The Big Bang (2 page)

Will’s practiced talking points about his concerns for the environmental impact and the reason for the developer’s lack of plans to develop prime residential sites at both Songbird Canyon and Warbler Valley Drive vanished from his brain. He couldn’t form an intelligible sentence questioning the sudden switch from the planned super-playground proposal on the vacant, commercial land at Wonderland Vista Way and Melody Mountain Ranch Parkway.

A white-tailed rabbit scurried across the pavers separating the Jordan and Estridge properties and loped toward a snow-dusted mound of dirt on his or her proposed former home.

“The bunnies,” he uttered.

“The bunnies?”

“Rabbit habitat.” He took a silent breath to compose himself. “Too marshy to accommodate—”

“You want me to sign something?”

“Please.” He handed her the petition bearing, so far, only his name. “I know for a fact I have support on both Weeping Willow Way and…”

As Hope reached for the clipboard, her fingernail scraped the tip of his thumb and sent another surge of desire through him.

Astros, Mariners, Cardinals, Rockies…

She signed on the first line and handed back the petition. “See you at aerobics.”

Before he could say thanks, the door closed and she was gone.

So was he.

***

From her bathroom window, Maryellen Griffin watched Will Pierce-Cohn, clipboard in hand, head from Hope Jordan’s house toward the empty lot where he leaned over to inspect a patch of dirt. The futility gave her an anxious pang, causing her to shift and throw off her daily weigh-in.

Maryellen stepped off the scale, reset the button, and stepped on again to the same dismal
102.
Before the blasphemous flashing faded to black, she grabbed her robe and cinched the waist tightly around her middle. She crossed the master bath and plucked the honey-do list from the usual spot on the mirror above her sink.

The dull ache at the base of her neck radiated upward as she scanned the rest of Frank’s fussy scrawl.
Need more X-14 for mold in basement shower.… Speak to Evangeline re: missed youth choir practice…

Eva might not show up for choir again if he didn’t stop calling her Evangeline. Never mind her reaction when he so much as suggested she go to a leadership camp this summer. Maryellen took a breath and skipped to the last item on the list:

Her stomach turned at the thought of loading cow rump into the Crockpot at 7
A.M.
If he wanted her to celebrate the big land swap he’d been negotiating with Henderson Homes, why couldn’t he spring for take-out? Eva was on a vegetarian kick and wouldn’t eat a bite anyway. Besides, he knew she had to close at the library.

She folded the note, stuffed it into her pocket with a week’s worth of others, and started her morning routine with a flip of the faucet.

The base of her electric toothbrush fell onto its side as she yanked a little too hard and squirted on a blob of Colgate. As the bristles met her front teeth, she savored the mint flavor on her tongue like peppermint candy. There’d be no real sweets until the scale bestowed a double-digit number. No dab of ice cream would pass her lips, no cookie crumb, and no sugar of any kind. She certainly couldn’t eat a dinner of fatty meat and grease-soaked vegetables.

After the dentist-recommended two minutes, she spit into her sink, rinsed with a handful of water, righted the overturned base, and set her Sonic Care carefully within.

Then, she grabbed Frank’s toothbrush.

Warmth encircled her toes as she padded across the heated floor to the toilet.

She paused for a moment to picture him, running his hands through his dark, gelled hair, still hopped up like Napoleon from one-upping poor Will Pierce-Cohn over the playground. In anticipation of climbing into bed to
celebrate
some more, he’d pick up his toothbrush and brush the pot roast with carrots, potatoes, and pearl onions from his teeth.

No doubt he’d be extra talkative tonight but at least the chatter would keep the overexuberant kissing to a minimum.

She opened the door, leaned over the bowl, and dipped in his toothbrush.

