Winter Solstice (Winter #4)(13)

He wants to reach out to Mitzi. Should he hug her? He thinks not. That’s how affairs get started. Not that Mitzi would ever be interested in him, although he does think he’s a sight better looking than Santa Claus.

“What can I do?” he asks. “How can I help?”

Mitzi wipes the tears from her face with a dish towel. “You can sell the inn for me.”

“Really?” Eddie says.

“I can’t run it anymore,” Mitzi says. “I won’t be able to run it without Kelley, even if Bart helps.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie says. Obviously, he would love to take on the inn as a listing, but he doesn’t want Mitzi to make any snap decisions while she’s emotional.

“I could probably make it work for a little while,” Mitzi says. “But I don’t want to. Kelley and I were getting burned out on it a few years ago, which is part of the reason why…” Here she stops and waves a hand in front of her face, as if clearing away a cloud of gnats or a bad smell. “Why we had all of our issues. I think Kelley approached you about selling the inn a few years ago, didn’t he?”

“He may have mentioned something about it,” Eddie says. He remembers that at the last Christmas Eve party Eddie attended, Kelley was quite keen to sell the inn. But Eddie never heard anything further, so he assumed it was a dead end, like so many others.

“You’re the only broker Kelley likes,” Mitzi says. “He thinks you’re a hustler.” She blinks. “In a good sense. You hustle. You work hard, nose to the grindstone. You get results.”

“I understand,” Eddie says. He surveys the kitchen for any snacks he may have missed. He’s starving. “I’ve always loved this inn.”

“We’ve made some capital improvements,” Mitzi says. “Kelley’s ex-wife, Margaret Quinn? The news anchor? She lent Kelley some money—gave him some money, really—that he then poured back into the building.”

“I would be happy to sell the place for you,” Eddie says. “And I could get you a wonderful price, I’m sure.” Without seeing upstairs, he’s thinking of listing at seven and a half million, and settling on six-five or seven. If he has the listing and the buyer, he will be looking at a payday of over four hundred grand. “But why don’t we wait until you’re absolutely sure.”

“I am absolutely sure,” Mitzi says, and her voice takes on an affronted tone that Eddie recognizes from Grace. The tone says: Are you not taking me seriously because I’m a woman?

“Okay, then,” Eddie says. “Let’s get together sometime after the party, and we’ll write up a listing sheet.”

Mitzi exhales in a long stream of relief. “Thank you,” she says.

“It’s my job,” Eddie says. He rubs his hands together; his stomach is now seriously rumbling. “I should go.”

Mitzi sees Eddie to the door and waves as he strides down Winter Street. “See you Tuesday,” she says. “With Allegra.”

Eddie waves back. He is so stunned at his good fortune that he’s already back on Main Street before he realizes that he forgot to ask about costumes.





JENNIFER


In theory, Jennifer is too busy to be unhappy. She’s finishing up a project she adores—an 1827 single-family home on Garden Street in Beacon Hill—and she is about to start a from-scratch job on a penthouse suite in the brand-new luxury building Millennium Tower, on the site of the original Filene’s in Downtown Crossing.

The two projects couldn’t be more different. The Garden Street house is owned by one of the most wonderful couples Jennifer has ever known—Leanne and Derek Clinton—who have moved back to the city from the suburbs now that their four children are out of the house. Derek is the head of the actuarial department at John Hancock, and Leanne works part-time as a pro bono civil rights attorney. They are gracious, evolved people who want to restore the house to the glory of its former heyday, but with modern conveniences and decorating vignettes in each room, which Leanne calls “moments of joy.” Jennifer blends classic paint colors and carefully curated antiques with her signature whimsy—a zebra-print rug, a feathered chandelier, a mirror in the powder room decoupaged with pages from Derek’s and Leanne’s old passports.

The penthouse, on the other hand, is owned by a man named Grayson Coker, who goes by the nickname Coke. He’s the fifty-four-year-old, thrice-divorced CEO of Boston Bank. (Jennifer has tried calling him Mr. Coker, but she gets reprimanded every time. “Coke, please, Jen,” he says. He is so insistent on this informality that Jennifer doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she loathes being called Jen.) Coke isn’t particular about how Jennifer decorates his apartment as long as the space is “sleek,” “modern,” and “intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” Jennifer asks, thinking she’s misunderstood. “You want your apartment to frighten people?” She has been decorating for twelve years, and this is the first time she has received this instruction.

“Not frighten, exactly,” Coke says. “But I’d like to put my visitors on edge. I’d like the space to make a statement. I’d like it to convey power.”

“Power,” Jennifer says. She’s already longing for Leanne with her offers of homemade maple-ginger scones.