"I'm thinking of expanding the business," Jean said as she and Eric walked past the library. The marble lions standing guard seemed to glare disapprovingly at the lime sorbet dripping down her wrist.
       Eric licked his Rocky Road. "Finally going to let me rebrand you?"
       She rolled her eyes. "I've told you, 'home services' is code for all sorts of freaky shit."
       "And as I've told you, it sounds classier than 'housecleaning,' which attracts a broader, richer clientele."
       "Rich people are the freaky ones."
       Eric gave one of his long-suffering sighs but said, "I'll give your info to other agents at the office. There's always an apartment ready to be staged."
       "No. Real-estate agents are high maintenance," she said. "No offense."
       "I would take offense, except I openly acknowledge I have high standards. What other ideas do you have?"
       She sighed. "I don't know, Eric. I've just been doing this for two years. My brain's itchy for something new."
       Jean started cleaning apartments in the first place because it had been a salve for her itchy brain. She liked the work. She set her own hours, chose her own clients. It was meditative, really, popping an edible, scrubbing away at someone else's home. She was good at it. There wasn't a stain she couldn't scrub or a mess she couldn't right. The hours spent cleaning, she was in complete control.
       But lately, it was harder to reach that state of zen. Her mind wandered, traveled to out-of-bounds regions.
       "Is it a cash-flow problem?" Eric said. His attempt at being tactful while still asking if she needed money.
       "No. I have about a year before the insurance money runs out. I just want to find something different. Maybe a little challenging." Was she ready for that?
       Eric slurped his ice cream and said, "Would you be up for something a little unorthodox?"
       "I'm not going to change my mind on 'home services.'"
       He waved his free hand dismissively. "Not that. It's. . . I guess you could call it a different kind of cleaning."
       Jean shot him a look. "I feel like you're about to tell me something awful, like your new mortician boyfriend has a lead on crime scenes."
       "Don't be ridiculous, morticians don't go to crime scenes."
       "Okay. Hoarder, then?"
       "Something like that. Hold up, this is my showing." Eric stopped, and Jean looked up at a gorgeous Neo-Gothic facade, the building's tall windows providing glimpses into lives even her insurance money couldn't afford.
       "I'll give you this," she said. "You do have a talent for picking clients."
       He pulled out his phone. "I'm sending your info to someone I met at Friends of Judy." He caught her look. "Ew, no. He's like 100. Sweet guy, though, total cutie in a grandpa sort of way. He has this amazing brownstone on East 91st Street and wants to sell. I'm obviously the best man for the job, but. . . he needs help getting it ready for market. Outside the usual cleaning scope. Someone with an open mind."
       Definitely a hoarder. "I can handle that."
       "And that's why I know you're the best woman for the job." His phone chirped as he tapped it one last time. "His name's Roger Bardot. Don't ignore his calls. I'm not sure he knows how to text."
       Jean called after Eric as he headed into the building, "I don't really see what this has to do with expanding my business."
       His voice echoed back off the marble hallway. "Open mind, Jean! Open mind."

       The following Tuesday, Jean knocked on the glossy doors of an ivy-covered brownstone in the Upper East Side.
       "Jean? Thank you so much for coming."
       Roger Bardot was a few inches shorter than her, with grey hair, round glasses, and a trim waist. Older, but definitely not 100. He seemed. . . nervous? But then again, Jean had never met him before. Maybe he always wore that slightly pinched expression.
       She followed him through the foyer into an opulently overdone hallway. So many family portraits lined the walls, only hints of gold floral wallpaper showed through.
       "Cool photos," she said.
       "What? Oh, thank you. I barely see them, to be honest. They were my mother's."
       The phantom knife twisted when you least expected it. By now, Jean was deft at pulling it out. "That's nice you have them."
       "Not really. She lived here. As did my grandfather, and his grandfather, and. . ." His hand gesture indicated ongoing generations. "As she would tell you, she's the Bardot who lived in the house longest."
       That explained how he got the place. A home like this must go for at least $20 million, and Roger didn't have the air of someone with that much money. Genteel-poverty rich, not asshole-billionaire rich. "Nice to have so much family history."
       "In some ways." His laugh aimed for carefree but landed on nervous.
       He led her to a small sitting room, its table set with a blue-and-white porcelain tea set. "Would you like tea? I just brewed some Earl Grey."
       She stopped herself from wrinkling her nose. "No, thank you. I'll just get started, if you don't mind."