***

Laney Estridge parked her Land Rover at a strategic angle to both highlight the FOR SALE sign featuring her professional glamour shot and block the view next door. Her head, aching from an impending sinus infection, began to throb as she exited the car and started up the front walk. It was bad enough her sellers insisted on pricing their wildly overdecorated, almost two-year-old home nearly on par with the brand new models in the Melody Mountain Collection. Now, to add insult to injury, the neighbor’s driveway featured a room’s worth of wall-to-wall carpet lying on the concrete like a soapy gray beard.

As small streams trickled from the edges and joined the river of bubbles emptying into the storm drain beside her car, she grabbed her cell, autodialed the community violations hotline, and left a detailed message.

She tucked a stray strand of newly copper-and-honey highlighted hair behind her ear and straightened her plum-hued jacket. She’d managed to sell the property on Winding Valley Circle by downplaying the
minor
explosion that resulted in $30,000 of meth lab cleanup costs. No reason she couldn’t do the same for a listing that included the charm of do-it-yourselfers for neighbors.

With her home equity line hovering at the limit, she had to.

A car neared the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

She hurried up the front steps and clicked open the lock box.

Closing her eyes, she took a congested, but Chi-restoring, inhale and exhale and willed these buyers to be appreciative of the artistic value inherent in a basement mural of Paris.

And velvet wall accents.

And black bath fixtures.

She stationed herself to best blur the adjacent scene before the hybrid Tahoe with temporary tags approached the driveway. A big, new SUV signaled either hefty car payments or readily available cash, but it wouldn’t matter which if the wife got out, scrunched her nose, and inquired politely about
the neighbors.

The passenger window slid down and, to Laney’s relief, the wife waved warmly.

Laney waved back and proffered a practiced smile.

The husband exited the driver’s side. Forty, plus or minus, and five foot seven give or take, with dark hair, prominent nose, and a mid-priced suit, he fell firmly into the borderline handsome category.

His loafers squeaked with possibility as he ambled up the walk.

A house with “dramatic appointments” would surely provide any swagger he lacked.

Laney slunk down so as not to eclipse him with her almost six feet and offered her hand. “Laney Estridge, Mountain Realty.”

“Tim Trautman.”

His handshake bore a promising overfirmness.

“I’m Theresa.” The wife waddled toward them in crisp maternity slacks and a floral print top that was more A Pea in the Pod than Target, but her tennis bracelet sparkled with the flat light of cubic zirconium. “We were so excited to find your listing.”

“I’m delighted you came by,” Laney said with a measured calm to mask a blossoming sense of too-good-to-be-true.

Theresa looked past her toward the carpeting.

Laney pointed at the greenbelt to the north and away from the foaming eyesore. “Just behind those houses, beside the open space, a state-of-the-art play structure’s slated to go in soon.”

Or, would be, once Frank Griffin quashed Will Pierce-Cohn’s ridiculous anti-playground jihad.

“A block over?” Theresa’s voice rose by an octave.

“We’re so excited to finally have a place for our little ones in this corner of the development.”

“You live nearby?”

“Next cul-de-sac.”

Theresa looked hopefully at Tim.

“Meg Pierce-Cohn lives on our block, too.”

“The state rep?” Tim asked.

Laney nodded.

Theresa’s nose twitched like an enthusiastic rabbit as she turned toward the front door. “What model is it? It looks like a Red Robin.”

“Close, it’s a Blue Jay.” The endorphin rush melted the lump that had threatened to close her throat. “A full step up from the Robin.”

“A friend of mine has this house in a Henderson Homes development in Northglenn.” Theresa tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s called a Shiraz there, but it’s the exact same floor plan.”

“The Blue Jay has the same great layout, only it’s larger.” Laney paused. “And this particular home is
beyond
upgraded.” Her voice echoed as she entered the oversized foyer, which made up the only significant difference between the two models—that and a main floor laundry room.

“I can feel the difference.” Theresa spread her arms out.

“Kind of pricey, though,” Tim said.

“It’s negotiable,” Laney said. With an imminent job transfer and a McMansion set for closing outside of Dallas, her sellers needed the proceeds from the sale almost as badly as she did. Talking them into a slightly lower price wasn’t out of the question, particularly since the husband had already expressed interest in additional
advice
in the form of a hand job. “But new Blue Jay models, with no upgrades other than a stone façade, are going for $15,000 more in the MM Collection.”

