Multiple Listings Read online

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  For Joseph

  PROLOGUE

  * * *

  Down Payment

  NICKI

  My doorbell just went off. It’s the worst possible moment—I’m in the middle of putting the food on the table for a family dinner, which never happens. Between my very busy day job, the restaurant my boyfriend and I are in the process of opening, and my teenage son, we almost never eat a meal together, so the fact that I managed to pull this off is a big deal. Of course the Jehovah’s Witnesses would decide to show up now.

  “Jake! Can you get that? It’s Jesus at the door!” I wait, but I can’t hear any footsteps. “Cody? Can you get it? Hello?”

  I turn back to the kitchen and grab the large orange ceramic platter of meat. I’m not really a cook-cook, but with a stick of butter, salt, pepper, and onions, I can totally make something nice happen to a pork loin. And if I put it on some great Fiesta ware, I almost look like I know what I’m doing. As long as you don’t mind the fifteen million calories.

  “Somebody! Anybody?” I call out.

  I guess it’s nobody. Nobody but me. This platter is heavy and I really don’t want to have to go to the door with it. But the doorbell is ringing so incessantly it looks like I might have to.

  “Hang on!”

  Just as I give one of those does-it-always-have-to-be-me sighs and walk over to the front door, I hear Cody’s footsteps.

  “I’m coming, Mom,” he says.

  “Never mind,” I say. I’ll admit I can work a tiny martyr streak when I want to. “I got it.”

  I walk to the door, my gold clogs pounding the original creaky wood floor. Cody always says how I drive him crazy with my clomping, but I have a thing against walking around with bare feet in the house—I can’t stand the grime—so, oh well. If he didn’t want to listen to my feet, he could have gotten the door himself.

  I’m almost there when I catch a glimpse through the beveled-glass window . . .

  I promptly drop the platter to the floor.

  Oh my God.

  I can hear the platter smash into fifty pieces and I can see there’s a huge brown stain spreading all over the white rug, but I can’t even pay attention to it because—

  How is this possible?

  My father is standing on my front porch. I have not seen him in seventeen years.

  PART ONE

  * * *

  Multiple Listings

  Nine days earlier

  1

  * * *

  NICKI

  I’m waiting for a sign. A large black crow, maybe, or a coincidence of some kind. Just something to tell me: this is it, this is the place. The place I’m supposed to live. The place I’m supposed to be. I’ve got questions, too—about the thing I’m supposed to do, the person I’m supposed to love, and what’s going on with my kid—that I’d love signs for as well, but I know that’s a lot to ask for. Too much, probably. So I’ll just settle for some kind of heads-up on The Place. Would a burning bush be too much to ask for? I could really use one of those right about now.

  How many houses have we looked at so far anyway, thirty? Forty? Fifty? I lost count sometime after deciding we should shift our search from Northeast Portland back to Southeast Portland. Which was a couple of weeks after shifting our search to Northeast Portland from Southeast Portland, and that’s not counting the two lofts we looked at in the Pearl District, or the two weeks we spent nosing around the West Hills (as if).

  We saw some great houses, but none of them said anything like This Is The Place. We’ve seen a lot of This Is Somebody’s Place, But Not Mine, a few examples of This Would Be The Place, If You Were into Granite, and of course, enough This Is Absolutely Positively for Sure Not The Place to last a lifetime. Everyone says the same thing: You’ll know it when you see it. But at this point, I’m wondering if it’ll ever happen, and if it did, how would I know?

  Which is why I really need a sign.

