Natalie isn’t doing gentle parenting right now.
“I’mnot ringing the doorbell,” Mae hisses right back. She’s all done taking the blame for things she isn’t responsible for. As the youngest, she’s been the dumping ground for other people’s mistakes her whole life. Enough! “And one of the dogs is yours. Don’t yell at me.”
“I’m not yelling,” yells Natalie, although, to be fair, the dogs are barking so loudly that yelling is the only way to go if one wants to be heard. The doorbell rings again. In a slightly quieter voice Natalie asks, “Are you going to answer it? I’m not expecting anyone.”
This makes Mae feel more affronted than she already feels. She couldjust scream. But she won’t. She’ll take a deep, cleansing yoga breath (she can’t afford yoga classes, but whatever, breathing is free). She says, “I’m not expecting anyone either. Why don’t you answer it? I’ll take the dogs to the kitchen.”
“Fine,” says Natalie. She lets out an irritated sigh. Mae happens not to have her magic treat pouch on her, bad form on day five of a board-and-train, but she rummages in the pocket of her shorts, and, yes, reliable as the sunrise, she finds a handful of freeze-dried salmon. She calls the dogs to her; they stop barking and come immediately. This is a big win! She heads toward the kitchen.
“Nice,” says Evangeline approvingly. “Cinnamon never listens like that.”
“Cinnamon never had a professional dog trainer working one-on-one with her,” says Mae modestly, but not that modestly, because she’s proud that she’s made progress.
In the kitchen, feeling a little show-offy, Mae gives both dogs the hand signal fordown. They lower themselves, Leo with a graceless plonk as his ribs hit the floor. They stare at Mae with such attention, such adoration and love. Or probably they just really like freeze-dried salmon. Either way, she’ll take it. She slides her phone to Evangeline and asks her to take a video. “I feel like the saint that commanded the animals,” whispers Mae. She rewards the dogs for staying down, placing treats at intervals between each set of front paws so neither dog is tempted to get up before she releases them. “Was that Patrick?”
“Patrick was snakes,” says Evangeline. “You probably mean Saint Francis.”
“Look who’s here,” says Natalie. This time the Realtor is dressed for the beach, in a striped cover-up, flip-flops, and a straw sun hat. She smells like Sun Bum and has a little strip of white near her ear, where she didn’t rub it in completely. She’s carrying a big HomeGoods bag with a white frame sticking out of it.
“Hello!” she says brightly. “Excuse my casual wear. I’m technically not working today.”
“I can see that,” says Natalie frostily. Nikoletta had really thrown Evangeline into a frenzy on Monday, making her worry about the ethics of the milk industry—it had taken a while for Natalie to talk her down, and even after Evangeline had fallen asleep Natalie had lain awake for a while, thinking about the harrowing cries of a baby calf on the first night it’s separated from the mother. She and Austin can never sleep on that first night; they lie awake holding hands. Her children have been brought up to think milk is good for you. Not to think it, to believe it, because it’s the truth. Milkisgood for you!This is obviously too much to explain to the Realtor right now so she settles for a stern look.
“I just wanted to drop off a few things for the open house that I’d promised your dad—”
“He’s on the patio,” says Natalie. “I think he’s fixing the latch on the door.”
Obviously the Realtor knows where the patio is but Natalie leads her through anyway.
Calvin has moved on from the latch to examining a small bit of wood rot on the house’s exterior. Jordan is sitting on one of the loungers, tapping out an email on her laptop, brow furrowed.
“Hello, Nikoletta,” says Calvin.
“Hi! Excuse my casual wear.”
“What have we got here?” Calvin asks, indicating the bag.
“Ah.” She puts the bag on an empty lounger and looks inside as though she herself is curious about that. “A few things for the open house. You’ll want to take down all personal photos, of course, so I’ve brought you a few more impersonal beach scenes you can hang to hide any nails or picture hangers. Then, let’s see, here’s a nice throw blanket for the living room—”
“We have a throw blanket,” says Natalie.
“Right. But it’s a little battered. This one’s just nice and fresh. And, oh, a couple of matching hand towels for the bathroom. Aren’t these pretty? They have seashells.” She beams. “These little touches can really make a difference in how a house shows.”
“Thank you,” says Calvin. He has a small pad of paper and a pen tucked inside his back pocket—Calvin issucha professor—and he takes it out to show Nikoletta his to-do list. “Here are the things I’ve done, and here are the things I’m hoping to do. Could you help me prioritize? Since time is flying, and I’d like to take care of whatyou think is most important and then spend as much time with my daughters as I can before the big day.”
“I love an organized seller!” Nikoletta beams harder. She takes the notepad and studies it, then holds her hand out for Calvin’s pen. “These, I’d definitely get done.” She goes down the list, circling. “And these, I wouldn’t put any time into. Like the latches on the windows? Not a big deal. Fan in the upstairs bathroom? Same thing. Things like that, a buyer isn’t going to worry about at this point.”
At this point? Natalie looks to meet Jordan’s eye, but Jordan is still staring at her phone, so she searches for and finds Mae, newly arrived from the kitchen. “What do you mean, at this point?” asks Mae.
“Well, because...” says Nikoletta, but her voice trails off when she sees Calvin’s expression, which Natalie could only describe aswarning.“Oh, I see!” says Nikoletta. “You haven’t had this discussion yet. No, that’s fine. Why don’t I leave you this bag, and we’ll catch up tomorrow, okay, Calvin? No need for me to go through the house. I’ll just walk around this way.” She takes the three steps down to the beach, then scurries around the side of the house.
“Dad?” says Natalie. “What was that about? Why doesn’t she care about the window latches? Or the bathroom fan?”
Calvin clears his throat. He sits on the lounger beside Jordan’s, feet planted on the ground, hands on his knees. “The structural things don’t matter...” he begins, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat. He tries again, and eventually they loosen. “They don’t matter, because the buyer will most likely be building from scratch.”
“Building from scratch?” asks Natalie. “What doesthatmean?”
Jordan puts her phone down, raises her sunglasses, and regards her sisters. “Come on, Natalie. You’re smart enough to know what he’s saying. Whoever buys this house is going to demolish and rebuild. Right, Dad? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
