Don’t tell me, dear reader, that you don’t have questions. I am present among these, well, society types here at the bar and, let me tell you, I have a few.
Let’s just say the McMurtry’s have not been friendly to me or my family in well over three decades. My family IS real estate in this town – my grandfather, Nate Scott, sold Old Man McMurtry his first property, the same one that Bitsy restored after what I am sure was a devastating fire (or would have been if Bitsy didn’t have McMurtry money with which to play).
The warmth between our two historic broods ended there, I’m afraid. My father, Stanley Scott, and Bitsy’s husband, Carl, nearly came to blows as Dad tried to close a deal on the house next door to the McMurtry’s – a dispute over a small strip of lawn that led to the river’s edge and a makeshift boat slip. In the end, Carl agreed that the new neighbor could claim the patch of lawn and use the boat slip as if it were their own, so things ended well there.
Carl McMurtry’s anger toward my father, however, never waned – not even on his deathbed.
Legend had it that, as he lay dying, he signed an addendum to his will that disallowed any member of the Scott family from representing a seller or buyer of his mansion. (I’ve never seen the paper, of course, but enough people have talked about it with me to make me think that is true.)
Which is why, soon after Bitsy completed the restoration of the home post-fire, I enlisted my colleague, Jessica, to pay her a visit and take her temperature. My thinking, at the time, was that suffering through such an unspeakable tragedy in your home may cause you to think about selling and seeking out greener psychological pastures.
Not our Bitsy.
The garish decor, Jessica reported, reminded her of a recent road trip to Graceland – leather, leopard, and lots of liquor cabinets. But it was Bitsy’s ever-present uncaged cockatiels, Bertrum and Shalom, that made the biggest impression – hopping around the house, onto her shoulder, peeping and chirping and seeking attention.
Certainly Bitsy knows I work with Jessica, so she (likely) knew that was more than a drive-by check-in. And now an invitation to the most exclusive, booziest, non-reading book club in town?
Now I’m suspicious.