Read Online Two of a Kind by Yona Zeldis McDonough - Free Book Online

birds all over it. “Sweet,” he said, his face splitting into a wide, goofy grin. “Sweet.”
    Oliver trailed Christina and his dad to the door and waited while they said good-bye. Then he started to go back down the hall to his own room, but before he could make his escape, he heard his father’s voice. “Could I see you about something?”
Yeah, whatever,
he was about to reply. But then he turned and went still; no words came out. There, dangling between his father’s two tightly pinched fingers, was his missing bag of weed.

FIVE
    C hristina studied the house—a double-wide brick on Third Street—before mounting the steps. The bricks were pale, almost apricot, and both longer and narrower than the standard issue in the neighborhood. They were beautiful, even historic bricks. But they needed work.
    If she got this job—and it was a big if—she would recommend repointing immediately. She would also address the other signs of neglect, like the big urn by the door, empty save for some weeds, that was peeling in long, curling strips, and the ancient metal trash cans—who even had metal cans anymore?—that were painfully battered.
    It’s a huge job,
Mimi Farnsworth had told her. But a huge job was just what Christina needed, and she was grateful that Mimi had recommended her.
I feel like I owe you, Christina,
she said.
Seriously.
But Mimi’s recommendation, while helpful, was not a guarantee. Christina still had to meet the owners, a wealthy hedge fund manager and his wife, and convince them to hire her.
    Years ago, it was common to see these once-grand houses sink into ruin. Their owners had fled in the frenzy of white flight, and the architectural carcasses left behind had been carved up into apartments or single-room occupancies. Drug deals went down on corners that Christina knew enough to avoid when she was growing up here. There were bands of tough kids, angry, testosterone-juiced boys looking for an excuse to commit some petty crime. The girls who circled them were equally scary, with their thick eyeliner and thicker accents. Some of them went to the parochial school where Christina had been a favorite of the nuns; she knew they resented her exalted position and she kept her distance.
    But things in Park Slope had changed. New money from Manhattan poured in, houses were bought, renovated, their prices shooting up along with their restored facades and fresh coats of plaster. If their house on Carroll Street had been worth what it was worth today, Christina’s father would have sold it immediately and relocated to “the Island,” as he called it; he had never gotten over his longing for the suburban dream of a freestanding dwelling, golf-course green lawn out front and patio with a grill out back.
    The front windows of the Third Street house were open and Christina could hear voices coming from inside. “Stop!” said a woman. “I said no jumping on the sofa!” There was the sound of giggling and then a yelp. “Okay, that’s it! Time-out for both of you!” Christina waited a minute before she rang the bell. “Coming!” called the same woman’s voice. “Coming, coming, coming!” The door was pulled open and there stood Phoebe Haverstick, the woman who had recently inherited this derelict house. “Sorry for making you wait.”
    â€œNot a problem,” said Christina. There were no signs of the children she’d just heard.
    â€œAnyway, please come in. The place is a mess.” Phoebe used a well-muscled forearm to brush the hair from her face. She was a sturdy, athletic-looking sort, with tanned, powerful limbs revealed by her gray shorts and white tank top.
    â€œYes, you’d said your great-aunt hadn’t touched it in what—forty years?”
    â€œMake that fifty,” said Phoebe. “Can I get you something?”
    â€œNothing for now,” said Christina. She followed