – she’s Gina’s sister – who came to take pictures, last Monday. She works for the police, too, Mrs. James said, as a photographer. That’s when Georgia met Mrs. James for the first time.” Gertie read the perplexed expression on her father’s face.”Too many cops for you?”

“Possibly a little too close to the nub, under the circumstances. You will remember to keep our business to ourselves, won’t you?”

“Well, I don’t ever talk to those sisters, so no fear. Mrs. James and I have lots of other things to discuss, and anyway, the longer I take to tell her I knew something about it, or could have prevented her from discovering the body, the worse I’m going to feel.”

“Do you think she’d ever repeat your confidences?”

“Probably not. I guess it would be more that she’d suggest I tell everything I know to the detectives, the way they asked us to at the meeting, on Wednesday night. They are obviously looking for more information, right?”

“Yes, because they’re stuck. Nothing we can say will unstick them. And anything we do say will be trouble for us.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie?” Gertie glanced down at Pocano.

“My meaning exactly.”

“Did you like her?”

“Sorry…?”

“Gina. You said she was droll. That must be a refreshing change from having passes tossed at you, left and right.”

“It was all a bit rushed. The kids came over to pet the dog. Apparently they met Pocano with Gervase, last Monday morning. I kind of figured who they were but just then up comes a car and out flies this woman, maybe a bit concerned that they were alone and approaching a strange man and a large dog.”

“You are pretty scary together, Dad. Let me guess, Mrs. James saved the day.”

“She’s very good. Smoothed it all out. Introductions all round. Somehow we all ended up talking about dog recipes. Then the storm broke. Put an end to it.”

“Quite the week for introductions. You sound disappointed.”

“Just as she was leaving, she was joking about our maybe talking again, about pet food. Would never have guessed her for a cop.”

“Funny. You’ll have to time your walk next Monday morning, to trade recipes. See if you can catch her on the fly.”

“She comes in with the garbage trucks.”

“What?”

“That was a joke she made, too. We never hear it but that’s when the truck comes.”

“A woman with a sense of humor. Is this the new way to your heart, Dad?”

“She doesn’t know me from Adam, Gertie, or what I am. I’m just a name, if she bothers to remember it, even. It would sure be a change for me though, darling. Time for a cocktail, I think.” He hoisted himself out of the chair and over to the wet bar. “A scotch on the rocks for me. You?”

“I guess. No swimming again tonight. Ping-pong instead, soon.” Bert handed her an icy-cold tumbler, and resumed his well-worn chair.

Gertie raised her glass. “To true romance.”

Bert echoed her toast, then sighed. He had found Gina attractive, but a policewoman, two, in fact, coming into his private family sphere? He wished that he needn’t always have to be so careful about life. “Let us proceed cautiously.”

Bert wasn’t so sure he wanted any romance. He’d made out pretty well without it for a long time now. Was it just because wealth had supplanted love’s benefits? Was it his nature? He knew he loved Gertie, liked her company, too; that was what he liked, just the ease of it. She’d find true love one day, and soon. It was her turn. Their relationship wouldn’t change so much, simply become limited. Her time would be spent elsewhere, as it should be, of course. True romance sounded an exhausting prospect. He hadn’t the courage or the strength for it. Someone to be with, that was the ticket. Socially presentable for certain unavoidable occasions, not so young as to ruffle opinion’s feathers, self-reliant – so he needn’t bother – and quietly amusing. He saw it all at once. The picture filled the frame.

“Any responses yet from that flyer you printed yesterday?” Gertie had left Bert’s office a mess, and it was late Sunday afternoon.

“A few. I gave my e-mail for replies and Gervase said he’d collect any paper ones.”

“Well, at least you have your foot – or your flyer – in the door, now.”

“Speaking of getting in the door, Dad, there’s an idea floating around that I need to run by you.”

“Go for it.”

“When I was down delivering these to Mrs. James yesterday morning, she mentioned an idea she’s had for a re-launch of the project. Actually, she said it was the girls who asked for it first – for a different reason – anyway, long story short – sorry, it’s not that complicated, really…”

“Gertie, stop!”

“Right.” She began again. “Mrs. James is suggesting a tea party.”

“Better, thanks.”

“For everyone in the association.”

“Ah, not just committee people. Sounds like her.”

“It’s to try and recruit people to be on the committee, as well as recipes and pet stuff. She thinks it would be nicer if it were held in her place and not down in the meeting room. More personal like.”