“That’s what I told Tim,” Theresa said. “I never thought something would pop up in this part of the development near our price point.”

Laney’s heart skipped a delighted beat.

Theresa eyed the gold drapes Laney had the owners tie back to obscure some hairline cracks fanning out like crow’s feet on either side of the bay window. “Of course, we’d need to factor in some sort of redecorating budget before we could possibly write a bid.”

“Just got our current house how we want it.” Tim ducked into the living room.

“Tim’s a little hesitant to leave Eagle’s Nest Vista,” Theresa whispered. “He’s president-elect of our homeowner’s board.”

“Our HOB president, Frank Griffin, lives across the street from me,” Laney said. “I’ll be glad to put in a good word about Tim.”

“That would be great.” Theresa rubbed her belly. “Tim has to face the fact that with three kids already, we’ve outgrown anything available in our neighborhood.”

“When are you due?”

“Early June.” Theresa ran her fingers along the gold-foiled, lavender faux-finish wall.

“The walls are hand-done.” Laney touched Theresa, but carefully so as not to depress the substantial padding on her upper arm while she up-sold the existing décor. She looked into the mirror above the gold cherub sculpture. Tim seemed to have no aversion to the bordello red living room. “The artist lives over on Melody Mountain Court and gives a great break to Ranchers.”

“Ranchers, huh?” Tim raised an eyebrow and opened the coat closet.

“We’re a very friendly community.” She headed down the hallway to unveil the first male-oriented weapon in her arsenal. “You have to see the study, Tim. The owners added triple insulation so you’ll be assured quiet even when the baby is running up and down the outer hall.”

“Babies.” Tim ducked into the cherry study, the one room devoid of the wife’s garish touch.

“Twins?” Laney asked.

Theresa glanced at the oriental runner running up the curved stairway. “A double surprise.”

“Been there.” She patted Theresa.

“You have twins, too?”

“Seems like everyone does these days.” Laney smiled. “Mine are identical girls.”

Theresa’s eyes sparkled with a potential play-date radar gleam.

“They started high school this year.”

Theresa’s enthusiasm only seemed to grow. “Our Lauren is in ninth grade, too.” I’m not sure how she’s going to feel about switching schools when we—”

Tim edged past them. “If we…”

Laney grasped Theresa’s hand and led her toward the back of the house with a practiced realtor run that looked like a strut. Other than the odd husband with an unnatural interest in fashion magazines and interior décor, they were all the same—Tim was headed for the backyard.

She deposited Theresa in the kitchen by the commercial-style refrigerator and reached him just before he opened the sliding door that didn’t quite run on its tracks. With an effortless looking shove that sent a shock through her shoulder, she lifted the panel. “The deck is new.”

There was no need to disclose that the original had sunk.

“Hmm.” He didn’t stop to examine the new redwood, scan the yard, or take a single step toward the oversized hot tub. Tim Trautman’s full attention was focused on the kitchen window of the house on the other side of the back fence.

More accurately, the neighbor inside.

Wearing a sheer babydoll top and matching panties, Hope Jordan was too caught up in her baking to notice the blinds were cracked.

She bent over to retrieve a tray from her lower oven.

“Who’s that?” Tim asked.

There was no need to turn around and check on Theresa’s whereabouts. Before she even heard the rustle of the blinds, she could feel the poor, bloated thing behind her.

Fuck.
The last thing she needed was blond, stunning Hope Jordan prancing around with the windows open in her get-me-pregnant frillies. Her Playboy Bunny body was enough to make the most secure of wives reconsider the value of a property in such close proximity.

“Hope Jordan.” Laney shook her head. “Her husband’s been coming home for ovulation day lunch for almost a year.” She waited a beat. “With any luck, it won’t be too long before your twins will have a set of playmates.”