       "Oh, of course, of course." He paused. "Ms. McCrae, I wanted to ask. . ." Whatever was making Roger nervous, Jean was about to find out. "Do you mind if I stay here, while you. . .?"
       Ah. Embarrassed by the mess. "I'd prefer it, actually. Where do you want me to start?"
       "Well, it's really only the one room. The library."
       Her eyebrows knit together. "In case Eric didn't tell you, I have a flat-rate fee."
       "Of course, yes, that's understandable."
       After studying Roger's expression--earnest, grateful, maybe a little scared?--Jean said, "So where's the library?"

       The silver lining of hauling a Swiffer, cotton rags, gloves, trash bags, wood varnish, and a circa-1980s vacuum up three flights of stairs and down a ridiculously long hallway: it definitely counted as her workout for the week. Jean caught her breath outside the library's mahogany French doors and studied their engravings (mythical creatures, maybe Greek?). She inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. If Roger only wanted her to clean one room, it must be a doozy. With one last exhale, she pushed open the doors.
       It was like stepping into a fairy tale, one with a literate heroine whose love language was books. Chestnut built-ins lined the walls, interrupted only by high windows and an unlit fireplace. There were cozy chairs and perfectly dimmed lamps and even a crystal decanter on a delicate end table.
       "Hot damn," she muttered.
       Jean walked around, taking it in. She ran a finger along the mantelpiece. She studied the Turkish rugs and scanned many rows of leather-bound tomes. Finally, she stood between two plump Chesterfields that framed the fireplace, looked around, and said, "Huh."
       It was immaculate. One of the cleanest rooms she'd ever been in.
       She plopped down in one of the chairs. What was Roger's game? Was there a camera somewhere? Damn it, Eric, she said no freaky shit. . .
       Well. She wasn't going to do any freaky shit. And she did charge a flat-rate fee. She kicked off her sneakers, stretched, and lifted her legs. Her feet were inches from the coffee table when a voice behind her ear hissed, "Don't you dare."
       Jean jumped, her heels landing hard on the table's edge. "Ouch!" She pulled her feet up and rubbed at the sting, looking around. "Hello?"
       "Don't you hello me." The voice--an older woman's--wasn't next to her anymore; it was coming from across the room. "Desecrating my library, and it says hello." An old-fashioned accent, too, almost like Katherine Hepburn.
       "She/her. Not it." Jean didn't know what this game was, but she wasn't playing. "Could you show your face on a monitor or something? It's weird having a conversation with a disembodied voice."
       A loud, horrified gasp came from the fireplace. "How dare you mock my current state?"
       "Your current. . . look, just come out, okay?" Something shimmered in the corner of her vision. "If you want to hang, that's cool, but I'm not consenting to whatever this is."
       "If I want to hang?"
       That shimmer caught Jean's eye again. She blinked twice. Maybe it was just an eye floater. But no, something was there, insubstantial yet there, like rainbows caught in mist. And like mist, she could see through it, could see through the long skirt and corseted waist that were suddenly, definitely there. Jean's jaw dropped as her gaze traveled up the body--because that was definitely a woman's body, what the fuck--and landed on the indignant, furious face just as it materialized.
       "You threaten me?" the ghost said. "Inside my own home?"
       Jean gulped. "I thought it was Roger's home."
       "Roger?" the ghost screeched. "This house will be his over my dead body. And even then, it's mine. Now retrieve your bucket and get out."
       Jean blinked, then said, "Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute."
       "Back? That is not what I--"
       The voice cut off as Jean closed the library doors behind her. She paused, inhaled through the nose, forgot about the exhale, and walked back down the ridiculously long hallway and three flights of stairs until she was through the glossy front doors, blinking in the sunshine.
       Eric answered after two rings.
       "Can I call you back? Ashton just got here, we're headed to the new Spider-Man."
       "What the fuck, Eric?"
       A moment of silence. "Ah. So you've met Roger, then?"
       "Met him and the ghost in his library."
       "Would we call it a ghost? Or is she more of a. . . I don't know, lost soul?"
       "Are you really arguing semantics with me right now?"
       She heard a rustle, then Eric's muffled, "I know, I'm sorry, I'll be right back," followed by footsteps and a shutting door. "You still there?"
       "What, you don't want your boyfriend to know you sent your best friend to a literal haunted house? Think that might create some trust issues?"
