Tripwire

knew Chester was in financial trouble. It couldn’t be anything else. He wasn’t having an affair. She knew that. There are signs husbands give out when they’re having affairs, and Chester wasn’t giving them out. There was nothing else he could be worried about. So it was financial trouble.
    Her original intention had been to wait. Just to sit tight and wait until the day he finally needed to get it off his chest and told her all about it. She had planned to wait for that day and then step in. She could manage the situation from there on in, however far it went exactly, debt, insolvency, even bankruptcy. Women were good at managing situations. Better than men. She could take the practical steps, she could offer whatever consolation was needed, she could pick her way through the ruins without the ego-driven hopelessness Chester was going to be feeling.
    But now she was changing her mind. She couldn’t wait any longer. Chester was killing himself with worry. So she was going to have to go ahead and do something about it. No use talking to him. His instinct was to conceal problems. He didn’t want to upset her. He would deny everything and the situation would keep on getting worse. So she had to go ahead and act alone. For his sake, as well as hers.
    The obvious first step was to place the house with a realtor. Whatever the exact degree of trouble they were in, selling the house might be necessary. Whether it would be enough, she had no way of telling. It might solve the problem on its own, or it might not. But it was the obvious place to start.
    A rich woman living in Pound Ridge like Marilyn has many contacts in the real estate business. One step down the status ladder, where the women are comfortable without being rich, a lot of them work for realtors. They keep it part-time and try to make it look like a hobby, like it was more connected with an enthusiasm for interior decoration than mere commerce. Marilyn could immediately list four good friends she could call. Her hand was resting on the phone as she tried to choose between them. In the end, she chose a woman called Sheryl, who she knew the least well of the four, but who she suspected was the most capable. She was taking this seriously, and her realtor needed to, as well. She dialed the number.
    “Marilyn,” Sheryl answered. “How nice to talk to you. Can I help?”
    Marilyn took a deep breath.
    “We might be selling the house,” she said.
    “And you’ve come to me? Marilyn, thank you. But why on earth are you guys thinking of selling? It’s so lovely where you are. Are you moving out of state?”
    Marilyn took another deep breath. “I think Chester’s going broke. I don’t really want to talk about it, but I figure we need to start making contingency plans.”
    There was no pause. No hesitation, no embarrassment.
    “I think you’re very wise,” Sheryl said. “Most people hang on way too long, then they have to sell in a hurry, and they lose out.”
    “Most people? This happens a lot?”
    “Are you kidding? We see this all the time. Better to face it early and pick up the true value. You’re doing the right thing, believe me. But then women usually do, Marilyn, because we can handle this stuff better than men, can’t we?”
    Marilyn breathed out and smiled into the phone. Felt like she was doing exactly the right thing, and like this was exactly the right person to be doing it with.
    “I’ll list it right away,” Sheryl said. “I suggest an asking price a dollar short of two million, and a target of one-point-nine. That’s achievable, and it should spark something pretty quickly.”
    “How quickly?”
    “Today’s market?” Sheryl said. “With your location? Six weeks? Yes, I think we can pretty much guarantee an offer inside six weeks.”
    DR. MCBANNERMAN WAS still pretty uptight about confidentiality issues, so although she gave up old Mr. and Mrs. Hobie’s address, she wouldn’t accompany it with a phone number. Jodie saw no legal logic in that, but it seemed to keep the doctor happy, so she didn’t bother arguing about it. She just shook hands and hustled back through the waiting area and outside to the car, with Reacher following behind her.
    “Bizarre,” she said to him. “Did you see those people? In reception?”
    “Exactly,” Reacher replied. “Old people, half-dead.”
    “That’s what Dad looked like, toward the end. Just like that, I’m afraid. And I guess this old Mr. Hobie won’t look any different.