The Homewreckers(8)

“You haven’t even told me what kind of show you’re talking about,” Cass said.

“It’ll be called Saving Savannah,” Mo said. “We’ll focus on preservation, and how important it is to a community, to its history, to save these old houses. We’ll follow along as Hattie and you and your crew take an old wreck like this one and bring it back to life.”

Cass turned and pointed at the Victorian. “But not this house?”

“No,” he said succinctly. “The format will be find it, fix it, flip it. This house is too far along in the cycle. And frankly, from the look of things, mistakes have been made here.”

“I never liked this place,” Cass murmured.

“Why’s that?”

“Too big. It’s not our brand. In the past, we’ve stuck to smaller houses.” She waved her hand dismissively. “This thing was too high stakes for me. My idea of gambling is buying a five-dollar scratch-off ticket at the Gas-n’-Go. I couldn’t believe it when Hattie insisted on buying it. Tug didn’t like it either.”

“Then why go ahead with the flip?”

“She had her heart set on it,” Cass said. “In the end, she convinced Tug it was a good deal. I mean, she got it at a good price, I’ll say that, and now we know why. Bad roof, water damage, bad pipes. You name it, this dump has it.”

Mo let that thought sink in. If—no, when—they started taping, the house would need to be smaller, more relatable to viewers like Cass Pelletier. A few problems with a house were okay, preferable actually, because it showed viewers even experts could get things wrong when there were challenges. But for the first season, they’d need a house that was a home run.

He checked his watch. His airport pickup time was only fifteen minutes away. “Will you talk to Hattie? Convince her you guys need to do this show?”

“I can try.”



* * *



Asha was on the phone when Mo strolled into the tiny reception area, but her eyes flicked toward Rebecca’s closed office door. She put her hand over the receiver. “Careful. She’s in a mood.”

“What’s going on?”

Asha shook her head. “I’m supposed to tell you she’s only got fifteen minutes. In fact, I was supposed to cancel your coffee date, but I convinced her to squeeze you in. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

Rebecca was pacing around the office, shouting at someone on the speakerphone.

“No, you listen to me! This is unacceptable. I don’t give a flying fuck about some fucking moratorium on building in the flood zone. Call someone at the state, for God’s sake. Tell them if you don’t get that permit, you’ll have to close down the project. Permanently. Remind them what’s at stake. Just get it done, Byron. Or I’ll fucking find someone who can.”

Mo pulled a chair up to Rebecca’s desk, a sleek white lacquered Art Deco number whose surface was uncharacteristically littered with folders, papers, empty Pellegrino bottles, and half-empty takeout containers.

Rebecca finished the call but kept pacing around the room.

“Assholes!” she muttered, crossing to the desk and sitting down. “I’m surrounded by assholes and incompetents.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My entire Wednesday night lineup is going up in flames.”

The door from the outer office opened and Asha entered, carrying a Lucite tray with two cups of espresso. She set the tray on the console behind the desk and hurried away, shooting Mo a sympathetic look before closing the door again.

“Wednesday?” Mo wrinkled his brow in confusion. “But that’s what, Building Bridgehampton and Buyer’s Remorse, right? And Going Coastal. I thought you were meeting with Krystee and Will’s people yesterday. Drinks and sushi?”

“That was Byron from Bridgehampton on the phone just now. He says the county won’t issue a permit for the swim spa. Someone in the neighborhood narced him out to the code enforcement Nazis, and they’ve totally shut down construction.”

“That sucks,” Mo said, feigning sympathy. Byron Atkinson’s B-Reel Productions was the creator of Building Bridgehampton, and he seemed to have some magical ability to come up with shows that Rebecca adored.

“You haven’t even heard the worst of it,” Rebecca replied. She took a sip of the espresso and paused for dramatic effect.

“Krystee is pregnant. With twins!”

“But that’s great, right? After all that infertility drama last season? Twins should be a huge ratings boost. Not that they need it.”

“It would be a ratings boost. Except that her idiot doctor has put Krystee on immediate enforced bed rest. She’s only at ten weeks! Alan and Shayla wanted to give me the news in person. They’ve shuttered the show.”

“Really? How awful. Can’t they just let Will take over for the rest of the season and do some establishing shots of Krystee on the phone, discussing the house with him?”

“I wish,” Rebecca said. “But let’s face it, Will has the personality of boiled brussels sprouts. We all know Krystee is what puts the sparkle in Going Coastal. Our viewers don’t want to see her staring at her swollen ankles, chewing prenatal vitamins, and knitting baby booties.”