Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

the sick feeling it was from Leeann Brown wanting to discuss the state of disarray in the condo and possibly the open house. It was now almost ten o’clock at night. Whoever it was I would call back in the morning. Nothing I could do now anyhow.

And what about Tristan? I was dying to talk to him. And I didn’t even care about Celine’s interruption. He’d found the book, but he didn’t say that. He only mentioned a wrapped package. Oh, was he asking permission to unwrap it? How exciting. His last text had come in thirty minutes ago. Call? Don’t Call? I needed to get out of my clothes. My place had been locked up all day, it felt chilly and stuffy.

I could get my night gown on, slip into bed with a mug of warm milk, and then call him. God, I sounded like an old grandma. What happened to champagne and frilly lingerie? It had been a day full of raw emotions, and I could use a nice bubble bath. Yes! I’ll call Tristan from the bathtub, which sounded a lot sexier than a glass of warm milk and a flannel nightie. Then again, how would he know where I was or what I was doing? Because I couldn’t lie. Tristan didn’t know that, or did he? I turned on the faucet.

As my body warmed up, my sense of reality returned. I had somehow forgotten about Tristan’s wife. For a few hours I’d fallen under the spell or illusion of two normal single people flirting. How could I? His phone calls had nothing to do with romance, he was inquiring about the mysterious package. The euphoria left my soul with the force of a deflating hot air balloon. Better put my energy on figuring out tomorrow’s open house at The Nest. I should set my alarm for eight o’clock and call Leeann immediately. That seemed like a sensible plan. Too bad sensibility didn’t change my yearning for Tristan Dumont’s voice. Voice? Sure, sure.

I went to sleep with the television on, minus the sound.

The phone woke me before the alarm did. Leeann must have been really ticked off. I answered as professionally as possible even before my coffee. “Hellooo.”

“Ciao, Monica, che helloo.” My sister, best way of waking up ever.

“Nica, ciao, che bella sorpresa.” It was indeed a nice surprise. I checked the clock, eight in the morning in Arizona. Around five in the afternoon in Italy, daylight savings or not, who cared? “Is everything okay?”

“Here, yes, we haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“You didn’t get my Christmas card? I mailed them all almost two weeks ago.”

“You forget, this is Italy, everything moves at a slower pace. Any chance you’ll come home for a quick Christmas visit? Mom isn’t getting any younger, you know.”

Yes, I knew, and now a new strain of guilt crept up on top of the existing ones. My cell announced a phone call waiting. It had to be Leeann. I h-a-d to take the call. I felt like an ungrateful eel if there were such a thing.

“Nica, I need to go, I am so, so sorry. Have a client on the other line. I’ll call you later, Mom too. Ciao, ciao...” A ton of emotions clogged my throat and fogged my brain and all that before my first cup of coffee. The waiting caller had given up. I pushed redial.

The anger in Leeann Brown’s voice couldn’t be ignored. She didn’t shout, she hissed. Into my ear. “What the f**k it’s going on? I’m gone 48 hours, and you manage to screw up everything...” I managed to screw up everything?

I mentally counted to 10 while listening to her breathe into my ear like the rumble of an advancing tsunami. Okay, I only saw and heard tsunamis in the news, but still... “Miss Brown, I took charge of your listing less than 48 hours ago. The open house had been set up by you and your sister. Apparently without clearing with the Condominium HOA first. I had yet to set foot into the building when the body of the unfortunate swimmer was discovered, and I certainly didn’t sleep on the daybed of your precious listing. I suggest you call me back after you work through your misdirected anger and are ready to help me find a solutions to your problems. Have a nice day.”

Five minutes later I was in my small kitchen making coffee and stabbing the toast I just burned. The next call came from a familiar number, Sunny Novak, mine and the Brown sisters’ boss. I bit into the dry, mangled toast before answering.

“Good morning, Monica.” Her voice pure diplomacy.

I wiped the crumbs with my index finger. “Hi Sunny.” Then I waited. Without anger or guilt. I waited, feeling content with my—performance. Must have been the way grownups feel when they are on the side of correctness.

“Just got off the phone with Leeann Brown. I had no idea I was handing you such an ugly mess. I’m sorry. I spoke to Kay, and we are 90 percent certain we, I mean, you, can set up a table with info regarding the listing, and anyone showing up for the open house can leave name and best way to be reached. That way as soon as we get the okay, we can actually show.”

Kay? She spoke to Kay? That was fast.

“Really? Where would I be setting up shop? And how about Mr. Gold Buttons? Would I need to wrestle him to get through the lobby? And how come the Brown sisters didn’t ask Kay in the first place?”

I heard a sigh. “There is, uh—there is bad blood between Kay and Leslie. Old story, that’s why I suggested your name, to avoid drama. Well, see how well that worked out? Is Mr. Gold Buttons the doorman? Kay is negotiating a small bribe, and you can set up shop right in the main lobby so we know there will be no funny business.” Funny business?

“Sunny, this isn’t