Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [94]
Jeannie had gotten over the name brouhaha, but what continued to bother her, she thought as she yanked at some stubborn clover, was that Ivanhoe was one of the heroic personalities in the educational computer game that Charlie had made his fortune designing. Although Charlie would point out that the game’s success was Jeannie’s doing because of how she, an English major temping at Charlie’s fledgling games company, had suggested Charlie read Sir Walter Scott and Mary Shelley for ideas—after all, these were stories old enough not to be copyrighted.
The game was a language-building tool, packed with sharp swords and SAT vocabulary. The American Library Association had called Charlie a hero; and once public libraries and elementary schools started buying the program—well, Charlie could either let himself be bought out, which he thought he was too young to do, or do something creative, like take a wrecked old factory in inner-city Baltimore and remake it into a manufacturing plant for the game.
It was like Goodwood Gardens’ past come to life, Jeannie mused, as she continued pulling up weeds from between the bricks. Charlie was the lord of an old factory in East Baltimore; he even went to work in a three-piece suit, wanting to seem like anything but an ordinary computer game programmer. He lunched with people like the mayor, and the lawyer who owned the Baltimore Orioles.
“You know, you could hire someone to do that—but aren’t you cute doing it yourself.” Hodder Reeves’s private-school drawl cut through Jeannie’s gardening trance.
The real estate agent was standing a few feet away from her, hands splayed on the hips of his creaseless khakis, which broke crisply on the tops of his cordovan Gucci loafers. He had no socks on, as usual, and was wearing a turquoise Lacoste shirt that made his eyes look even bluer, and the longish hair that curled around the shirt’s upturned collar seem youthfully thick and blond, though Jeannie knew for a fact he was over forty and got his highlights at the same salon that she frequented.
“Hi, Hodder. Actually, one of my neighbors offered to share her gardener. It’s just that I don’t have that much to do anymore, now that Ivan’s at St. David’s Day School three mornings a week. He’s going into his second week there—I can hardly believe it! He loves school.” Jeannie didn’t mention how it tugged at her heart that her son went so cheerfully, without a second glance back.
“Ivan. Is that a new nickname?” Hodder’s voice sounded teasing.
“His teacher suggested it. Ivanhoe’s a bit … wordy … for three-year-olds, don’t you think?”
Reeves crouched down beside her, his breath smelling of Altoids. “I think it’s charming. As are you. Let me take you to lunch.”
“But why?” Jeannie blurted, feeling self-conscious about the dirt on the knees of her Levi’s.
“I stopped by to see if you’d come for a quick lunch at Petit Louis. After all, it’s our anniversary.” At Jeannie’s blank stare, he added, “We closed on your house six months ago to this day. Don’t you remember, I took you and Charlie out for champagne at the bar there?”
A loud honk came from a black Lexus. Jeannie looked over and realized that Hodder had left his Porsche, with its driver’s-side door hanging open, smack in the middle of the street. The more successful a man was in Baltimore, the smaller his car—and conversely, the larger his wife’s. Charlie had given Jeannie a Humvee as a Christmas present, and it devoured two-thirds of their garage.
“All right, all right.” Reeves gave an apologetic wave to the driver who, after all, could be his next client. “Is it okay if I pull into your driveway? Charlie coming home anytime soon?”
“No, he isn’t coming home till late tonight, but I still don’t think I can have lunch with you. Look at the state I’m in, and I have to pick Ivan up at 11:45—”
The driver honked again.