“And?”

“That’s a lot of people for her place. Think we could host it up here?”

“Why?” Bert rather disliked parties at the best of times. Too many hours propped up in a stiff suit, bearing, in a rented flute, an even more disliked, quantity discount grade champagne.

“I know you hate it, Dad, but this was all your idea, remember. More people will come if it’s up here. They’ll be curious. She didn’t ask or anything. I didn’t offer. She thought an open house might thin out any crushes.”

“This is why buildings have meeting rooms, Gertie!” Bert explained, although he realized he had already lost.

“But Dad, it’s where everyone was interviewed by cops. Nobody will come to have tea and make nice in there. We’re trying to get people past all that, aren’t we?”

“Of course. If that’s what it takes, we’ll do it here. Good practice for you, m’dear.”

“Thanks, Dad. We’ll close off some of the rooms.”

“Including the office?”

“OK Dad, I get the hint. They’ll all be looking out the windows, anyway.” They both glanced out, to ominous skies.

“I’m going to take Pocano out for a spin before it storms.” With a wary ear and eye out for the advancing weather, Bert did a kind of up and then back down route along both sides of Prospect, thinking he could seek the shelter of the overhangs of various building entryways should he get caught in a downpour. As he returned, still dry, to the POPS, flickers of lightning danced just to the west.

“Oh look,” he overheard as he hurried up the circular drive, “it’s Pocano!” He saw the little twin girls standing with Mrs. James under the canopy, the clutter of bags at their feet not quite blocking the doorway. They eagerly moved toward him, palms up, hands outstretched. Pocano’s wagging tail conducted their approach. Behind them, a car swung slowly up to the entrance, stopped, and a woman sprang out from the driver’s seat.

“Poppy, Pansy, I’m here!” she called out before she saw Mrs. James there, too, and relaxed. “Ah, afternoon, Mrs. James!” The girls were determined not to miss their chance to pet the dog but good manners prevailed. They had taken it in that it was easier to get their way around adults if they were models of excellent behavior.

“Oh hi, Aunt Gina.” Poppy greeted her. “We’re just hoping we can pet Gertie’s dog. Is it O.K, Gertie’s Dad?” She turned to ask Bert. Mrs. James stepped forward, to make what she now saw would be required introductions.

“Hello, Gina. Girls, wait just a moment, please. Gina, this is Bert Steinhardt, and his dog, Pocano. The girls have made Pocano’s acquaintance before but not Mr. Steinhardt’s. Bert, this is Gina Hayes, and her nieces, Poppy and Pansy Mendel.” As Gina and Bert shook hands, and Poppy and Pansy shook paws with Pocano, Mrs. James smiled and said to Gina, “Bert’s daughter, Gertie, is the mover and shaker behind our revived, association cookbook efforts. I’m sure you’ll be hearing lots about recipes and dogs this week.”

“As long as it’s not recipes for pets, eh, Pocano.” Bert remarked to his dog. Pocano ignored him, enjoying the more lavish attention of the girls.

“It’s recipes for people, with stories about their pets. Although,” Mrs. James attempted to clarify, then paused, “perhaps we could include some for dog biscuits.”

“As long as it’s not dogs in recipes, I’m good…” Gina laughed, as the rest of her remark was lost in the shake of overhead thunder and the din of rain on the canopy roof.

“What did you say about hot dogs, Aunt Gina?” Pansy shouted to be heard above the rain. “Are we having those on the grill, for supper?”

“Party’s moving indoors, kids, on account of the storms. Let’s get underway, here, please. Bags in the car.” Bert directed Pocano out of the way of the loading up, and over to the the driver’s side of the car. “Nice to meet you, Bert. Maybe we can continue this conversation about pet food, another time.”

Gina smiled – a bolt from blue eyes – smiting Bert. Radiance, careless of substance, outshone the lightning. “Bye, Pocano. Bye, Mr. Steinhardt, nice to meet you. Bye, Mrs. James.” came the back seat chorus, accompanied by so many waves, that for a moment it appeared that the car might fly away.

“Thanks,” electrified, Bert hummed, “for introducing us.”

“Yes, that might having taken a bit of working out, on your part.” she concurred, as a rainy gust drove them into the calm of the lobby. “Gina lives with the girls and their mother, Georgia, who’s Greg Mendel’s ex. Gina is Georgia’s sister, and is their chauffeur, at least to our building, every week.”

