Apples, Appaloosa and Alibis by Maria Swan (feel good novels TXT) 📕

“Tristan,” —I hesitated— “I have an appointment, a house inspection I can’t cancel.” Sensing his disappointment, I spoke faster. “But I’ll be done before two o’clock. Can I meet you then? Please?”

“You’re sure? I can’t promise that the snoops won’t show up.”

“I’ll take my chances, a small price to pay to be with you.”

“Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow at the preserve.”

NINETEEN

WE ARRIVED AT the 8th Place house with time to spare. Brenda had insisted on driving her own Honda Pilot, and I ended up agreeing to be her passenger just to avoid arguing. The place looked as I remembered except maybe the weeds had grown a little taller. No sign of the inspector, but while I was crouched down to get the lockbox open, Greg Coste arrived and parked his own white Honda next to Brenda’s Pilot.

“Hey, Monica,” I heard, as I straightened myself up; the coveted keys dangling in my hand.

“Well, who do we have here? Let me guess, you’re Monica’s lovely aunt.” Huh?

By the time I had a clear visual of the unfolding scene, Greg Coste was kissing the back of Brenda’s hand. What the hell? My mind went blank. Talk about a movie scene from the past... and there was Brenda, acting like a silly high school airhead on her first date.

Neither paid any attention to me. Brenda was giggling—giggling! Dear God. Before I had a chance to tell the two fools to stop it, the inspector’s vehicle arrived, and I had a good excuse to avert my eyes, if not my mind, from the disturbing scene.

It went down the rabbit hole from there. They walked around exchanging glances and half-silly smiles, answering the inspector’s questions as if they were tiptoeing through a green meadow or something. Maybe the stale air from the house having been locked up had overpowered their brains. Mercy.

I decided to just ignore their shenanigans and do my job. I kept close to Mike, the inspector, and made notes even though I knew he would recap the whole inspection for the buyer once he was done.

“Newlyweds?” he asked me, pointing to the middle-aged couple.

I shook my head and wished I could claim not knowing either of them.

By the time the inspector stepped down from the roof where he also inspected the air conditioning unit, Brenda and Greg Coste seemed to have come to their senses. Okay, wrong choice of words. Anyway, they joined the inspector who had set up his laptop and mini-printer on the kitchen counter and patiently went through everything.

My buyer did ask intelligent questions, and Brenda had a few remarks of her own regarding the layout of the kitchen and the supporting walls. Supporting walls? Planning a kitchen expansion? That would explain why they measured the adjoining laundry room. And they were finally behaving like adults. What a relief. Every time I looked at them I was reminded of my meeting with Tristan. Calling it a meeting gave the whole planned encounter an air of generic formality I suppose.

After Coste paid for the inspection and Mike handed him the printed report it was past one o’clock, and I was getting antsy. The inspector would email me the complete report, and then I could have a phone discussion with Greg Coste and take it from there in regard to repairs and such. I explained all that and made a big deal of packing up my papers and dangling the property keys so as to announce it was time to lock up and go. That was when the lovebirds in training hit me with the lunch proposition.

Brenda had told Greg about Aunt Chiladas, the well-known Mexican restaurant just up Glendale Avenue and 16th Street. A fun, colorful place with a beautiful patio and a great fireplace. It’s been a joyful fixture for many years to us locals, but a total novelty to Greg Coste who was eager to try it and had invited us along.

The only thing I craved was Tristan’s lips on mine. Of course I couldn’t fathom saying that out loud. So I spoke of a last-minute meeting I had scheduled for two o’clock and made some rather elaborate apologies.

Brenda seemed to understand. “Well then,” she said, “you must go.”

Thank you, powers above.

“Why don’t you take your aunt’s vehicle, and I’ll be happy to drive her home after we have lunch and discuss these kitchen modifications she’s suggesting,” Greg Coste said with his most innocent/charming and steadfast smile.

I gulped. Waited.

“Would that work?” Brenda asked.

And those three words said more about her state of mind that anything else. She really liked this man. Why was I being such a jerk? I started it after all. I should be singing and dancing instead of fretting. And finally it made sense, and I could see that all my anxiety had nothing to do with the two of them. It was all about my needs and my wants, in one word—Tristan.

I locked up the property, wished them a wonderful lunch, and hopped in the Pilot. Well, I had to change the seat position, readjust the mirrors and all the boring stuff short people go through when using a vehicle driven by a taller person. All that with the two of them sitting in the sedan and looking at me and grinning.

Finally I backed the SUV out of the driveway and headed toward the 51 North. An abundance of perspiration trickled down my spine due to the stress of driving Brenda’s Honda. She wasn’t a big fan when it came to sharing her vehicle, but she hadn’t even asked what time I would be home or if I could walk Dior. Totally out of character.

In order to get to the mountain preserve by two there really wasn’t time to go home and change clothes and car. I looked at my shoes. Oh, yeah, that wasn’t going to attract any attention at all. I’ll be hiking on high heels. I ended up running by the house and trading my skirt for jeans and my