  Jake doesn’t believe in signs. At all. Jake is my twenty-six-year-old boyfriend. (That’s eleven years’ difference, for those of you who are counting, and we’ve been together for two years.) Jake is just sure about stuff—about houses, about the restaurant, about life. He doesn’t think in terms of places and signs. He thinks in terms of his mind and what it’s telling him. His mind is the place. He knows in an instant what he wants. Like me, for example. On our third date he told me I was it for him. That he could see himself with me forever. At first I was a little bit suspicious, but he won me over. Scratch that. At first I was thrilled—like the homecoming king had just asked me to go steady. Then I got suspicious and he had to win me over. I can tell you the exact moment of my conversion, too. About a month after we started dating, I had to go to San Francisco overnight for work. The next morning, I woke up to room service knocking on my door. Jake had ordered me a full breakfast over the phone, paid for it, and had it delivered to my room with a note that said: From Jake, with love.

  We’ve been together ever since.

  Weirdly, I know in an instant what Jake wants, too. Like the house at 2325 SE Burnett. The moment we pull up in front of the Open House sign, I know that he’s going to want this one. Really want it. I can tell just from the house numbers. Big, sleek ones in matching brushed-satin-nickel-­stainless-steel-whatever. The kind that scream Cool People Live Here, like a dog whistle specially tuned to a pitch that only guys with tattoos and piercings can hear. In other words, guys like Jake.

  “I love it!” See, we just rolled up and Jake’s already sold. It’s the orange door, obviously. “Don’t you?”

  “It’s nice,” I say tentatively. I don’t want him to get any big ideas so soon. We just got here. “The foundation work is great, I’ll say that.” I will always pay respect to a good foundation.

  If I had to give Jake a one-line bio, the kind you’d ironically put on a Twitter profile, it’d say something like: I do life like a black-diamond run. Jake’s the kind of guy who skis fast and hard down the most challenging, most dangerous mountains—literally and figuratively—and gets off on it. Jake is bold. It’s what I love about him, and, of course, what sometimes drives me nuts. But I deal with it because he’s not intimidated by me, and that’s a relief. The more successful I’ve become, the more I’ve realized that there’s something about a woman who can take care of herself that can make a guy feel insecure. Men like to be needed; it makes them feel safe. Too often they want a woman who is “less” than they are—at least in their minds. My guess is it’s because little girls can’t hurt you the way big ladies can. Very few men have the strength to be with a woman who wants them but doesn’t need them.

  Jake is one of those men. He manages The Echo—named “Best Restaurant to See and Be Seen In” by Portland Weekly—and he makes it look easy. Jake has a U.S. senator’s ability to make people do what he wants, and a pimp’s ability to make them feel special while they do it. (Or is it the other way around?) He’s not only the most ambitious guy I’ve ever met, he’s one of the smartest—all wrapped in a physical package (face, body, clothing) so attractive he could be (and actually has been) cast in a cell phone commercial. Jake’s dream is to open his own restaurant—and I’m going to help him do it. We’re going to do it together. I’ve always fantasized about the idea of working with the person I’m partner
ed with, and now it’s going to happen.

  “You can’t possibly not like it, Nicki. What’s not to like about it?”

  Can’t possibly? Ugh. It worries me that he can just fall for a house like this so quickly. He just met it! Can’t he see how cliché that orange door is? Or how that brushed nickel is trying too hard? The house is like a girl who posts too many selfies on Facebook. What Cody would call thirsty. But I’m not in the mood for a confrontation, so I keep silent, for the moment.

  “If this place is half as good inside as it is out here,” Jake says, “I approve.”

  I already know what’s inside. Carrara marble, white subway tile, dark wood floors, undermounted kitchen sink: pick any three out of four. After all, assessing houses is my business. Literally. My real estate appraisal firm somehow (if I’m honest, it seems like an accident) managed to become one of the busiest in Portland. I not only handle all the refinancing appraisals for Oregon’s biggest mortgage company—which amounts to taking a spin through the house, making sure it isn’t going to fall over anytime soon, and that’ll be six hundred dollars, please, thank you very much—I have a ton of residential clients as well. Not bad for someone who can’t solve for two variables.

  “Wow.” Jake stops just inside the doorway to take it all in. “I love it.”

  Even I have to admit this place does not disappoint. A huge open space with vaulted ceilings and walls of glass overlooking an amazing garden. “I feel like we tripped and fell into a Crate and Barrel catalog,” I say.