“How do you enjoy taking care of them? Aren’t they quite a handful?”

“Funny how quickly one gets into the routine, how it gets to be old hat.” Mrs. James pushed the UP elevator button. Used to a wait, they were both surprised when the door opened immediately. Together, they eased into the space.

“So, how soon til they’re back again? Do you have time to catch your breath between stints?”

“They’ll be back Friday, after school. It’s fairly regular, though they’re usually here on Sunday night, too. That’s why I was down in the lobby with them so early last Monday, before all the ‘excitement’ took place, and I got to spend more time with Pocano than I expected. Gina was coming to pick them up. She always jokes that she comes in as the garbage goes out. Well, here’s my floor. Please tell Gertie I’ll be in touch with her tomorrow, after I’m back from our meeting with the association attorney.”

She recollected a bit later that evening that Hans didn’t have a car, and decided to call and offer him a lift to their appointment.

“Hans? It’s Ivy James.”

“Evening, Mrs. James. All set for tomorrow?”

“Earnest called to say that he’s going to our meeting straight from his office. Would you like to ride along with me?”

“That’d be great.” Of all the people there, he trusted her but he preferred she not mull, as her eponymously named cat might, over his unit’s proximity to the garage, and how easily a person could be swept up the stairs from one level to the next; owners and pets resemble one another, he’d read. “I’ll meet you, in the garage. What time?”

“Oh, Mrs. James, thanks so much for making them. They’re awesome!” Lee admired the lacy and long, fingerless gloves. “They’ll be perfect with my dress.”

“Wear them in the best of health. With your skills, soon you’ll be doing these kind of projects yourself.”

“Thanks to you, by hook or by crook, or by needles!”

“If you’re not going off for a long bike ride, will you be able to give us a hand, delivering these flyers this afternoon?” Mrs. James looked at the pile of brightly colored paper on her table, hot off Gertie’s press, or printer anyway. “I was hoping that we could each take one girl, and split up the floors.”

“Time for both, before I have to get ready for pictures, at my friend’s house.” Lee looked around. “Where are they now?”

“Up with their Dad, writing out a family recipe.”

“That’s different.” Lee observed. “Well, have them come and get me, when you’re ready.”

“Are you going to this dance at your school with anyone?”

“Oh, we decided, my friends like, to go in a group and meet up with a group of boys from this other parochial school. There’s this boy I like from there but parents get all worried if kids go as a couple. They pay less attention to what we’re doing if we all go together.”

“I expect it’s more fun, anyway. I’d enjoy hearing all about it tomorrow, when you’re up at last. It’s been a long while since I’ve heard a morning after, I should say afternoon after, play by play of a school dance!”

By early afternoon on Sunday, hunger drove a sleepy Lee out to the kitchen. Carrie was there, puttering over the stove. On her one true day off a week, she often tried out a recipe, something to take her mind off work and the worst of her customers. Slowly negotiating across the kitchen on Sundays, shoring up her reserves, she hated people less by Tuesday mornings, when they started to show up again at Pluto’s.

“The ladies of the evening, in the morning…” she teased Lee, noticing that Lee was still wearing her gloves. “You forgot to change.” Lee stretched out her wrists, to admire the frilly effect.

“I love them.”

“Very cute.” Carrie acknowledged. “Nice time?”

“Weird, mostly.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, I’ll say what happened but I’m not sure what happened, or what will happen, if you get what I mean.”

“I’m listening.”

“O.K. so, one of the boys in our group is the son of the principal of his school.”

“Name of…”

“Michael.”

“Michael’s Dad is the principal, at the same parochial school that Michael attends, yes?”

“That’s what I said. So, everything started out fine but then other boys from his school started acting all strange around us.”

“Strange, how?”

“They were like pointing at him and talking behind his back. Then one girl started meowing right in his face.”

“Meowing?”

“Yah, like this.” Lee pawed at her face and pretended to lick her hands, stopping as she tasted the fuzz of lint from her gloves. She then gave voice to a powerful string of prolonged, and pert, meows. Guy walked into the kitchen.

“Why are we meowing? Are Sticks and Oblio sick? Any coffee left?”

“In the pot, Guy.” Carrie hoped Lee wouldn’t be deterred from her interesting narrative, about a girl going cat-like in public. Silenced by his sister, Guy poured coffee and pretended interest. Lee, her chorus complete, resumed her story.

