Charlotte gave her a disbelieving look.
“How do you function without me?” she inquired snarkily.
Ainsley sighed.
“C’mon, Charlotte! You know me! I don’t do…this!…often!” Ainsley used her hands to indicate the outfit she was wearing.
This was true. Usually, when Ainsley didn’t have to be at the hospital or on the volleyball court, she was the type of woman who enjoyed kicking it SoCal-style in shorts or maybe a midi skirt, a tank top and flip-flops. She would often go out of her way to avoid any formal occasions, in fact—the kinds of occasions that involved pulling out one of her various dresses or suits and getting all dolled up. The last time she had gone to this much effort wardrobe-wise was a couple of months ago, back in December, when she received the award as the Southern California Top Surgeon Under 30.
The only reason she had decided to dress up today was because of her father. He had repeatedly told his only daughter that whenever she was meeting someone about a large purchase, that she should always, without fail, dress as if she could afford whatever it was she was considering buying. It would force salespeople to take her seriously right from the start.
Charlotte said, “Hair down, Ains. Jesus, if I had your hair, I would never put it up. I wouldn’t even own a single scrunchie! I’d be, like, ‘A ponytail? What’s that?’”
This was Charlotte’s frequent lament. The pediatrician had unremarkable mousy brown hair which she never stopped complaining about—and which was currently pulled back into a ponytail.
In comparison, Ainsley’s hair was as if a heavenly being had figured out how to forge gold into curly, wavy locks of sunshine which, when she was wearing it down like now, fell to just past her shoulder blades.
Examining her hair in the mirror, Ainsley gave it a few fluffs with the tips of her fingers and then deemed herself ready. Turning from the mirror, she presented herself for inspection to Charlotte.
“It amazes me Georgia lets me spend time alone with you,” Charlotte said sarcastically, referring to her wife. “You look gorgeous! Thanks to me preventing you from putting your hair up, of course.”
“Georgia lets you spend time alone with me because you said you’d leave her if she continued with the jealousy bullshit,” Ainsley pointed out, gathering some essential items and putting them in her purse.
Georgia hated Ainsley. Charlotte insisted that hate was too strong a word. Intense dislike was her phrase of choice—which Ainsley once pointed out to her was the literal definition of the word hate. In any case, Georgia, being the jealous type, never liked Charlotte’s deep friendship with Ainsley, certain that Charlotte would inevitably fall under the spell of Ainsley’s looks and the two of them would start an affair.
The idea was always laughable to Ainsley. And to Charlotte, for that matter. Charlotte preferred butches, which Ainsley was most definitely not. Ainsley, meanwhile, preferred women who had a more positive outlook on life, which Charlotte most certainly did not have.
In any case, Ainsley and Charlotte had been friends since the first year of medical school, predating Charlotte’s marriage to Georgia, which meant Georgia just had to accept Ainsley being part of Charlotte’s life. Some time ago, Charlotte had threatened Georgia with divorce if Georgia didn’t keep her jealousy in check. And knowing Charlotte as well as she did, Ainsley knew that it hadn’t been an idle threat.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Ainsley said, her purse slung over her shoulder.
Charlotte got off the bed and the two of them left the bedroom of Ainsley’s San Diego condo, Ainsley towering over Charlotte who was not one of the less than five percent of little girls who grew up to be as tall as her friend.
“It turns out Georgia will be at the shop most of the day,” Charlotte said, referring to the motorcycle repair shop Georgia managed. “If you get back early enough, do you want to meet Stacie and me at the gym for a quick practice?”
That idea excited Ainsley, not only because it would mean she got to play a bit of volleyball—her favorite sport—but also because it would mean getting out of this lawyerly-type get-up she was wearing and into more comfortable clothes.
“Deal,” she told her friend.
Chapter 3
Okay…ready.
Rachel took one last look around the front room of the empty Haversham house, knowing it was needless to do so. Between the visit she paid to the place yesterday and the almost obsessive checks she made again this morning when she arrived, she knew the front room—and every other room in the house, for that matter—was as perfect as it was going to be.
The wood plank flooring throughout the house was polished, the windows were spotless, having just been cleaned a couple of days ago by the cleaning service she used for such things, there were no unsightly cobwebs in the corners, fresh bulbs in all the lighting fixtures, the toilets all flushed and there were no strange smells.
The kitchen, also, was immaculate. Rachel loved the kitchen in this house! As someone who enjoyed cooking, she could totally imagine herself making meals in this one! Before deciding to sell, the Havershams had remodeled the kitchen, knocking out a wall to make it twice its original size, installing a large island with a deep and double-sided stainless steel sink, plenty of countertop space of Travertine tile, glass-fronted cabinets and a new gas range and oven. What also made it spectacular was that there two were skylights in the kitchen which allowed the most gorgeous natural light to flood the room during the daytime.
Rachel checked her watch. Ten minutes to eleven.
She hurried into the master bedroom and once again checked her appearance in the mirrored closet doors.
She looked fabulous.
She was wearing her favorite blue pantsuit with a fitted boyfriend blazer and a soft pink cami top underneath providing a subtle pop of color. On her feet were open-toed black high-heeled pumps, giving her just a little more height. She looked professional but not uptight; competent but not unyielding.
Today’s client was another referral from a previous client. Best of all, it was yet another doctor. A few months ago, Rachel had sold a stunning house in Vista, a town near Carlsbad, to a doctor and his wife who then started recommending Rachel to his other house-hunting doctor friends. Those doctor friends then started recommending Rachel to their doctor friends and so on. The result was an incredible boost to her earnings which made the other realtors at the firm she worked for more than a little envious. It had also earned her the nickname “The Doctor Whisperer.” In any case, if she could keep getting doctors referring her, she’d be able to start her own real estate brokerage sooner than she originally planned.