       "Hush," Eric snapped. "Look, maybe I should have told you a little more, but I wanted you to have an open mind, and you said you were okay with unorthodox, which I'm pretty sure is the literal definition of a ghost, and as long as that hag is in Roger's library, there's no way I can sell that beautiful, beautiful brownstone."
       "No way you'll. . . Jesus Christ, Eric." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "So the commission is big enough to sell out your friend?"
       "I did not..." A long sigh crossed the line. "Jean, I would never put you in a situation I didn't think you could handle. You said you wanted to expand your business. Challenging, you said. You have all this creativity and generosity and brain, and you're not using it. And I'm not saying what you do isn't important," he hurried on. "You help a lot of people. And Roger? Roger needs help. He's going to spend his last years stuck in that house, and he can't move on. You are maybe the only person I know who can help him do that."
       "Exorcism wasn't actually an elective I took in college."
       "Jean." Eric's voice had softened around the edges. Her chest constricted, protecting her heart. Eric usually spared her that tone. She knew what it meant.
       "You know death. And not in some abstract way. You were there with your mom all the way until the end."
       There, stabbed twice in one day. This time, by a friend, which of course meant the knife scraped bone.
       "I know you don't like bringing it up," Eric continued. "And I know you don't want it to define you. But you've spent years wrestling with death, wrapping your head around it."
        She focused on her inhales. Nose, mouth? Who cared? She just had to prevent the world from caving in. She hated the way it still blindsided her, this grief. Hated the way she moved through this strange, beautiful city, making new memories to cover up painful ones. Hated that certain songs, movies, jokes and smells were off limits. Hated that mentions of mothers triggered a howling, endless dirge. Hated that, for all her years with death, she hadn't figured it out yet.
       "You still with me?"
       Long, slow exhale. "Yes."
       Eric continued in a gentle voice. "I know you wish it would all just go away. But it won't. Your grief is part of you. So what if you started looking at that as a strength? What if you used it to help people?"
       After an embarrassingly audible sniffle, Jean said, "Help you, you mean."
       "Oh for. . ." An aggravated sigh. "I'll refer Roger to another agent, okay? I don't want that to be your excuse for avoiding something that might be good for you."
       One shaking inhale. Exhale through the mouth. She cleared her throat and said, "No. Don't refer him. I do this, I get fifty percent."
       "Fifty--Jean, come on, that's outrageous."
       "You wanna be the fucking Ghostbuster, Eric?"
       A long pause. "Fine. But she has to be gone, gone, okay?"
       She didn't know what that meant, but was pretty sure Eric didn't, either. "It's that big a commission, huh?"
       Eric's sigh contained nothing but longing. "You have no idea."

       She found Roger in the sitting room, drinking another cup of tea. He looked up eagerly. "Finished already?"
       "No. Haven't started." She sat down across from him. "Who is she?"
       He gave her a puzzled look. "My mother, of course. I thought Eric told you?"
       "Not as much as you might think. Why's your mom here?"
       "I told you. She lived here."
       "But she's. . . very dead. Very much a ghost."
       "Well, yes," Roger admitted. "For the past 22 years."
       "Why is the ghost of your dead mother here, Roger?"
       When annoyed, Roger looked remarkably like her. "If I knew that, you wouldn't be here."
       Fair point. She stood. "I'm going to need the tea set."
       He blinked. "What on earth for?"
       "Your mother and I are going to have a little chat."

       Balancing a full tea tray up three flights of stairs was harder than lugging a vintage vacuum. Jean took a moment to collect herself before opening the library doors. "I'm back!"
       "I told you to leave."
       Mrs. Bardot spat the last word out with such force that the teacups rattled. Or maybe that was just Jean's nerves. She set the tray down and switched on the fireplace (summer be damned, ghost stories always had a fire). She made a show of settling into one of the Chesterfields before picking up the teapot and pouring herself a cup. The steam carried notes of bergamot and lavender, Earl Grey's trademark. Even the faintest hint transported Jean to her mother's bedroom, littered with half-drunk cups of tea, bergamot and lavender covering the sickly-sweet smell of a body in decay. She couldn't stand the smell of Earl Grey. But today, somehow, as she breathed in the steam, she felt brave. Capable. Like she had nothing to fear.
       "Here's the problem. Roger hired me to clean this room, and I have a flat-rate fee, so you're stuck with me a little while longer."