  “I’ll take it,” Jake says. Then, “I could really see us here, Nicki.”

  He smiles at me, his dark brown eyes all excited, and that makes my heart spin like a pinwheel. This is when I love him the most, when we’re out exploring the world together, even if “the world” is just every open house, every Sunday, in Southeast Portland. I’ve never had a better running buddy. Somehow, the two of us walking into a house is like opening the door to a whole potential life, a life that can be ours for 20 percent down plus closing costs. Do we want a Craftsman life, a midcentury life, a modern life, a two-story life, or a condo life? It almost doesn’t matter. For these three hours—Sundays between 1 and 4 p.m.—I have no doubts about my life, or anyone in it. I’m going to buy a great house, move in with Jake, and be happy. And I mean officially move in, not like the makeshift situation we have now where he crashes at my house all the time, but still keeps an apartment on Twenty-Third and Northwest Hoyt.

  But that’s just for three hours on Sunday. The rest of the time, I’m looking for a sign.

  “Welcome! I’m Sue!” A bubbly, fortyish agent appears out of nowhere and thrusts a setup sheet into my hands. “Three bedrooms, two full baths, a total redo, and as you can see, it’s delicious.”

  “Yum,” Jake says, possibly mocking Sue, but also possibly not—Jake has a way of mirroring people when he wants to be liked. Like if you have a French accent, then sometimes so does he.

  “Been looking for long?” Sue asks casually. I’m sure it’s taken her years to perfect this question. A less-experienced buyer would hardly suspect she’s trying to turn them into a client.

  “A little while,” I say. I’m not committing to anything at this point, not even a conversation. Which isn’t stopping Sue.

  “Is it just the two of you?” She glances at my belly, like she might find some more information down there. Um, no.

  “I have a sixteen-year-old son,” I offer. I just decided Sue is okay, and we can be friends. Probably because I sort of liked how audacious Sue was about the “pregnancy” that doesn’t exist and never will.

  Jake looks at me. He’s asked me to tell people we have a sixteen-year-old son, but I always forget. I’ve been saying my kid, Cody, for sixteen years, and it’s hard to break the habit. I think it’s sweet that Jake wants to pre­sent us as a family—it feels like he’s committing to me—to us—for good. “Well, we do.”

  “You have a teenager?” Sue is gushing at me. “You’re kidding. You don’t look old enough to have a teenager!” She says teenager like it’s herpes.

  “Thanks, that’s really sweet,” I say. I do totally mean it.

  “What, were you twelve when you had him?” Sue’s genuinely curious. People always are. I’m mostly happy to indulge them. I think maybe I’m trying single-handedly to dispel the struggling single mother stereotype one person at a time.

  “I was young, but not that young.” I’m thirty-seven, but I come across like someone Jake’s age. It’s the combination of my supersized green eyes—I feel weird saying it, but they’re really big and pretty, the only things I have to thank Beth, my mother (but just barely my mother), for—and my olive skin that still hasn’t started to wrinkle.

  “The thing is,” I say to Sue, “at sixteen, Cody’s a full-on guy. It’s like living with another adult.”

  “Well then, you are going to love this layout. It has double masters!” Sue pronounces this in the same tone you would use to say I’m going to Disney­land! “Buckle up, because you are going to be wowed.”

  “I want to be wowed,” Jake echoes.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, fake-begrudgingly. “Go ahead, wow me.”

  I really, really don’t want to like this house.

  * * *

  “It’s pretty much perfect,” I say, plunging my feet into the plastic dish tub full of lukewarm water. I’m talking about 2325 SE Burnett. I fiddle with the buttons on the chair massager and scooch around until the mechanism is working the middle of my shoulder blades. That’s where all the tension from a lifetime of A-studentness holes up like a crazed conspiracy theorist in a Montana cabin. “It’s really . . . it’s . . . just . . . perfect.” Though I wouldn’t admit this to Jake, I really did love the house.