“Told you it was weird. Michael got more and more freaked and ended up calling his Mom to pick him up early. It completely ruined everything.”

“Spoilers?”

“Then, after he left, we heard everybody talking about it. His Dad was caught having an affair, in a car or a bar, I couldn’t hear, with Kitty Doyle.”

“Get out of town!” Guy looked confused.

“I thought you told me she’s going with Greg Mendel.”

“Dad, it’s an affair, duh?” Lee got up from the table. “I’m going over to Mrs. James’. She wants a dance report, too. Later.” Guy slipped into the now empty chair, and grimaced. Carrie laughed at him.

“Out the mouths of babes, eh, big brother? Actually, Kitty told me this week that she was going to break up with Greg.” Carrie seldom divulged the secrets of the spa but this was family.

“Fast work.” Greg looked skeptical.

“Even for her.” conceded Carrie. Guy shook his head.

“What an idiot. A principal. At a parochial school. With his own kid there.”

“Another stupid man bites the career dust.” Carrie agreed. Very stupid indeed, to let a Kitty Doyle far enough in to wreck your life. The kitchen phone rang. They still had a house phone, a holdover from when Lee was younger. Guy sat musing and nursed his coffee. Carrie picked up; it was Lee’s former twirling coach, Cindy. They’d known each other since Carrie had ferried the littler Lee to and from practices and events.

“I have a favor Carrie, well, a request, really. A director of a sister twirling group down south, who’s also my cousin, just e-mailed me. She said they were considering an applicant from Milwaukee for a position with them but that the references were a bit skimpy. To give the benefit of the doubt, she decided to forward her details to me, to see if I knew anything about her. I don’t, but then I noticed that her address was the same as yours. It’s a long shot but I figured I could at least ask you what you knew about her.”

“Let me guess the name.” Carrie said. Cindy was surprised but didn’t know if this was a good or a bad sign. “Kitty Doyle.”

“Oh, so you do know her, then.”

“Oh, yes. I sure do.”

“Tell all, then, please.”

Across the hall and wearing her gloves, much to Mrs. James’ delight, Lee was telling an abbreviated, no-names mentioned, version of the previous evening’s events. Poppy and Pansy were all ears and she knew that Mrs. James wouldn’t want her spilling those kind of beans, delicious or not, in front of them.

“So, your friend had a terrible time. Poor kid. And more to come, by the sounds of things, with his father in a compromising situation, if what you say is true.”

Poppy, ever alert to adult hiding of meaning through difficult words, asked, “What’s com, promise…”

“zing.” added her sister. Between the two of them, no word ever need be too long.

“Compromising means a person saying or doing something so that other people think that person’s done something wrong. But it’s a word that adults use about other adults, not about children.”

“Kids always have to behave but adults don’t. It’s so not fair.” Pansy pouted. “And, they don’t get time outs either.”

“Nonsense.” corrected Mrs. James. “Everyone has to face the consequences of actions and the sooner we learn that, the better off we are. But sometimes bad things happen to people even when it’s not their fault.”

“Like to this boy.” Lee added.”People were teasing him for something that he didn’t even do.”

“It’s often how you say or do things that make a difference. Being kids gives you lots of practice, right? Speaking of practice, please go tidy up and pack your things. Remember, your aunt will be here soon.”

“Why are you going home this afternoon?” Lee was puzzled by this change in schedule.

“Family coming over.” Moaning, they trudged into the den.

“So, Mrs. James, guess who the woman is?” Lee whispered.

At mid-day on that sunny Saturday, R. M. and his personal assistant, Mrs. M., arrived at the POPS to take photos for the new listing. It was a good time to shoot a southwest exposure; bright, but not yet glaring in the afternoon rays. Owners usually had their own endless images, of lingering sunsets and night lights, that they were only to happy to supply, so these evening enhancements weren’t omitted from the presentation. Mrs. M. had developed a system of logical progression from building exterior to unit interior, and out again, through the common amenities. She preferred that owners not be given an opportunity to advise her as to which shots she must take – “that’s a very special doorknob” – relying on her own practiced sense of how to present the unit to best advantage. R.M. left her to it, maneuvering the seller from room to room out of the way of pictorial progress, all the while discussing, by now, increasingly finer points about listings. He had a bit of time to fill.

