LITMIR.BIZ

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the time it was drizzling. But instead of ducking her head, Red’s eyes greedily soaked up every house along Vine Street. There were the cozy, Craftsman-style bungalows with board siding and distinctive, four-over-one double-hung windows. The boxy colonials whose front doors, brightly painted in hues of tomato and Kelly green, tempted Red to reach for their shiny brass door knockers. And the gingerbread-trimmed Victorians, ornate as wedding cakes. That early impression was what had brought her to the defense of one of them just last year, when it was slated to be torn down after the original owners passed and their far-flung heirs neglected it for too long.

      The town of Newberry might be architecturally diverse, but in Red’s childhood imagination, the interiors of those houses looked exactly the same. Each one had the same plaid couch, wood paneling, and comforting familial chaos of her favorite TV sitcom. Though the day might bring problems and bickering, by bedtime all the family members returned to the fold and whatever troubles had arisen were settled. Just like in the show, the children in those houses went to bed secure in the knowledge that a team of two adults—whose number one priority was their children’s wellbeing—slept down the hall.

      At the far end of Vine, the sidewalk ended and the smooth pavement dropped off to the gravel road. Barking dogs strained against their ropes as Red shuffled past. Dish TV antennae jutted out with tangles of wires beside portable air conditioners. The older model cars of the residents came to rest at random angles, as if straightening them out wasn’t worth the trouble.

      Red held her breath on trash day when she walked past the stinking black plastic garbage bags and melting cardboard boxes. Even at that age, she already recognized it as the smell of just getting by.

      Here a pair of flowered curtains fluttered in a kitchen window; there some discarded cinderblocks had been repurposed for a flower bed. But unlike the Vine Street houses, you never knew what you might see inside the trailers. Red’s only hope was in knowing that they never stayed anywhere for long. And sure enough, by the next year, she and her mother had moved to an apartment and Red rode the bus to school.

      “Stop worrying about me, Grandma. I’m fine. I can take care of myself now. Not just me, both of us. I’m making decent money…finally.”

      “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about love.”

      Now was probably not the time to tell Grandma that she’d just signed on as a consultant with the senior living center. The added responsibility might be pushing it, but the extra money would come in handy.

      Red sipped from her water glass and tried not to think about “love”—especially not “love” and “Sam Owens”.

      “All right. I’ll stop harpin’ on it before I start soundin’ like one of your whatchamacallit, meetings, is it? Or sessions?”

      “The second one.”

      “One more thing, and that’s all I’ll say.”

      Red sighed, wishing she had a dime for every time Grandma said that was the last time she’d say something.

      “Lord knows this world needs all the givers it can get. But there comes a time when you need to start putting yourself first. One of these days you need to realize that some people can’t be fixed. And your time’s better spent hunting for the right kind of man, the steady type who’s looking to settle down, than chasing after houses.”

      Chapter 4

      Once in a while, Red did manage to get an entire hour for lunch. In the middle of the week, she called up Keval to ask if she could bring her salad over.

      Truth be told, she had an ulterior motive for stopping by the consortium. That RSVP in her bag was getting more tattered by the day, and she was still trying to figure out a way to get Sam to go with her.

      She crossed Main Street, walked down the block past the café, and around the corner. The public area of the building Manolo had built for Sam last summer was bright and uncluttered. Behind tall windows sat tables, dining chairs, some comfy upholstered couches, and a bar where wine aficionados could sample local products. It was nothing like the settlement-era house the consortium had started out in, where Sam still resided. Apparently Sam was blind to the dinginess of the old building.

      Then again, not everyone was as preoccupied with houses as Red.

      She spotted Keval in his usual seat, behind his computer monitor.

      “How are you?” she said, a little out of breath.

      “Okay,” he replied, in a very “not okay” voice.

      “You sure? You sound kind of down.” She plopped into the visitors’ chair.

      “I still don’t have a date for Junie’s wedding and the RSVPs are due next week,” he said.

      “What about that new guy in town? The one who bought Curl Up & Dye?”

      “Jordan.” Keval got a dreamy, faraway look.

      “That’s right, Jordan. Why don’t you invite him?”

      “Have you seen Jordan Hasselbeck? He’s from Seattle. He’s way too hip for me.”

      “Are you kidding me? With those mad sideburns of yours and those”— she peeked under the desk—“er…fitted, jogger pants? Have you looked in a mirror lately? Trust me, Keval Patel, you are plenty hip. Who says he wouldn’t go? He’s probably lonely. You know how it is when you move to a new town. I bet he’d jump at the chance.”

      “Maybe.” He sighed, unconvinced. “Who are you going with?”

      She hadn’t seen that coming. “Uh,” she hesitated, “no one, yet.”

      “I know!” Keval brightened. “We should go together. Neither of us has anyone else, right?”

      Red envisioned slow dancing with Keval, she in her fitted, salmon-colored dress and ivory wrap, Keval in his mustard-colored pants with the green stripe down the side. They’d look like a hotdog in a bun with relish.

      Grandma’s words sprang to mind. You need to put yourself first.

      But Keval was her friend, and he needed her. The last thing she wanted to do was to hurt his feelings. And her hope of going to the wedding with Sam was growing dimmer by the day.

      She got a reprieve in the form of an angry voice from down the hall.

      “Why do you even list a customer service number if all I get is a recording? Do you think I have all day to sit on hold? I’m trying to run a business here!”

      Keval cringed.

      “What’s going on?” asked Red.

      “You know the new wine subscription program? We’re having a computer glitch on our sign-up page.”

      Red rose slowly, gazing in the direction of the yelling.

      “I’m paying you for a service, and I expect service.”

      Keval bit his lip.

      Holly Davis, the sales manager, and Mona, Sam’s newest employee, popped their heads out of their respective spaces.

      Red took off down the hall.

      Keval half rose from his seat. “Don’t go,” Red heard him plead from behind her. “Give him time.”

      But she kept going until she was standing in the doorway of Sam’s office.

      The face Sam put on for the outside world was that of a supremely competent businessman with an endless supply of jokes. But Red had gotten a glimpse behind the façade: the fleeting rages, gone almost as soon as they started, using work as an avoidance tactic, and above all, the reluctance to let anyone get too close.

      She watched him pace his small office like a caged lion, his attention fixed out the opposite window.

      “We’re paying a lot of money for this broke-dick service of yours. We’ve already promoted it and you assured me

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