The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [102]
“What’s it like in Hoboken tonight?” he asked.
“There is a full moon. Are you outside?”
“Yep. I’m . . . sittin’ up on a butte, lookin’ out across the prairie.”
“How beautiful it must be.”
“You ever been out West?”
She said no, she never had, and he said she oughta come out sometime, he’d show her the sights. They talked about this and that, unimportant things, like old friends, and he wondered how he could feel so comfortable and connected with a woman he’d never seen and didn’t know. A woman who made her living talking to strangers.
“Hang on a sec,” he said, “I got another call comin’ in.” He checked the number. “It’s my grampaw,” he told Romy. “Kinda late for him to call.”
“Do you need to—”
“Nah, he’s okay, I’ll catch him later.”
“Shorty, I must go soon. But first I have something to tell you.”
“Oh hell—you said that, and I plumb forgot. Sorry.”
“Never mind. I didn’t want to say it anyway.”
“Now you got me worried.”
“This is the last time I can speak to you.”
“Say what?”
“I am resigning. As Madame Romanescu. This night is my last night. That’s why I was so glad when you called, so I could tell you—”
“Shoot. Hang on two secs—” Charlie again. “Okay, I’m back. Now, what’s this you’re tellin’ me? You’re resigning?”
“It’s part of having fallen on hard times,” she said with another rueful laugh. “I have to get serious about my life. Oh, Shorty—I’ve said good-bye to so many people tonight. Why are you the hardest?”
“Well, wait now, maybe we can—” He heard a buzz on her end of the line. “What’s that?”
“My doorbell,” she said in a wondering voice. “Who could it be? It’s almost midnight.”
“I’ll hang on while you—Well, shit.” Charlie again! “I think I better call him—”
“Yes, you must—”
“But I’ll hang on while you see who’s—”
“I’m looking through the . . . Oh my God.”
“What?”
“It’s my aunt!”
“Oh. Well, uh . . .”
“I have to go. I’m so sorry. Good-bye, good-bye, dear one—”
“ Aw, Romy.”
“Have a happy life, my dear friend.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I will miss you!”
His phone beeped again. There was nothing else he could do—he hung up on Romy.
“What?” he said in a loud, not at all respectful voice to his grandfather, who answered before the first ring finished.
“Romy’s getting foreclosed,” said Charlie.
“What?”
“Romy’s getting foreclosed!”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m telling you. Says right here.” Sounds of newspaper rattling. “Can’t believe I was about to throw this out. It’s last week’s.”
“What?”
“ ‘Trustee’s Sale of valuable fee simple property improved by premises known as 622 Palmer Street.’ That’s Romy.”
“No, Grandfather, Romy lives in Hoboken.”
“No, no, she lives here. Blah blah, terms of sale, yackity yack . . . ‘for sale at public auction at the front of the Courthouse for the County of Montgomery, on June 11 at 11:18 a.m.’—that’s tomorrow.”
“Grandfather—”
“You gotta do something!”
“Hang up. I’ll call her.”
“Hah?”
“Hang up!”
But when he dialed Romy’s 900 number, he got a message saying it was no longer in service.
It was one minute after midnight.
FIFTEEN
“I still think this is a horrible idea,” Molly said, holding the car door for her aunt. The older lady got out gingerly—arthritis in her toe—ignoring the hand Molly held out to help. “I don’t need to see this, Aunt Kit, I don’t need closure or—”
“Who said anything about closure?” Aunt Kit straightened to her full height—five feet eight—and brushed down imaginary wrinkles in her straight, slim skirt. She’d arrived last night wearing her silvery hair in a new style, short and snazzy. “I’m telling you, something’s going to happen.”
“Yeah,” Molly muttered, stuffing quarters into the parking meter. “The bank’s going to buy my house back. And you want me to watch. It’s inhumane. I’m just not—”
Her aunt’s arm around her waist cut her off. “Hush. I’ve got a good feeling about this. When did you turn into such a gloomy Gloria?”
She’d have answered—Two months ago, when I got a letter called Notice of Intent to Foreclose—but Aunt Kit gave