EDDIE

He was sinking.

The notice came from the bank, along with a stern phone call from Philip Meier, loan officer: numbers 9 and 11 Eagle Wing Lane were going to be repossessed unless Eddie could come up with the three months’ back mortgage that he owed on each.

He was going to lose them. The time had come (said the newfound angler in Eddie) to “cut bait.”

He went through the contacts on his phone once, twice, three times. Was there anybody else in his circle of acquaintances that he could ask? His buddy Lex from high school was now a slumlord in New Bedford. He was the only other person Eddie thought might have the cash and the interest (up his game a little, with two high-end projects on Nantucket)—but when Eddie called, an automated voice announced that Lex’s number was out of service.

And so, Glenn Daley it was. Eddie didn’t even bother with a phone call. The only way Glenn would realize that Eddie was dead-on balls serious was for Eddie to walk right into the office of Bayberry Properties.

This was exactly what Eddie did.

Rachel McMann, thankfully, was not at her desk. She was probably out trying to solicit clients off the tour buses.

Glenn tried not to show his surprise. “Edward!” he said, standing up. “To what do I owe this honor?”

The two men shook hands. Eddie nodded at the chair next to Glenn’s desk, which was, blessedly, separated from the rest of the floor by three cubicle walls.

“By all means,” Glenn said. “Sit.”

It was hard to explain why Eddie hated Glenn Daley so much. He was a rotund, affable guy who was losing his hair and who wore slip-on shoes. He had a loud, cheerful voice and always knew who had won what game the night before and where the stock market closed, and he’d always just seen the movie everyone was talking about or just finished the book everyone was reading. The best way for Eddie to describe it was that Glenn had always been Eddie’s rival, his adversary, the person he wanted to beat. This was probably borne out of their similarities—he and Eddie had started in the Nantucket real-estate business at the same time; they had started their own agencies at the same time—and the fact that Glenn was very good at what he did.

Glenn had been one of the cocaine abusers back in the nineties—rumor had it that an entire commission on a house on India Street had gone right up Glenn’s nose—and then Glenn went through a high-profile divorce, which had reportedly cost him three hundred thousand dollars. Lots of people liked to claim that their ex-wife was psycho, but in Glenn’s case, it was true. Ashland Daley had once chased Glenn through the Stop & Shop with a loaded pistol, and at the time, Eddie had remembered thinking it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

But Glenn had proved to be like one of those stupid Weeble toys from Eddie’s youth. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. Glenn quit the drug habit, Ashland moved to California, and Glenn started selling houses left and right, thanks to his happy-go-lucky personality and his desire for self-improvement.

Eddie sat down in Glenn’s chair. And then, sotto voce, he explained: design and build on Eagle Wing Lane, bit off more than he could chew, and did Glenn want to score an incredible deal and help Eddie out in the process by buying numbers 9 and 11? A million dollars for both. A total steal.

Glenn whistled. “A million dollars.” He picked up a notepad and a pen. “How much did you pay for the land?”

Eddie considered lying, but Glenn could easily go down to the Registry of Deeds and check his work. “Buck fifty apiece,” Eddie said.

“So three,” Glenn said. He wrote 300 on the notepad. “And how much did you dump into them? Not three fifty apiece, no way, they’re barely framed, Ed. I’ve driven past.”

“About two apiece,” Eddie said.

Glenn slammed his pen down. “Why come to me if you’re just going to lie your ass off? I know Schuyler Pine designed all three for the price of one because you nominated him for commodore of the yacht club…”

“Wait a minute,” Eddie said. “How do you know that?”

Glenn clammed up. Fiddled with the notepad, tore the top sheet off, and crumpled it up. He said, “Don’t include number thirteen in your spiel to me, Eddie, if you’re planning on keeping number thirteen for yourself. Divide everything by thirds, not halves. Two hundred on the land. And maybe, maybe, a buck fifty into each… but that’s being generous. So that gives us five hundred. I don’t see how you can come in here asking for a million dollars.”

Eddie remembered now why he hated Glenn Daley: the guy was a douche bag! Obviously Eddie came in asking for a million so he could have enough money to finish number 13 and sell it!

Eddie said, “When you’re finished, you can sell them each for one point two. Each, Glenn. So two-four on a million-dollar investment, nearly a million and a half profit.”

“I’ll give you half a million,” Glenn said. “I’ll call Ben Winford, and I’ll take them both off your hands today for half a million.”

Eddie stared at the numbers on Glenn’s notepad. Half a million was enough to make the mortgages go away and recoup about a quarter of his initial investment.

Then Eddie noticed the notepad itself. It was from the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara.

“Hey,” Eddie said. He was trying to form a thought, but it wouldn’t quite crystallize. When it did, Eddie swallowed. No, he thought. No fucking way. He pointed to the notepad. “Have you ever stayed at the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara? I hear it’s really nice.”