Page 14 of The Puck Bunny

“Jesus. You’re a piece of work. Everyone knows flirting in the work-place is a no-no. Or does that rule not apply in La-La Land?”

Driving through the tunnel, I have to face up to the fact that the transition from Hollywood glam bachelor to down-to-earth quiet life is going to be tougher than I thought.

“It applies. I guess I’m used to living up to the persona I had back there, but I promise you I’m over it. Maybe I just need more practice.” More focus on hockey.

There’s a pause on his end as I emerge and head up route 1A to Revere, following the Waze app directions on my dashboard.

“Just so you know,” Finn says, “there’s no way I’d bother if I didn’t know a lady in the ticket office—Margaret. She helped me out a couple of times and we clicked.”

“Of course you did.” I breathe in the sea air as I follow Revere Beach Boulevard around the curve to the oceanfront lined with luxury high-rises that were definitely not there when I’d been a kid coming here to swim.

“Turns out Margaret loves to share gossip, so it should be easy enough to find out a few things about your… Ms. Bellagamba, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting name.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Not from me. I’m no gossip-spreader.” I pull into the circular drive of one of the tall, shiny buildings and frown. “I want to know if there’s some kind of connection where I remember her from. And to mend fences so she doesn’t think I’m flirting. Listen, I gotta go. I’m meeting the realtor. Keep me posted.”

“Sure. You keep me posted on where you end up living. Don’t wander too far from the rink.”

“I don’t plan to. Later, man.”

The realtor, a middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair, waves her hand and runs toward me in heels and a black-checked tunic-like outfit. She beams a wide smile and when I meet her half-way, she gives me a hug. I instantly like her. Over the years in L.A., out of necessity, I developed a keen ability to size people up which is not a lot different than sizing up an opponent on the ice.

“Oh my God, I’m so thrilled to meet you. You’re even more handsome in real life. I’m sorry I’m not behaving very professionally. I’m Edith Hanly, by the way. I’m so happy to meet you.” She backs up a step and puts out a hand.

I shake it while she clears her throat, though her smile doesn’t diminish. It’s one of those well-used smiles with the creases dug in at the sides of her mouth and lines fanning from the corners of her eyes.

She’s a woman of a certain age comfortable in her own skin. She reminds me of my aunt, Mary.

“Great to meet you too, Edith—you don’t mind if I call you Edith?”

“I’d be sad if you didn’t.” She takes my arm and escorts me to the building. “We’ll be looking at the penthouse. It has unparalleled ocean views and a roof-top patio. I know you wanted something laid-back, but this just came on the market and was too special not to show you. Besides, I think there’s something about the ocean that relaxes the soul.”

Breaking away from her, I open the door.

“Don’t worry, Mr. James,” she whispers. “The people here won’t bother you. It’s very low-key.”

“Call me Quinn. Good to know.” But I need some convincing. I want to go back to living a normal non-celebrity life, unlike how it was in L.A. The place is polished and the security in the lobby is impressive as Edith checks us in. She uses a key and we take the elevator up to the top.

“Your own private entrance,” she says rushing off the elevator into a small lobby with one door straight ahead. It’s lined with a tasteful vase-topped table and two chairs—the stuffy kind. I’m not sure this place is my style, but, to be polite, I’ll take a look before I say anything.

“You were right about the ocean view, Edith.” We walk straight for the wall of windows in the high-ceilinged great room and I take a long look.

She beckons me to the balcony and we step outside. The fresh shot of ocean air does its magic.

But when we go back inside and look around, the sleek modern architecture and all the bells and whistles in the very sterile kitchen are exactly as I expected. We could be in Malibu if the temperature outside was fifteen degrees warmer.

“The place is stunning—front-cover-of-Architectural-Digest-worthy,” I admit, wanting to let her down gently.

“It would be terrific for entertaining,” she says.

“Exactly. Unfortunately, that’s exactly the kind of lifestyle I’m trying to avoid. I’m looking for the opposite—something more homey, more classic New England.” Her face falls, but I swoop in for the rescue. “How about if we look at a house? Nothing too big, but updated and comfortable.”