“The word ‘list’ is an interesting one, because it encompasses so many meanings, and is both a noun and a verb.” Sebastian looked interested. Some of his sellers instantly changed the subject.

“Encompasses?”

“Coming from a root word meaning border or edge, as a noun, it can mean a strip of cloth along the edge of fabric, or a strip of wood, or even a stripe of color.”

“I’m not familiar with those, and I’m a geographer, familiar with compasses and borders. I’ve heard ‘list’ used as a boundary, though.”

“It can also be a ridge of earth between furrows. As a verb, it can be to plow or to plant with a tool called a list – another noun – that piles up earth on each side of a furrow. And from this idea, of something narrow, we arrive at a slip of paper with a series of names, words, numbers – all in order. As a verb, it can then mean to list in order, or rarely, as a synonym for enlist.”

“A list on a list of a list.”

“But the list goes on. With a different root word implying lust or desire, to list is to wish. In that same sense, it can mean to bend toward, or incline, as a ship might list to one side. Yet another root meaning is to hear, as in to list-en.”

“To list to the list of my list.”

“The one I like best is the plural, ‘lists’, the high fence made of upright stakes enclosing a tournament ground.”

“The jouster entered the lists with his lance.”

“I think of that whenever I enter a new listing myself. I’m about to enter the arena full of fierce competitors in our aggressive condo market.”

“Let’s hope. And a ‘listing’, then?”

“Being included in a directory – in this case, in MLS.” R.M. grinned and began to sing, “Making a list, checking it twice, going to find out…”

“Who’ll meet our price.” Sebastian supplied.

Mrs. M. sent R.M. the signal she was about done. “We’re agreed, then. Matthew has power of attorney to sign the contract. I’ll e-mail the contract, for him to sign and date for tomorrow. He must send it back to me within the 48 hour period allowed, after he signs, for submitting a new listing.  I’ll enter it, complete with all 25 edited pictures, on Monday. It will turn up a shiny new penny on Tuesday, when many Realtors check for new listings and brokers opens, for their tour day. The following Tuesday, I’ll host a brokers open here, after informing the agent community about it during the first week it’s listed.

“But we can start showing it, when?”

“On Monday, depending on the showing instructions. You have several options. Gervase can allow Realtors in, bringing buyers, but that limits you to the hours he’s here.”

“Well, that’s no good. It’s summer. The beautiful sunsets happen after he’s gone.”

“I agree. In fact, we sometimes get requests specifically for showings after dark, for the city lights. Or, you can arrange for a lock box, outside. It has a code, given out to agents with a confirmed showing, with the keys inside. Or, if you’re here, you can let people in, and take a walk. Or, I can be present for all showings.”

“I’m listing,” Sebastian joked, “towards a lock box. Let’s just hope that the buyers aren’t listless.”

“Buyers are like phantoms these days, here today, gone tomorrow. Wanting to buy one minute, and without a desire to do so in the next. But let’s work on getting some showings, first.”

“There’s something else I want to ask on a related subject. Wilt thou list?” R.M., who daily took on a crossword puzzle for his brain’s sake and had no power to resist anyone who so playfully conversed about words, smiled his consent. “Can you give me advice on real estate that you haven’t listed, or that isn’t listed at all?”

“I can’t write an offer for you unless I’m a party to the transaction but I can give some general information, including pricing. What’s up?”

“Matthew and I are thinking of buying a smaller unit, in this building. Is there anything we should be thinking about before doing that?”

“If you were my buyers, I’d certainly take you go out to see similar units in other buildings, for comparison. There could be significant price differences.”

“But what about quality differences?”

“We’d compare those, too. Some Gold Coast condos are conversions, a different sell. This building is relatively new, constructed to more recent standards.”

“So when I factor in quality, the price always goes up?”

“It should. Some people pay a premium to live where they want. Only in Milwaukee is it a sin to pay full price.”

“This is someone we know, who bought it new. We want to be fair but should we expect to pay what he paid for it?”

“That depends. Prices in this particular building are holding pretty steady.  Not what everyone thinks. But you’d have to consider condition, as well.”

“If we can work this out with him, he wouldn’t have to list it, right?”

“Correct. He’d go to his bank to arrange a payoff of his mortgage, and produce a title.”

“Thanks. Now, I’ll tell you what it’s all about. It’s Hans. You know him?”

“The association treasurer? Yes, a little, but not his unit. I’m sure he’ll know how to handle it.”

