“No, I mean I’m not a real estate agent at all.”
Her eyes narrow gradually like slatted blinds. “Then why are you dressed like that?”
“I wanted to look nice,” I admit.
“For who?”
“For you.”
“For me?” she exclaims. “I appreciate the effort, but you’re a little young for me.”
“What?” It’s seconds before I realize she’s making a joke. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean like that. I’m sorry. Can we start over? I think we got off on the wrong foot.” I go to stand and extend my hand to her, but she fiercely slams the table and starts away.
In three brisk steps, she’s at the sink, which hasn’t stopped dripping since she filled the teakettle. Theplunk, plunkof the faucet speeds up with the hammering of my heart. “You think I’m an idiot then, huh? Thought you could pull the wool over my eyes?” Her voice has grown loud and booming.
“No, Ms. Kelly. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Thought you could prey on a poor, little old lady?” She reaches up onto a high shelf. This is the movie moment where she grabs for the gun from her secret hiding spot and pulls a Clint Eastwood “Get off my lawn!” Protects her property. I knew this was a bad idea. Hopefully, she’s kind enough to fire a warning shot. Though with her eyes, I wouldn’t trust her aim.
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Her movements grow more frantic.
I stand. “I’ll be out of your hair!”
A box clamors onto the counter. She opens it, but I can’t see its contents. The heat rises, and I begin urgently backing away. Nobody would hear my screams or cries for help all the way out here.
“Sorry, again!”
Hiss. Crack. Crunch.
Huh?
She turns and I realize she’s snacking on a dark-chocolate-covered almond biscotto. Crumbs collect on the shawl of her cardigan, getting wedged into the hunter-green cable knit. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. God, I’ve seen too many movies.
The tension diffuses, and the self-satisfied grin on her thin, pale lips lets me know she was messing with me the whole time. You can take the woman out of Hollywood, but apparently you can’t take the Hollywood dramatics out of the woman.
“I’d offer you a snack, but I’m suddenly not feeling so hospitable.” Everysin that sentence sends cookie cascading across the room in a hailstorm of spit.
Heart still hammering, I can’t even look at her as I say, “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
She snaps. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. It’s this house, this town that upsets me. You? I don’t even know you. How could you have the power to upset me?” She crosses back to the table.
“I can still go if…”
“No. Sit.” I fumble into my chair again. “I’m very interested to know what you want from me since you went through all the trouble of lying your way into my home.” Never breaking eye contact, she takes a long sip of her tea. Mine burns my tongue. “Who are you, and what do you want with me? If you’re here to rob me, I’ve got nothing of value, and if you’re here to kill me, well, I won’t put up much of a fight, so I’m sure that will suck some of the fun out of it.”
“Oh, no! Neither. I’m not here to do either of those things.” I straighten like Earl does when he talks to other professionals. “I’m, um, sorry. My name is Wren Roland. I’m an assistant manager—actually, now I’m amanagermanager—at Wiley’s Drive-In, and I’m here to see about gaining permission to re-create the 1978 premiere of your movieChompin’ at the Bit.”
She doesn’t just laugh. She wolfishly howls. “I’m not one for jokes, but you crack me up.”
“Oh, it’s not a joke. I’m serious.”
One last laugh honks out from her before she stills. “Oh, well, then in that case…no.”
She gets up to leave the room, saucer in hand. Is she not even going to hear me out? Is she seriously going to leave a stranger sitting in her kitchen? I’m not giving up that easily. I follow her but not too closely. I don’t want to seem like a threat.
“Why did you used to love movies?” I ask, hoping to appeal to some dormant fanatic deep inside her.
