Chapter Fifteen
Sitting in my car, I fire up my computer and scroll through the listings while keeping my mind focused on Abril. Three of them shine brightly, and all of them are in the same high-rise in Century City—the only part of LA where my new client doesn’t want to live. She also wanted a yard and fruit trees which are not a part of condo living. Crap.
I drive the twelve minutes to my destination, which has been coined the Century City Cathedral, so named for the extra high ceilings. Empty ceiling space, that doesn’t count toward square footage, is the ultimate of luxury when you’re selling views.
The houses I had thought might work for Abril were between one and two million dollars, which in LA is a pretty standard sum for a starter house. The condos that light up for her are between eight and fourteen million dollars. I’m definitely going to have to call her and have a chat. I know she said she didn’t care how much her house cost, as long as it was the right one, but there’s a big discrepancy between what I was originally looking at and what I’m now looking at.
I park on the street right down the block from the building. The Century City Cathedral really is a stunning place but, of course, it’s not what my client wants.
Walking through the lobby, I pull out my phone and punch in her number. I stop short at the reception where I need to sign in because Abril is walking toward me.
“Emily, what are you doing here?” she asks while looking around side to side like I’m an apparition and she wonders if other people can see me.
“I’m looking at a few condos for one of my clients.” I don’t want to tell her it’s for her until I know why she’s here.
“This is a horrible building,” she tells me. “I wouldn’t recommend it at all.”
“Do you live here?” I ask.
“Only until you find me my dream home. Once that happens, I will walk away and never come back.”
“Can we sit down in the lobby and talk for a minute?”
“Yes, of course.” She leads the way to one of the many seating areas scattered about.
Sitting on a modern chair of leather and chrome, I decide to come clean. “I looked at several houses for you yesterday and none of them were the one.”
She nods her head. “Then you must keep looking, yes?”
“I’m not sure. The three places that appear best for you are all in this building.” I hurry to add, “I know you don’t want to live in Century City, and I know you want a yard, but I have to tell you that this is where you’re meant to be if you’re going to meet your soulmate.”
“That cannot be!” Abril’s face flushes with heightened emotion. “I have lived here for ten years and it has not happened,” she says adamantly. Her aura is pulsing red, which means anger.
“Then I’m not sure I’m the realtor for you, Abril.” I hurry to explain, “This happens all the time. Clients don’t always want to live where my gift suggests they should. You came to me for help and this is where it looks like you should be.”
She flexes her fingers opened and closed several times before folding them in and forming fists. “What are the apartment numbers you think I should look at?”
I give her the first one and she shakes her head so violently I’m afraid she’s going to give herself whiplash. “That is where I already live!” she yells angrily.
“If that’s where you already live, then I think you should keep living there and wait it out.”
My client stands abruptly and announces, “I am very disappointed in you, Emily. Sandrine said you were wonderful, but I do not think so.”
“Again, I’m really sorry, Abril …” I start to say, but she cuts me off.
“Goodbye.” She turns and walks away so quickly I’m surprised she doesn’t leave a trail of smoke in her wake.
I feel bad that Abril doesn’t believe me, but I’m not going to lie to her. She’s in the perfect place for her happily ever after, she just has to stay there long enough for it to happen.
With a big chunk of my morning suddenly free, I decide to head over to my place and hang out with George for an hour or so. A weird sensation flows over me as I park in front of my townhouse. I feel as though I’m visiting the home of a stranger.
I worry that means when Jonathan finds his happy ending and moves out, I might have to sell, as well. I pull out my front door key and try to put it into the lock, but it doesn’t fit. I’m starting to feel like I’m starring in one of those sci-fi movies where someone wakes up in another dimension and the life they thought they had no longer exists.
I knock on Mrs. Feldman’s door in a panic. I don’t know what I’ll do if she doesn’t know me. The look on her face when she answers leads me to believe my worst nightmare has come true. She squints her eyes and leans closer. I suggest, “Put your glasses on, Mrs. Feldman.”
As soon as she digs them out of her pocket and puts them on her face, a smile of recognition takes over. “Good morning, Emily. What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering if you had that copy of my key that I gave to you? For some reason my key isn’t working.”
“Didn’t your boyfriend tell you?” she asks in response to the dumb expression that takes over my face. “He had the locks changed yesterday.”
What the …“Did he mention why?” I don’t bother trying to explain that he isn’t my new boyfriend.
“I didn’t talk to him. I just saw him with the locksmith.” Then she speculates, “He probably doesn’t want any of your exes stopping by unannounced.”
“Mrs. Feldman, you should know full well that I don’t have men showing up right and left.” Not for lack of wanting it, mind you.
“Just because I don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.” Mrs. Feldman makes it her business to notice everything. Every. Thing.
“Then Jonathan didn’t give you a copy for safe keeping?” She shakes her head causing the greying frizz that is her hair to bounce around. “Well, thank you anyway,” I tell her before leaving.