“He jokes that his is the cheapest condo here.”

“Oh well, in that case, I do know it. Why are you interested in that one?”

“We like the building and the service. We’re making friends here. We’re often away and don’t care about a view. When one or both of us are in town, we need a home, and we’re fine to share it. And there’s a parking space. I’m sure it won’t be that cheap but we’ve inherited money.”

“A pied-a-terre, it’s called. Where is Hans moving?”

“That’s the other thing. He’s going to buy the unit across the hall, on the northeast corner. It has a den, for an office.”

“And that unit owner?”

“Not sure. Out of town, maybe.”

It sometimes happened like this in a building. A Realtor sometimes ‘farmed’ a condominium, especially if he or she were also a resident, trying to catch as much action as possible, on either the buying or the selling side. Hans was doing the same with accounting services. R.M. wouldn’t mind joining in this upcoming, musical chairs style dance of the condo owners.

Now that Greg had declared himself to be a reformed and willing father, he still had the hurdle ahead of figuring out what exactly to do with these daughters of his. Up til now, he’d generally worked on an avoidance pattern, giving them things to do to occupy their time while he left them to freely pursue his own preferred activities. It had worked well when they were younger, and often involved more than enough long runs of favorite TV programs, movies, and, more recently, video games. He set them up and walked away. As long as he fed them periodically, they seemed content.

He took them along to his games once in awhile, but there was no other special activity they did regularly. He’d fallen into the habit of including Kitty in any outings, to ‘help him’ out with them, but even he could see that this was a disaster. Nobody even tried to get along anymore. Finally, she refused to join them at all, making his weekend choices even more divided. If this was the way she was going to be, then there was simply no point in the relationship. And to tell the truth, he was becoming a little exasperated with Kitty himself; not quite what he was looking for and she, demonstrably, not so very fond of him as he’d hoped.

With this first attempt at a new brand of fatherhood yawning before him, he woke a little earlier on Saturday morning, fully intentional, until he remembered that the girls would still be downstairs, with Mrs. James. Their usual drill on Friday nights was a quick supper together before he headed off to work and the girls went off with Mrs. James for an overnight stay. This invariably blended late into the next morning, even though Greg was usually at home. They would be down there in her place playing with the cat, or learning to knit, or away to the library, or whatever the routine was. He sometimes caught up with them in the early afternoon before he was due back at the office. He got home late and slept in on Sunday morning, sometimes alone, depending on Kitty’s mood, then on to a even later lunch with by then hungry, and therefore crabby daughters, leaving only a few hours together before Gina mercifully arrived to take them home. That was pretty much it, with minor variations.

He made the effort and got up. As he emerged, dripping from the shower, he perceived a surreptitious entrance at the front door. Mrs. James and his daughters were all shushing each other.

“Daddy’s still sleeping.” he heard one daughter saying, he wasn’t sure which.

“Morning,” he called, securely wrapping his towel, for the benefit of Mrs. James.

“Oh, Daddy, you’re up! We’re trying to keep quiet, for you to sleep.” Poppy disclosed.

“I’ll be dressed in a minute.”

“Oh, wait, Daddy please.” Pansy requested. “We came to look for your cookbook, the one you write in?”

“We’re on the track of some family favorites.” explained Mrs. James. “They said they knew where your book was.”

“Sure. It’s right on the shelf, near the frig. Make yourself at home, while I get dressed. I’ll be right back.”

Greg described his cooking style as experimental. He attributed this to his career as a coach, where his job was to draw out the best in his players. He did this during practice by making changes frequently, then noting the best combinations of teammates for every situation likely to occur on the ice come game time. He did much the same while cooking, careful to add only one flavor at a time, for instance, and then writing his observations in the cookbook he most enjoyed using, so that it had become something of a personal, culinary journal. It was the one book, full of family recipes, that he had taken with him when Georgia kicked him out of the house.

The girls led Mrs. James to this, unbeknownst to her, Holy Grail. As far as she was aware, not much cooking ever went on here, as Poppy and Pansy reported a fairly steady diet of nursery fare, including the standard PB and J, macaroni cheese, pizza, plus the occasional grilled steak, all washed down by more juice than milk. She was attempting to extend their food choices, one at a time, and, curious about this well-thumbed cookbook, was surprised to find it titled, ‘Classy Fried’. Perhaps not a promising start, but when she opened it, she was impressed by its range. The fried dishes, if the illustrations were anything to go by, included a wide variety of vegetable dishes, and many of these recipes had Greg’s carefully written notations alongside. She assumed they were Greg’s, although some were in a different hand. The bookplate inside the front cover was inscribed, ‘This book belongs to Lynn Ehuss.’