  “You say that every week about something. And every week, you forget about it, and move on.” Peaches shoves her massage controller into my hands. “Make this thing chop me.”

  Peaches and I have a standing mani-pedi date every Sunday at 4 p.m.—right after the open houses. We’re like sisters—we met in fourth grade and bonded immediately over being forced to slog through the same lame childhood: crazy single moms, a pile of stepdads, every year a new apartment and a new school. But through it all we stayed best friends.

  The interesting thing—and no doubt a big part of our attraction to each other—is that the same lame childhood spun us in completely opposite directions. I became an overachieving compulsive saver with an eight hundred credit score who is addicted to having my shit together, while Peaches turned out to be a waitress with a special love for motorcycles and pit bulls who has never had a relationship last longer than it takes a jar of salsa to go bad in the fridge. Kids are almost certainly never going to happen for Peaches, and trust me, that is a good thing.

  “There, abuse yourself.” I hand the controller back to Peaches, who rolls her eyes back into her head as she settles into the visibly buzzing chair. She’s one of those women who likes it rough.

  Peaches might drive me crazy, but I’ve never found another person who understands, really and truly, what it was like to grow up rain soaked and benignly neglected in the Northwest, in the eighties—back when it was still about guns, logging, and sheep, not coffee and craft beer—by moms who probably meant well but totally misinterpreted feminism to mean you could just do whatever you want whenever you wanted and your kids would be fine because they can’t be happy if you’re not happy and besides kids are “really resilient” so don’t even worry about it.

  They probably should’ve worried about it.

  Oh, and we argue like sisters, too.

  “Face it, you’re the George Clooney of house hunting. You’re going to just keep casually dating houses for the rest of your life—because you’re never going to meet the gorgeous, skinny, Audrey Hepburn–like, international lawyer of—” Peaches cuts herself off, holding up a bottle of nail polish in a shade of yellow
ish acid green. She has no attention span to speak of. “What do you think about this one?”

  I fake-retch a little. “I think I don’t get why you want to look like someone barfed on your nails.” I seriously do not understand why Peaches, who at thirty-six has the looks, hair, and body of a Miss Texas—or a porn star, take your pick—wants to wear ugly colors on purpose.

  “You need to relax, as usual,” Peaches says. “This color is edgy. It goes with my tattoos. And my nipple ring.”

  “Eww. Why do you have to talk about your nipple ring all the time?” I give a pretty pale blue bottle of Essie nail polish to Hua, the only woman in all of Portland—including myself—allowed to touch my cuticles. I change the subject back to the house. “Anyway, Jake really wants to make an offer on it. And it’s the only home we’ve found that would work for all three of us.”

  I can hear myself selling the idea to Peaches. It’s like I can’t help it. Long ago, I gave Peaches a papal-like authority to approve or reject decisions in my life and, surprise, surprise, Peaches has never given the authority back. “It has two master bedrooms!”

  Somehow that doesn’t sound as great as it did when Sue said it.

  In any case, Peaches isn’t buying it. “I hate how real estate people always call houses homes. It’s like how lawyers always say they’re attorneys—so fake. I really wish you would stop.”

  “Whatever, Peaches. Okay, the house—”

  “And can we just get something straight? Jake is not going to be making an offer on anything.” She gives me a full serving of side-eye. “You are. And the fact that he even says that worries me.” Peaches speaks in italics a lot.

  “I didn’t say he said, ‘I want to make an offer.’ ” I’m always defending Jake. Peaches doesn’t see how sweet he is to me, how he brings me little gifts (a scarf here, a ring there), makes me a perfect cappuccino every time he sleeps over, and scratches my back every single night exactly the way I like it—one long stroke from top to bottom, right to left, like mowing a lawn. She doesn’t see any of that and I don’t mention it, because it would cheapen the whole thing. I don’t have to prove Jake’s love to Peaches, of all people. “He didn’t say that.”