Silence.
I looked at the shoe.
Then at the innocent pretzels.
“Did you just throw footwear at me?” Clare whispered.
“You defied me,” Tessa spat.
Then my father laughed.
Then my mother suggested that my pregnant wife sit on the floor.
Something inside me clicked into place.
Clare and I walked briskly toward my SUV.
I called my real estate broker.
Her name was Melissa.
She had the warmth of a sniper and the efficiency of a guillotine. She had negotiated the commercial lease for my second restaurant.
“Ian,” she answered on the second ring.
“Melissa. The residential property on Brookfield. The one my family occupies.”
“I have the file. What’s the situation?”
“List it.”
There was a brief pause.
The sound of a keyboard clicking came through the phone.
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Ian, it’s Saturday afternoon.”
“Then Monday at dawn.”
Clare buckled herself into the passenger seat and stared at me with wide eyes.