Greg emerged from the bedroom, buttoning up his shirt, and found them sitting at the breakfast bar, one girl on each side of Mrs. James, in their accustomed reading position. Cozy, thought Greg. Would they ever sit that still with him?

“That was my mother’s cookbook, Mrs. James, before she was married to my Dad. It has some old treasures, for sure. She collected recipes with peas!”

“I used to do that with pumpkin recipes, when I was a bride, until R.T., that is, Mr. James, sweetly suggested that I stop. Too much fiber in his diet, he complained. But peas would be excellent. I’m sure I can say that we’ve none of those yet, for our cookbook.”

“Yuk!” groaned Pansy.

“Unfortunately, she’s not taking after her grandmother.” Greg said, in ineffectual rebuke.

“Time will tell. I didn’t care for them until I’d picked them fresh, in late June.” she reminisced. “Tiptoeing among the vines, bending down into that vernal green, that dry as dust pod, feeling the snap in my fingers, and the hot sun on my neck. A real tonic to a sodden spring. But, that was me.”

“That sounds like a poem, Mrs. James.” Poppy solemnly said.

“What do you want to put into the cookbook?” Greg turned to his daughters.

“Mrs. James said we could do tarts. Do you have any tarts in there?” Pansy looked hopeful. “Without peas in them.”

“Probably not.” their father truthfully answered. He preferred his peas fresh, and steamed, with butter, even after all of his mother’s collection. “How about we put in two recipes, one from you both, and a separate one from me. Mrs. James is a great cook and has lots of recipes to contribute so I’m sure she can work on a really tasty tart recipe with you. And you,” he became inspired, “can stay and help me to write out the one I choose.”

“Do we have to eat it first?” Pansy looked apprehensive. “Mrs. James told us the rule was you had to eat it first.”

“I’ve tasted these recipes many times, so you won’t have to.” he reassured them.”Isn’t that right, Mrs. James?”

“Absolutely.” she agreed. “You can taste the tarts you make, instead.” She sensed Greg’s overture to Poppy and Pansy and seizing the moment, she suggested, “If it’s alright with your Dad, I’ll leave you here to decide which recipe to write out together. I’ll just nip back downstairs and see if Gertie’s ready with our flyers.” Greg nodded.

“I’ll give you a call when we’re done, OK?”

It was bedtime. On the couch, Poppy and Pansy snuggled on either side of Mrs. James as she read to them from the The Wizard of Oz, finishing the chapter that finds Dorothy held prisoner by the Wicked Witch of the West. It was a longer book than most people imagined, those who had only ever seen the film. As the girls had, impossibly, in her mind, never seen that movie and were completely new to the story, Mrs. James held in her hands an annotated version complete with notes, maps, and multiple drawings to enhance their reading experience.

Bedtime stories offer much opportunity for confidences. These, of course, ought never to derail the narrative, only supplement it, Mrs. James theorized. The end of a chapter thus forms a conversational bridge toward the next. That is why picture books have shorter chapters and why in the best ones, the page must be turned, to begin again.

Poppy, whose namesake flower, in scarlet abundance, had in a recent chapter caused a great sleep to envelop the travelers, asked, “Do you think if Dorothy could just get that witch to breathe in some poppies to make her fall asleep, then she and Toto could escape? Can you send poppies to people, like you can other flowers?”

“Poppies will last as cut flowers for a while, when properly cared for, I have read.” Mrs. James knew it was important to provide facts in answers. “But there may not be enough of them in one bouquet to cause sleepiness. We’ll have to see if Dorothy can find another way out of her predicament.” Pansy was miffed because there were no pansies in the story.

“Dad told us he sent flowers to that nasty girlfriend of his, that Kitty one, because he’s not going to see her for awhile.” Mrs. James was very pleased at this development but far too polite to comment, preferring to wait to hear what they thought about it.  “He said he hoped she didn’t have any hard feelings. I’m not sure what that means.”

“Usually when you send flowers to someone, you write a note on a little card, to say what you hope will happen.” Mrs. James put two and two together; it might have been these flowers that been sent down the drain, with many a hard feeling indeed, but then ‘diverted’ onto the floor instead, causing the reported problem on the meeting room ceiling.