I’m driven to find out why Jonathan changed my locks. On my way to his studio, I send him six texts and leave two voicemails.
Ravenswood Pictures is located in the heart of Hollywood and it takes me thirty minutes to drive the twelve-mile distance. With every passing mile that I don’t hear back from Jonathan, I find myself getting angrier and angrier.
I pull up to the impressively large gates at the main entrance and announce, “I’m here to see Jonathan Silver.”
The guard looks at his clipboard and asks, “What’s your name?”
“Emily Hargrove,” I say with such force I practically spit on the guy.
He takes a step back and flips through his list before going inside his little hut. I see him banging away on his computer before picking up a telephone. When he comes back out, he says, “I’m sorry, I don’t have you on the list. Maybe you should call Mr. Silver’s office.”
“I’m not going to move until you let me in,” I say unwisely.
“Then I’ll have to call security, miss. You can’t hold up traffic like this.” I look in my rearview mirror and see no fewer than six cars lined up behind me.
“How am I going to back up if I can’t get out?” I ask.
“I’ll let you through to make a U-turn.” As the mechanical arm lifts, I drive through. But instead of making the U-turn I’ve been instructed to make, I keep driving when I see the man I’m looking for crossing the street in front of me.
I pull up next to Jonathan, who appears to be in a deep discussion with mega movie star Justin Fox. I roll down my window and demand, “I need my house key.”
“Emily, what are you doing here?” he asks while looking over the top of my car. He calls out, “It’s okay, you can put your guns away.”
I turn around to find three guards quickly approaching with their weapons drawn. Yikes. I turn back to Jonathan and repeat over the lump of fear in my throat, “I’m here for a copy of my house key.” Man, my heart is beating fast. What was I thinking? Guns drawn! “Why did you change my locks?”
“They’re my locks for as long as I’m staying there,” he tells me. “And I changed them so I can control who has access to my space.”
Justin Fox clears his throat, so Jonathan turns to him and says, “Justin, this is my …”
He probably would have said realtor, and I probably should have let him, but for some reason, I feel compelled to interrupt him. “I’m his back waxer.”
Justin’s eyes twinkle in amusement as Jonathan practically gasps, “Back waxer?” Then he turns to the movie star next to him and says, “She’s my landlady.”
“Landlady?”
“I’m having some work done on my place,” he says by way of explanation. Then he turns back to me and instructs, “Pull over there.” He points to an open space in front of the building he came from. “I’ll be with you as soon as I finish talking to Justin.” He does not sound pleased.
When he shows up, the first words out of his mouth are, “My back waxer?” He pulls out his keychain and starts to unwind it from the metal ring.
“You had my locks changed?” I counter.
“I didn’t like the idea of random people walking in anytime they wanted.”
“What random people?” I demand with my hands on my hips. Does he think I run some kind of flophouse or something?
“Your neighbor walked in on me while I was in the shower last night.”
“Which one?” I ask like the answer could somehow offer a logical explanation.
“The old lady with the cat.”
“She brought Mr. Knuckles with her?”
“No, but she said that she and Mr. Knuckles were worried about you when you didn’t answer the door.”
I fling my hands into the air like I’m throwing confetti. “There’s your answer. She was worried about me.”
“Yes, well, I don’t know how many other people you’ve given keys to who might worry about you and I felt it best to protect my privacy, as well as my modesty.”
Dramatic, much? I don’t come right out and say this but the look on my face is meant to convey it.
He ignores my sneer. “You’re going to need to have a copy made and then return this key to me.”
“I’m not your assistant,” I tell him, annoyed by his high-handedness.
“Clearly. But being that you couldn’t wait long enough for my assistant to get a copy to you, you’re going to have to do his job.”
“You were going to make me a key?” I’m suddenly less angry. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still annoyed that he had the locks changed, but knowing he was going to give me a copy soothes some of my mad.
“Of course, I was going to make you a copy. It’s your house after all.”
I take the key out of his hand. “Please leave my name at the gate so I’m not threatened by gunfire again.” I feel pretty proud of myself for saying that without my voice wobbling. Guns? Seriously?
“Fine. I’m about to leave the studio for the day,” he informs me. “I guess you’ll just have to meet me back at your place later this afternoon.”
“I could leave a key under the mat for you,” I tell him.
“That’s less secure than keeping the old lock. I’ll be there by five,” he tells me.
“What if I have plans at five?”
“Then I would suggest waiting for my assistant to make you a key instead of vice versa.”
“Fine.” I start to roll up the window but before it’s fully closed, I shout, “You have to actually spend time in my neighborhood if you want this house swap to work for you.”
“I will, but I still have a job to do,” he yells back as I pull away, leaving him in my dust. Well, not dust as I’m only going five miles an hour on the studio street, but in my head I’m burning rubber on a dirt road and leaving him in a haze of my irritation.