Read Dream House for Free Online Page B

stuff.”
    “No comment,” Zack said, more pleasant than I would have been if he'd had me drive around for over fifteen minutes in the wrong neighborhood.
    “I'm
really
sorry. I thought Edie said John Burroughs.” I didn't volunteer that I'd cut her off as she was about to give me the address. “If Edie asks, tell her you were delayed, okay?”
    He looked at me. “Is this a sibling rivalry thing?”
    “Kind of.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “Of course, if you'd picked me up
earlier
. . .”
    Zack raised a brow in a way I find extremely sexy, like everything else about him. “Shifting the blame?”
    “I figured it was worth a try.”
    He laughed. “Fuggedaboutit.”
    “Not a very rabbinic response.”
    “I'm off duty.”
    I waited for him to open my door and got out of the car, tugging down my short black wool skirt, which had slid up during the ride and exposed an expanse of black-tights-covered thigh. When I looked up, he was gazing at me intently with those killer smoky gray-blue eyes.
    “Why are we here again?” he said, his low, gravelly voice making my heart beat faster.
    If you had told me four months ago that I'd be dating a rabbi, or Zack Abrams, I would have asked you what medication you were on. But here I was, in a three-months-and-going-strong relationship with the high school heartthrob who had dumped me and had reappeared twelve years later—a newer, improved version. Life was good.
    “Kenehoreh,”
I said in an undertone (the compacted form of
keyn ayin horeh
—“Let there be no evil eye”), in case Satan was tempted to screw things up. Which he usually was.
    Zack looked puzzled. “What?”
    “I said, ‘Can we hurry?'” The dark November night hid my pinked cheeks.
    Inside the lobby I picked up a packet of HARP literature and entered a cavernous auditorium chillier than outdoors. I scanned the crowd at the front of the room, huddled around posters on easels. I didn't see Edie. With Zack at my side, I took geisha steps down a sloped aisle in new stiletto-heeled boots that pinched my toes and had felt steadier and more comfortable in the store. When it comes to shoes, I'm like Othello, loving “not wisely but too well.”
    “You wanna see chutzpah?” asked a forty-something man with close-cropped silver hair, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. He took a flyer from the pocket of his black parka and thrust it into my hand. “This is chutzpah.”
    I glanced at the house on the flyer. Nice house.
    “The homeowner's pushing for HARP in Hancock Park, but look at that addition!” The man stabbed at the page. “He's trying to do everything before the area goes HARP. Hypocrite!” He swiveled sharply and tackled someone else.
    People were clustered in threes and fours. I recognized my Larchmont tour guide, talking to a tall, stocky man wearing a brown corduroy jacket. I spotted several yarmulkes and was trying to identify the faces belonging to them when I saw my sister approaching.
    Edie is thirty-four, five years older than I am and four inches shorter. Aside from our brown eyes and highlighted blond hair, originally medium brown (I wear mine long and curly because there's less upkeep; hers is a chin-length bob that she has trimmed once a month), we look nothing alike.
    “You were so late, I thought you weren't coming,” Edie told me after she greeted us and kissed my cheek.
    “My fault,” Zack said.
    Is the guy wonderful, or what?
    “Molly didn't mention that you were interested in HARP,” Edie said, craning her neck to look up at Zack, who at six feet towers over her.
    “I'm not, really. I figured I'd keep Molly company.”
    Edie smiled. “You two seem to be doing lots of that.”
    All that was missing was the wink. “Who are the main players here, Edie?” I asked, to change the subject.
    “Molly says you're living with your parents, Zack. I'm sure you're eager to find a place of your own.”
    “I've seen a few possibilities,” he said. “But I don't want to rush