“Too bad the message wasn’t ‘Sleep tight’, like you say to us.” Poppy remarked, sticking to her theme. ” Anything, as long as it makes her go away. He told us it was so he could spend more time with us.”

“Instead of her.” piped in Pansy.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy spending more time with your father. Let’s see how Dorothy is coming along with getting back to her family.” They read on, and in due course came to the confrontation between Dorothy and the witch.

“Is that all it took?” Pansy was amazed. “Just drenching her with a plain old bucket of water?” Poppy laughed, delighted by the simplicity of this solution.

“We could have tried that, if we’d known about it. Maybe that’s why she never went swimming with us and just sat watching. She gave us these really mad looks if any of us tried to splash her.” Mrs. James paused to consider the curiosity of this, a lifeguard who apparently never entered the water; perhaps her idea of swimming was just an excuse to preen at the water’s edge. Pansy was gleeful.

“We could have melted her right on the spot!”

“When Dorothy, without knowing that was how to do it, melted the witch, she made her go away. In a way, that’s happened to you, too.” observed Mrs. James. Pansy looked puzzled.

“You mean we made Dad’s girlfriend go away?

“Won’t he be mad at us?” Poppy looked worried.

“Apparently, your father decided that he preferred your company. That is his own choice, so he would not blame you for it. As to Miss Doyle, it sounds as though she will soon be vanishing, a kind of melting away from your life, and with nary a flower nor a bucket in sight.”

“But she’ll be mad at us, for sure. She’ll still be living here.”

“Well that’s as maybe. But when you are here, you are always with either your father or with me, aren’t you? So there’s nothing to worry about at all. Anyway, there are people living in this building whom I never see from one association meeting to another, that is, if they attend. There are even a few residents I’ve never even met, much less bump into on a regular basis. You’ll be fine.”

“If I see her again,” Pansy proposed, “I will just keep thinking ‘Splash, poof!’ and imagine her disappearing.”

“You’re starting to sound like a witch yourself.” Pansy teased.

“Maybe, but at least I’d be a good witch, not a bad witch.” Pansy retorted.

“Well, it’s high time you were both tucked in. Tomorrow we have a busy day, remember?”

“We put our pet questionnaire under everyone’s doors. Finally!” Poppy exaggerated.

“Gertie’s printing the flyers and will bring them down in the morning.”

“And, we have to think of a recipe, from our family.” Pansy chimed in. “Does it have to be something we make first, or can it be something we just like?”

“The general idea is to contribute a recipe you’ve tried at least once, like, and want to share, yes.”

“So when we decide, we can make it with you, tomorrow?”

“Depending on what it is, and whether we’ll need extra ingredients, yes.”

“Let’s make cupcakes.” Poppy suggested.

“We already have a few cupcake entries. They’re popular. How about tarts, instead?”

“Have we ever had those? What’s in them, mostly?”

“‘Mostly pepper.” said the cook.”

“That’s from a book, isn’t it?” guessed Pansy.

“Right you are – from Alice in Wonderland – and we can read that, next. It has a tea party that never ends.”

“Can we have a tea party?” they echoed. Pansy warmed to the idea. “With people that come here and eat cupcakes, and tarts, with us? But with milk and soda, instead of tea?”

“Perhaps we could just about manage all three.”

“So, whats in them, really?” This was an undisguised attempt at postponing settling down.

“Treacle.”

“Mrs. James!!” they protested.

“They are like little pies, that you can eat in two or three bites, like a cookie. Now,” giving the last of several hugs and kisses, “sleep tight.”

Mrs. James thought, like Mrs. Darling sorting out her children’s’ minds, that this idea – a tea party open house – could be an excellent way to re-introduce, or launch, as Gertie would say, the cookbook. She also speculated, as she set about putting her place to rights for the evening, whether Greg’s decision to spend more time with Poppy and Pansy would mean that she would be spending less, and if her hours with them would be changed. She had become quite accustomed to this routine and the shape it gave to her week. He would be having to discuss this with Georgia, and Gina’s times might be changed as well. She couldn’t help but speculate how that conversation might go, with what degree of acceptance his growing sense of responsibility could be met. A lot of things seemed to be changing at once, except her own fondness for the girls. That had come with the territory, a nanny’s occupational hazard.