       "If you were hired to clean, then what are you doing sitting on my Hunzinger?"
       The voice was close. Jean forced her hands steady and raised her cup. "Look around. There's nothing to clean. It's spotless."
       "Hmm." Could ghosts be smug? Because this one sounded smug. "I do have impeccable standards."
       "I can see that. Do you want tea? I brought two cups."
       The hair on Jean's neck rose as a definite chill came over the room. "I cannot drink tea. I cannot drink anything."
       "I figured. But I've read enough Austen to know tea isn't really about the drink."
       A soft tsk came from the empty chair across from her--and then the chair wasn't empty. As Mrs. Bardot shimmered into existence, she folded her hands and stretched her long neck high. All the better to look down her nose.
       "Well, are you going to serve me or not?"
       As Jean poured a second cup, Mrs. Bardot sniffed. "So Roger's buying his tea from Ferguson's again. I told him just to import something of decent quality."
       Right behind her sternum, Jean felt a spark of curiosity. Which in itself was curious. She hadn't felt that in a while. "You can smell?"
       "Of course. Scent is the one sense that remains to those of us in the spirit realm."
       "Of course. Common knowledge. So are you, like. . . stuck? In the spirit realm?"
       Mrs. Bardot's gaze snapped from the tea to Jean's face. "Absolutely not. I'm a good Christian woman with a substantial heavenly reward waiting for me."
       "Then why are you still here?"
       Another sniff, this one definitely for show. "I should have thought that obvious. You've met my son. Completely incompetent. Can't even purchase tea properly. You know, he almost lost his entire inheritance in some scheme in the 1980s? Thank heavens I was here. And here I shall remain. Roger cannot be trusted to manage Nash Estate."
       Jean frowned. "What's Nash Estate?"
       Mrs. Bardot drew in her breath sharply. Jean had to give it to her, the woman had a knack for the dramatic. "Only one of the oldest homes in Manhattan. The envy of the Four Hundred. Designed by John Nash for the Bardot family following the Civil War. Everyone in this God-forsaken city knows that. Except, somehow, you, who sit within its hallowed halls."
       There were a million questions Jean wanted to ask, but instead she said, "That explains it then. I'm new to New York. Well, newish. Moved two years ago."
       "A blessing for our city, obviously. And what inspired you to join our unwashed masses?"
       "My mom died."
       "Oh." The haughty expression dropped, and for a moment Jean glimpsed Roger in his mother's face. "Well. The loss of a parent certainly causes tremors in one's life. You aren't the first young woman lured to the city by hopes of a job, nowhere else to go." She raised a hand to her chest as if it was all too much to bear.
       "That's not what happened. Mom had a big life insurance policy. Big. I was so pissed when she bought it. Told her it was a scam. She got a laugh about that, in the end." Even a death rattle couldn't stop her mom's laugh. "I always wanted to live in New York, so. . ." Jean shrugged. "I sold her place, and here I am."
       Mrs. Bardot's hand dropped. "You abandoned your family home?"
       "'Abandoned' seems strong." Besides, it wasn't home anymore.
       Mrs. Bardot shook her head. "I know this story. Hubris and youth. Afraid of your history, your heritage. Or worse, you simply don't care." She looked wistfully about the room. "If Roger had his way, it would be our story. If he had more conviction, he would rise to the occasion and preserve the Bardot legacy. But no. He is perfectly content being the last of his name."
       "I'm not following."
       Mrs. Bardot gave a withering look. "He has yet to produce an heir. I shouldn't have to explain this to you; you're obviously an experienced woman."
       Jean decided to ignore that last remark. "He's gay, you know."
       "And homosexuals can't reproduce? Please. He wouldn't be the first to perform an unsavory act for the greater good. Not even the first in this family. Even in that, he's unoriginal."
       "So you stuck around because you don't have a grandkid?" That was world-class spite.
       Mrs. Bardot's eyes swiveled up and back until Jean could only see white, which is how she learned it is very disconcerting when a ghost rolls its eyes. "It's not about me. Nash Estate has never been without a Bardot. Wars, crises, scandals--we have weathered it all, here. Roger may be determined to be the last Bardot, but I. . ." She straightened her nonexistent spine. "I will not be the last Bardot to live in this house."
       A cloud moved outside, and sunlight streamed in through the high windows, lighting up dust motes that floated through Mrs. Bardot.
