looked up. “Which one was she? The condo on the Algarve or the villa in the Piedmont?”
“Paul, we’re talking about a woman who recently died. She was more than just a piece of property.”
He picked up his cheesesteak and took a healthy bite. “Shelley, I’m a doctor. I see death every day.”
Shelley seriously wondered if Paul witnessed death every day in an ear-nose-and-throat residency, but she didn’t press the point. It wasn’t worth it—much as their relationship hadn’t been, either.
Abigail patted her hand. “I’m sure it was very upsetting. A donation to a charity of the family’s choice is always appropriate.” She leaned back and smiled benevolently when the waitress brought their order—it was like the queen at the grand opening of a pensioners’ home in Bournemouth. Then she turned to Shelley. “So, which property was it anyway?”
Shelley started to mentally count to ten but quit at six. “The comtesse owned the chateau in Aix-en-Provence, north of Marseilles.”
Paul paused in thought. “A quaint abode. Eight bedrooms, five and a half baths, four with whirlpool baths. Vineyard. Swimming pool. Riding stables nearby.”
“As you can imagine, Lionel is totally distraught.” Shelley said.
“I bet. He makes a pretty penny off that property and he’s probably scared stiff that the family is going to pull the plug on the contract.”
“Was she also one of his, you know…?” Abigail nodded discreetly.
“Lovers?” Shelley supplied the word. “I’d say it’s a reasonable guess.”
Paul snorted. “Please, Lionel didn’t get his inventory by using the Yellow Pages. We all know that he’s slept with or attempted to sleep with half the aging aristocracy of continental Europe—his personal touch has been in places you don’t want to know.”
Abigail shivered and looked down at her untouched food.
Shelley pointed a finger at her chest. “Not that I’m defending the horny bastard, but you have to admit the one place he’s never put his mitts on is me.” Being a naturally modest person, she didn’t mention that while maybe not in the same league as Jennifer Lopez or Nicole Kidman in the looks department, she wasn’t exactly chopped liver either. Auburn shoulder-length hair combined with a firm, rounded derriere and well-toned legs gave her a definite Julia Roberts allure—Julia Roberts with an extra fifteen pounds.
Paul shook his head. “Shell, get real. It’s not like you have any property on the Riviera worth renting.”
What could she say? McCleerys weren’t Riviera types; not only did they freckle in direct sunlight, they lacked that essential je ne sais quoi—inherited wealth. “Okay, I get your point. But I’d still like to get back to my dilemma. You see, Lionel is intent on keeping the rental for the coming high season.”
“Simple.” Paul shrugged. “He goes over and wines and dines the comtesse’s daughter and weaves his usual magic.”
“That is just so irritating,” Shelley protested. “Why do you necessarily assume that some woman would agree to just about anything if she was showered with a little attention?”
Paul smiled smugly. “Ahh. I get it. There is no daughter, is there?”
Shelley conceded with a shrug. “Only a grandson.”
“How old?” Paul asked.
“From the limited information I’ve got, probably around thirty.”
“And Lionel’s not considering extending his sexual tastes to members of the male species?”
Shelley shook her head. “No, not even when it comes to the Montfort chateau.”
Abigail shifted in her chair. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Well, the plan is still for Dream Villas to pay a condolence call—in person, naturally,” Shelley said. “But Lionel’s not going. He feels it might not be a good idea for him to resurface at a family event. You see, he and the comtesse were an item before she became a widow.”
“Ohh. So, if Dream Villas needs someone from the company to go…” Abigail raised one eyebrow. Shelley nodded.
Paul waved from his side of the table. “Hell-o? Am I missing something here?”
Shelley turned her head in his direction. “About that condolence call…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve just been promoted from newsletters.”
There was silence.
“Well?” Shelley looked around expectantly. “Any opinions? I realize this would be an entirely new direction for me to take. So I really, really want your input. In my own mind, I’d like to think I should try my hand at it. Expand my horizons. Push the envelope, so to speak.”
Paul looked horrified. “Why don’t you let someone else push their own envelope? Let them wine and dine the grandson and heir.”
Shelley pulled back. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”
He made a face. “Of course I’m not jealous. It’s just that you’ve never dealt face-to-face with clients. You’re used to being support staff, handling the paperwork and stuff like that.” Paul furrowed his brow sincerely. “I mean this with all the best intentions, of course.”
Shelley blinked. “God, Paul. You think I’m a total wuss, don’t you? No wonder our relationship didn’t work out. And here I thought it had something to do with the fact I never made your mother’s recipe for salt cod.”
“Forget the salt cod,” Abigail interrupted.
Shelley nodded. “Gladly.”
“And to get back to your question, despite what the Boy Wonder here says, I think you’re perfectly capable of being a front man—front woman, really. The thing of it is, you just haven’t given yourself many opportunities to shine in that venue. Not surprising when you consider that family of yours.” Abigail accompanied the last comment with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Please, it’s not as if I were abused as a child. Many people have parents who get divorced,” Shelley said, downplaying.
“But how many people have a father who runs off to join the circus?”
“It’s a common enough fantasy.”
“For little boys, not for a thirty-five-year-old insurance salesman from Schenectady. Then there’s your mother.”
“Mom’s not so bad,” Shelley protested.
“We’re talking about a woman who communicates with daisies!”
“It’s bromeliads, a completely different family. They’re epiphytic tropical plants—pineapples, for example.”
That silenced Abby. But only for a
