A Cut Above Read Free Page A

no, sugarplum. We’re not heading to Evie’s office.” Aunt Weeby slides her classic black leather handbag on her forearm and heads for the back door. “We’re meeting the sweet girl at the first place she wants to show us. We don’t want to waste any time, you know.”
    I know no such thing; I’d much rather dawdle than have to fabricate reasons why I don’t like this or that splendiferous place. But who am I in this house-hunting deal? Just the schmuck who’s being plunked into a house she doesn’t want, is all.
    “Lead on—er . . . lay on, Macduff,” I say, remembering yesterday’s English Lit lesson.
    In the cushy limo, I stare out the window as we zip down streets lined with luxe mansions and out of the exclusive enclave. There are no “cute little cottages” in this part of town, and that’s what Aunt Weeby is bound and determined to find for me.
    “Oh, look!” Aunt Weeby trills as Davina guides the land yacht vehicle around a corner. “Isn’t this a sweet street?”
    I have to give her that much. On either side, 1930s and ’40s bungalows line the street. Tall, leafy trees provide shade, and flower beds teem with fresh color. I get a sense of cozy comfort, pride of ownership, warmth, and permanence. “Nice . . .”
    The canary-feathered smile on my aunt’s face reminds me not to say a thing. The woman has laser-sharp hearing and an agenda in mind.
    When Davina stops the car, I get out and study the house before me. It’s a cute little story-and-a-half bungalow, slate blue with white trim and cranberry-red shutters and door.
    Both sides of the front walkway are lined with a riot of red and white geraniums, and lush green azalea bushes nestle up against the foundation. At the end of the driveway, I spot a matching one-car garage.
    I’m in trouble, folks. I have just fallen in love.
    Maybe the inside’s a dump, all torn up and piled ceiling high with decades-old newspapers. Maybe it’s painted in shrieking shades of purple and orange and slime lime-green.
    Or not.
    “Ooooh!” Aunt Weeby coos. “Isn’t our Evie one smart girl?”
    I face my wily relative. “And where is your smart girl? Wasn’t she supposed to meet us here?”
    Just then, a school-bus yellow SUV pulls up. From what I can remember of the Evie I once babysat, the vehicle is exactly what she would drive. The driver-side door pops open, and out jumps a livewire dressed in electric blue. Asymmetrically cut black hair frames a pixie face, a cell phone glued to the ear on the side with the shorter cut hair.
    But, of course, Evie isn’t alone. Nooooo.
    And I’m sure you’ve figured this one out—well before me, no doubt. You see, out the passenger-side door comes a six-foot-something, blond male, a grin on his gorgeous face, his beautiful blue eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses. As he ambles toward us, I can’t help but notice the way the light blue polo shirt enhances the gold of his tan. No one could miss the graceful energy in his step.
    Max walks up to Aunt Weeby and kisses her waiting cheek. “Good morning.”
    My aunt smiles. “ Now we’re all here. Let’s go find Andie a proper ‘pad.’ ”
    She sails up the walk with Evie, who hasn’t quit jabbering into her phone, leaving me on the sidewalk standing next to Max.
    “Ready?” he asks.
    Seeing how my mind superimposes the picture of a slaughterhouse over the little house, I answer, in character, “Baa-aa-aaah!”

200
    Fast-forward four lightning-fast weeks. I have since signed more papers than I ever imagined a person might have reason to sign. And even though I refuse to admit it—it would give Aunt Weeby even more to crow about—I’m excited about my impending homeownership. I’m not so excited, however, about her living alone again.
    Oh well. At least my new house is no more than four blocks away from hers, and I plan to spend a whole lot of my spare time visiting. In fact, she can count on it. Once Mickey and his guys get around