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I went around to the rear patio and let myself into my studio apartment. There were no messages on my home machine and no mail worth opening. I took a minute to freshen up and then crossed the patio to Henry’s place to meet the latest woman in his life. Not that he’d had many. Dating was new behavior for him.
The previous spring, he’d been smitten with the art director on a Caribbean cruise he took. His relationship with Mattie Halstead hadn’t worked out, but Henry had bounced back, realizing in the process that female companionship, even at his age, wasn’t such a terrible idea. A number of other women on the cruise had taken a shine to him and he’d decided to contact two who were living within geographic range. The first, Isabelle Hammond, was eighty years old. She was a former English teacher, still the subject of legend at Santa Teresa High School when I attended some twenty years after she retired. She loved to dance and she was passionate about reading. She and Henry had gone out on several occasions, but she’d quickly decided the chemistry was off. Isabelle was looking for sparks, and Henry, while flinty, had failed to ignite her flame. This she told him straight out, greatly offending him. He believed men should do the wooing, and, further, that courtship should proceed with courtesy and restraint. Isabelle was cheerfully aggressive and it soon became clear the two of them were ill-suited. In my opinion, the woman was a nincompoop.
Now Charlotte Snyder had entered the picture. She lived twenty-five miles south, just past Perdido, in the seaside community of Olvidado. At age seventy-eight, she was still active in the workplace and apparently showed no inclination to retire. Henry had invited her for drinks at his house and then for di
Henry’s kitchen door was open, his screen on the latch, so I could hear them laughing and chatting as I approached. I picked up the scent of yeast, ci
I gave Charlotte high marks on sight. Like Henry, she was trim and she dressed with classic good taste: a tweed skirt, white silk blouse over which she wore a yellow crewneck sweater. Her hair was a soft reddish brown, cut short, expensively dyed, and brushed away from her face. I could tell she’d had her eyes done, but I didn’t write it off to vanity. The woman was in sales, and her personal appearance was as much an asset as her experience. She looked like someone who could walk you through an escrow without a hitch. If I’d been in the market for a house, I’d have bought one from her.
She was leaning against the kitchen counter. Henry’d fixed her a vodka and tonic while he was having his usual Jack Daniel’s over ice. He’d opened a bottle of Chardo
I said, “While I’m thinking about it, Henry, I’d be happy to help you clean tomorrow if we can finish before noon.”
“Perfect. I’ve already told Charlotte about Gus.”
Charlotte said, “Poor old guy. How’s he going to manage when he gets home?”
“That’s what the doctor asked. He’s not going to release him unless he has help,” he said.
“Does he have any family left?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve heard. Rosie might know. He talks to her every other week or so, mostly to complain about the rest of us.”
“I’ll ask when I see her,” I said.
Charlotte and I went through the usual exchange of small talk, and when the subject shifted to real estate, she became more animated. “I was telling Henry how much these older homes have appreciated in recent years. Before I left the office, just out of curiosity, I checked the MLS for properties in the area and the median price-median, mind you-was six hundred thousand. A single-family residence like this one would probably sell for close to eight, especially since it has a rental attached.”
Henry smiled. “She says I’m sitting on a gold mine. I paid ten-five for this place in 1945, convinced it was going to put me in the poor house.”
“Henry’s offered me a tour. I hope you don’t mind if we take a minute for that.”
“Go right ahead. I’ll be fine.”
The two left the kitchen, moving through the dining room to the living room. I could track their progress as he showed her through the place, the conversation becoming largely inaudible when they reached the bedroom he used as a den. He had two other bedrooms, one facing the street, the other looking out onto his garden in the rear. There were two full baths and a half-bath off the entrance. I could tell she was being complimentary, exclaiming in a way that probably had some dollar signs attached.
When they returned to the kitchen, the subject segued from real estate to housing starts and economic trends. She could talk downturns, yields on government bonds, and consumer confidence with the best of them. I was a teeny tiny bit intimidated by her confidence, but that was my problem, not his.
We finished our drinks, and Henry put the empty glasses in the sink while Charlotte excused herself and retreated to the nearest bathroom. He said, “What do you think?”
“I like her. She’s smart.”
“Good. She seems nice and she’s well informed-qualities I appreciate.”
“Me, too,” I said.
When Charlotte returned, her lipstick had been brightened and she had a fresh dusting of blusher on her cheeks. She gathered her handbag and the two of us preceded Henry out the door, allowing him a moment to lock up.
“Could we take a quick look at the studio? Henry told me he designed the space and I’d love to see what he did.”
I made a face. “I should probably tidy up first. I’m a neatnik by nature, but I’ve been gone all day.” In truth, I didn’t want her casing the joint, calculating how much the studio would add to the asking price if she persuaded him to sell.
“How long have you been renting?”
“Seven years. I love the location and Henry’s the perfect landlord. The beach is half a block that way and my office downtown is only ten minutes from here.”
“But if you owned your own home, think of the equity you’d have built up by now.”
“I understand the advantages, but my income is up and down and I don’t want to be saddled with a mortgage. I’m happy to let Henry worry about taxes and upkeep.”
Charlotte gave me a look-too polite to express her skepticism at my shortsightedness.
As I left them, she and Henry had taken up their conversation. She was talking about rental properties, using the equity from his place as leverage for a triplex she’d just listed in Olvidado, where housing wasn’t so expensive. She said the units needed work, but if he made the necessary improvements and then flipped the place, he’d net a tidy profit, which he could then reinvest. I tried not to shriek in alarm, but I sincerely hoped she wasn’t going to talk him into something absurd.
Maybe I didn’t like her quite as much as I thought.