       "But that's the thing. You don't live here. You're. . . look, I don't know how you're talking right now, or even here, but it seems pretty clear you're dead. There's nothing you can do. Everything happening here, it's out of your control."
       Even though Jean had been talking to a ghost--serving it tea, even--that fact hadn't really sunk in. It was easy to pretend the person across from you was more-or-less flesh-and-blood when they looked human. But now Mrs. Bardot bristled--literally, Jean watched as bristles erupted from her knuckles and collarbone--and her neck lengthened, and her shoulders stretched, and suddenly something very, very not human was looking a long way down its nose at Jean.
       "Out of my control?" That couldn't be Mrs. Bardot's voice. It was cold wind scattering November leaves. "I have seen things you couldn't dream in nightmares. I have traveled places you pray you'll never know. You cannot comprehend the webs that connect past to present to future. Your body is an earthworm away from rot, Jean McCrae. Never underestimate the power of death."
       Looking up at the ethereal form towering above, Jean understood why people feared ghosts. Something primal tickled her brain, screamed at her to run out of this room and never look back. But then something caught her eye--a rainbow. Many rainbows, actually, rays of sun refracting off whatever it was that gave ghosts their physical form. She couldn't look away from this bristling, snarling, pearlescent being. It was terrible, and it was beautiful.
       She remembered Eric's words: "You're the right person for this job." Jean knew death. Or she thought she had. But here was something new, something she hadn't encountered before. Her heart thumped, but not from fear. It was the little spark in her chest, catching and lighting into an old, forgotten flame. Interest. Curiosity. Genuine joy and gratitude for the unexplained and the unexpected.
       To her surprise, she laughed. Which was not a good thing to do in front of an angry ghost.
       A screech erupted from its too-long jaw. "You mock me?"
       Jean looked up. "Not at all. I would never underestimate death, Mrs. Bardot. I was there, right after my mom got her diagnosis. I was there the whole time. Did everything I could to fight it. The best doctors, special diets, trial drugs. None of it worked. I did everything I could, everything I was supposed to do, and the worst still happened."
       "What do I care of this?" the ghost hissed.
       "You did what was expected of you, Mrs. Bardot. Played by the rules. I can tell. We're kindred spirits in that way. It took me a long time to learn that doing all the 'right' things doesn't guarantee a happy ending. You can't control life."
       "Spoken like a person with no conviction or character," Mrs. Bardot spat. But Jean noticed her bristles retracting, her neck shrinking. She forced herself to look into the still-glowing eyes.
        "You can't stop this, Mrs. Bardot. It's happening. You can fight it, and maybe lose yourself in the process." She thought of the missing months that followed her mom's death, the sucking black hole that left only fragments of memory and a bone-deep ache. "Or you can accept that the only thing we control is how we move through this world while we're still in it."
       "I am in it." Mrs. Bardot's voice had taken on a petulant tone, and Jean watched the last of the bristles recede into her collarbone.
       "Sort of. You can't even drink tea." Jean reached for her cup and inhaled the steam. For the first time in years, she didn't mind the smell. "And it's very good tea."
       Mrs. Bardot's gaze darted toward her untouched cup. "Perhaps Roger did have it imported."
       Jean considered her next words carefully. "He may be the last of his bloodline, but he's still your son."
       "He's not the last of his bloodline."
       Jean blinked. Hard. "But you said. . ."
       "You misheard. I said he's the last of his name. Not the bloodline, thank heavens. There's a cousin, the only child of my husband's youngest sister. Last I heard, she was living in Poughkeepsie, of all places." Her whole figure shuddered.
        "So why doesn't the cousin get the house?"
       "Because she's not a Bardot. The sister married a Johnston." She added sotto voce, "Did you ever hear such a common name? Probably Irish, too."
        "You're telling me you've been haunting this house for 22 years because you can't get over a name?" Of all the absurdities of this day, this was the one that pushed Jean over the edge. She stood up.
       "What are you doing?" Mrs. Bardot said.
       "Getting Roger. One way or another, this gets settled today."

       Roger had moved on to Oreos. Half a package sat on the table, and a few chocolate crumbs danced off his chin as he looked up at Jean. "How'd it go?"
       "Great. Come see."
       Outside the library, Roger reached out and touched her elbow. "Jean. I really can't thank you enough."
       "Don't thank me yet." Before he could respond, she opened the doors.
