The kitchen was definitely an improvement over the previous one, but the house was slightly newer construction—about fifteen years old compared to fifty—and Moretti wasn’t as confident in its bones. The central stairway seemed to tilt slightly to one side, and when we checked out the back of the house, he said the gutters had obviously been dumping water right next to the foundation for years, the yard wasn’t graded properly, and I was definitely looking at replacing the roof soon. “They went cheap on those shingles,” he said, shaking his head. “You might get another couple years out of them, but that’s it.”

On our way out, we stopped in the kitchen to say goodbye to the agent, who was doing a crossword puzzle at the table. He wore a cardigan sweater and bow tie, and his name was Moe Kravitz. He was an old-timer, retired from the Post Office, and he’d taken up real estate after his wife died a few years back. Confidentially, he whispered behind one hand, he thought this one was overpriced.

“I think you’re right,” said Moretti, looking over the spec sheet.

Moe looked pleased someone agreed with him. “And what’s your name?” he asked Mariah.

“Mariah Mitchell,” she recited.

“And how old are you?”

“I’m nine.”

“That’s a wonderful age,” he said. He shuffled over to a briefcase on the counter, opened it up and took out a Dum Dum sucker. “Would you like a lollipop?”

Mariah looked at me dutifully. “Can I have it?”

“Sure,” I said, stifling a yawn.

Moe handed it to her, and she thanked him. “You know, there’s a beautiful old house that just came on the market over on Rosebud Lane,” he went on. “I forget who has the listing, but it’s real nice. Needs a little TLC, maybe, but the lot’s terrific and it seems to me the price is right.”

“We’re actually headed there now,” Moretti told him, folding the spec sheet. “It’s Joy Frankel who has that listing.”

Moe nodded enthusiastically. “Yup, yup. That’s it. It was Charlie Frankel who told me about it last week at the Rotary Club meeting. That’s his daughter-in-law.”

“Right.” Moretti caught my eye and jerked his head toward the front door, and I got the message—we had to get out of here, or Moe was going to want to talk forever. He held out his hand. “Thanks for showing us the house, Moe.”

“Oh, sure.” Moe shook Moretti’s hand and then mine, but kept right on talking. “Joy’s the one who won that beautification award from the Historical Society for the work she did on those flower beds out in front of the general store.”

“Is she?” Moretti said absently as he steered Mariah out of the kitchen by the shoulders.

Moe followed us. “Yup. Yup. Fine job she did there. She’s married to Chuckie Frankel. Remember when he hit that home run to win the state tournament back in, ohhh, what was it, seventy-nine or so?”

“Can’t say that I do, but I’ve heard the story.” Moretti pushed the front door open and herded Mariah and me through it. “Well, we should go. I don’t want to leave Joy waiting.”

“Right. Enjoy your afternoon!” Moe stood on the front stoop of the house, waving at us as we got into the car like a grandpa saying farewell after a Sunday visit.

“What a nice old man,” Mariah said from the back seat, tearing the wrapper off her sucker.

“He is, but he’ll gab your ear off,” Moretti said, starting the car. “And I don’t think that’s the house you want.”

“It’s not,” I agreed, yawning again. “I don’t mind some manual labor, but I really don’t want to have to buy a new roof so soon. Or deal with water in the basement. Or a crooked staircase.”

“This next one should be better, at least structurally,” Moretti said. “It’s at the top of your price range because it’s got four bedrooms, more square footage, and it’s on a huge lot, but we can probably get them to come down a little since it needs some cosmetic work. No deck, but like I said, we can build one in a weekend. And it’s definitely far enough away from your mom to avoid unannounced drop-in’s.”

“Not even the moon is that far,” I mumbled.

As we headed west, we passed the elementary school Mariah attended. “That’s my school!” she said.

“Oh yeah? What grade are you in now?” Moretti asked.

“Fourth. Miss Cheyenne teaches kindergarten there too.”

I pictured her there, sitting with her little students on a colorful rug, reading them a story, teaching them to add and subtract, making construction paper turkeys. She was probably a great teacher. I bet the kids adored her.

She was a great kisser too. I propped an elbow on the door and rubbed my thumb along my lower lip, recalling that bourbon-and-pumpkin-pie-flavored kiss last night—her mouth beneath mine, her hands fisted in my shirt, our bodies pressed together. It seemed unreal, like a dream. My eyes drifted shut, and next thing I knew, my head nodded and I jerked myself awake.

“Hey. Everything okay?”

The SUV was stopped at a red light, and Moretti was looking at me. I straightened up in the passenger seat and ran a hand over my hair. “Yeah.”

“You seem kind of out of it today.”

“I’m tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Why not?”

“A lot on my mind, I guess.”

The light turned green, and he focused on the road again. “How about a beer when we’re done?”

“I’m taking Mariah to the movies tonight, but we could go for a beer before dinner. Just have to drop Mariah off at home first and check with my mom.”

“Cool.” Then he squinted, his neck elongating as he pulled up in front of the house for sale and stared out the windshield at a car parked in front of it on the street. “What the . . .” He groaned, long and loud. “No fucking way.”

Mariah gasped in the back seat. “Uncle Enzo, you said a bad word.”

“Sorry, Mariah. It’s just that . . . what the hell is she doing here?”

“Who?” I looked at the charcoal gray Audi in front of us. The license plate read BDR.

“Bianca DeRossi.” Moretti’s tone was venomous.

“Who’s Bianca DeRossi?” Mariah wondered. “She has a fancy name.”

“She’s a real big pain in the”—he stopped himself and reconsidered—“culo.”

“What’s a culo?” Mariah asked.

“Never mind,” I said. “What’s your problem with her?”

Moretti glanced in the back seat. “I’m not sure I can say without using some salty language. Can I swear in Italian?”

“Just give me the highlights. The PG version please.”

Moretti grimaced. “Her family and mine are friends, and she was kind of close to my sister Eva, but she and I have never gotten along.”

“Did we go to school with her?” I asked, trying to recall a Bianca DeRossi.

“No, she went to St. Mary’s,” he said, naming a nearby all-girls Catholic school. “So I only saw her at church or when our families got together.”