       The screech came immediately. "Roger, how could you let this woman waltz into our home and attempt to upend generations of tradition and legacy?"
       Roger turned to Jean, a horrified expression on his face. "I thought you said she was gone?"
       "You misheard. We've made progress, though. Haven't we, Mrs. Bardot?" She shouted the last part because Mrs. Bardot's ghost was zipping amongst the chandeliers in what could only be described as a fit.
       Roger's gaze followed the spectral form. "It doesn't seem like it."
       "She's just a little worked up. We were talking about your cousin in Poughkeepsie."
       "Carol? What on earth for?"
       "I think she's your ticket out of here." Jean looked up at the ceiling. "Mrs. Bardot, this really isn't befitting a woman your age."
       Mrs. Bardot whooshed by, rattling the teacups. "Should you ever reach my age, you too will have earned the right to behave however you damn please."
       "Fair. Would you please come down? I was hoping the three of us could talk over tea."
       Roger whispered, "She can't drink."
       "I know I can't drink, Roger." Mrs. Bardot shimmered down the wall and materialized in the Chesterfield. "Don't you know tea is about more than the drink?"
       It took three cups, a trip downstairs for Oreos, and ten more minutes cajoling Mrs. Bardot out of the chandeliers, but Jean finally brokered a deal. Nash Estate would be legally entrusted to Carol (so much for 50% commission--Jean made a mental note to get Eric condolence champagne), with the understanding that she would name her first child Bardot. ("I don't know if Carol will be happy about that," Roger muttered. "Worry about it later," Jean whispered back.) As for his mother. . .
       "This does mean, Mrs. Bardot, that you'll need to. . . move on."
       The woman stiffened in her chair. "What on earth do you mean?"
       "Carol's never going to agree to move into a haunted house. No offense, but that's what Nash Estate currently is. If you truly want to preserve the Bardot legacy. . . you'll need to trust the living Bardots with it."
       Jean saw a few bristles pop out of Mrs. Bardot's corset, and she braced herself for the coming battle. Then something in Mrs. Bardot's shoulders shifted, and she grew a little more transparent as she said, "I have been feeling rather tired."
       "22 years is a long time to wait."
       They watched as Mrs. Bardot swirled and shifted like a ripple of water. Finally, she said, "Alright. If you guarantee the estate will pass to Bardot. . . Johnston. I agree."
       Jean looked at Roger. "You can handle that?"
       He nodded so quickly his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose.
       "Great." Jean stood, picking up the tea tray. "Then I'm going to let you two talk. Mrs. Bardot. . ." She stopped, unsure what to say to someone about to take the biggest journey of their life. Best to keep it simple. "Safe travels."
       "What?" Roger jumped up and rushed after her. "There's nothing more for us to talk about, is there? It's done."
       "Yes, it is." Jean turned toward him. "And this is going to be the last conversation you have with your mom."
       Roger's mouth opened, and whatever he'd been about to say reshaped into a soft, "Oh." He glanced back toward the chair where the remains of his mother sat. "I didn't. . . I didn't really think of it that way."
       If Jean hadn't been balancing a tea tray, she would've been tempted to give the man a hug. Instead, she said, "Take your time. Not everyone gets that chance."
       She latched the doors quietly behind her. She thought about waiting for Roger, but there was no need. Her work here was done.

       "We really need to get you into negotiation classes. Then next time you won't leave obscene amounts of money on the table."
       Jean chuckled as Eric poured her another glass of champagne. "You're assuming there's a 'next time'?"
       Eric plopped down on the couch beside her. "I have something for you." He handed her a small cardboard box. Inside was a stack of black business cards with raised serif lettering:

       "These are impossible to read," Jean said.
       "They're classy. It's part of your rebrand."
       "What on earth is a metaphysical cleaning agency?" Jean flipped the card over. "And why is your email on the back?"
       "Your niche market, and because it's a partnership. Consider me your broker."
       Jean raised an eyebrow. "This sounds like a bigger expansion than I had in mind."
       "I think the words you're looking for are, 'Thank you, Eric.'"
       Jean leaned into his hug. "Thank you, Eric." She looked back at the card. "So what's next?"
       He sipped his champagne. "I have a line on an absolutely stunning loft in SoHo. Wait 'til you see it."
       "Uh-huh. And what 'cleaning' does it need, exactly?
        She didn't like the gleam in his eye. "Hypothetically. . . how do you feel about twins?"