Helen Myers - It Started with a House....

“In that case, I’m with you—release them.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Raenne is on her way back from her viewing.”

Relieved, Genevieve asked, “Did she hint at how it went?”

“The buyers are following her in to fill out a contract.”

“Wonderful.” Genevieve knew better than to assume anything before it happened, but she was proud of Raenne and grateful for the good news for the agency. “That one would make a nice ‘sold’ announcement in our newspaper ad next week.”

“I thought you’d want to do that. Some of our rural clients are getting so depressed with the slow market.” Avery retrieved her printout from Genevieve’s desk. “I’ll make this call before I head out to meet my afternoon appointment.”

“Good luck with them. I know they’re wearing you out, too.”

“It hasn’t been my easiest account, but I have a good feeling about this house I’m showing them today.”

No sooner did Avery leave then Genevieve’s BlackBerry started playing Beethoven’s infamous Fifth. That immediately informed her that the caller was her mother. “Mother, unless Bart has run off with Dorothy,” she said referring to her mother’s full-time housekeeper, “I don’t have time for this.”

Sydney Sawyer clucked in exasperation. “That’s not remotely amusing, Gigi, and why is it that you can eke out an hour here and five there for everyone but me?”

Her earlier suspicions about being watched confirmed, Genevieve said wryly, “Could be because you’re a notorious busybody and you’re not interested in attention from me, you only want to fish for more information about Marshall Roark.”

“For your information,” her mother replied with maximum hauteur, “I was merely going to ask if he was officially settled in and would be staying around for a while? I’d like Dorothy to bring over a casserole and pie. He must be thinking we’re all barbarians what with our lack of neighborly concern.”

“Mother, are you about to write a flashback scene? Because you’re sounding dangerously close to a conniving Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.”

“Obviously, all of this extra responsibility is taking a toll on your poor nerves,” Sydney replied.

Genevieve was minimally apologetic. “That and constant interruptions since I’ve returned to the office. Just leave the man alone. The movers have barely left and he’s been through enough for a few days. And don’t even think of casting him in one of your stories. That’s not an empty threat. I’ve already warned him about you.”

“You what?” Recovering, Sidney summoned regal disdain. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t possibly. I’m booked three years out. By then I may be too old to do more than watch Bart fondle his cigar collection.”

“Let him fondle. When his doctor warned him that his heart couldn’t take many more smokes, it was a blow to his ego.” Her mother’s self-pitying forecasting had Genevieve massaging her brow. “At any rate, in three years, you’ll still be too young to collect social security.”

“Finally, a compliment from my own flesh and blood. Now why on earth did you stay over at his house for so long?”

“I reminded you the other day. I’d agreed to supervise the movers.”

“I mean after they left.”

Had she used a stopwatch, for pity’s sake? “Marshall asked for decorating input.” Genevieve figured she might as well get that out there; otherwise she would be accused of hiding something if she was spotted back there again—not that she was convinced that would be a good idea.

Her mother’s opinion was immediately clear.

“You can’t be serious? He can afford the best in the business. You’re a real estate broker, not Martha Stewart.”

“And, unlike Martha, obviously a one-dimensional human being.”

“Oh, don’t be so thin-skinned, dear,” Sydney replied. “You know I adore what you’ve done with your house—and the input you gave me on mine for that matter—but am I wrong?”

“No, mother. However, professionals need and want to use their clients’ names for publicity. Could you conceive that Marshall doesn’t want it advertised and blabbed everywhere about where he’s living and what he’s spending?”

“He has to meet new people at some point. He is planning to stay, isn’t he?”

Her mother never lingered on a subject that didn’t feel immediately profitable to her. “Mother, I have to return no less than seven phone calls. Was there something specific that you needed?”

“Just let me know when you plan another trip over there,” Sydney replied. “I’ll help you. This way we’ll get introductions out of the way, and I can deliver the food, too.”

“I haven’t committed myself, but if I do I’ll think about it,” Genevieve replied and disconnected. Introducing Sydney to Marshall? It would, she thought, be less painful to step in front of a runaway semi.

Genevieve didn’t call her mother back that day, or the next. She didn’t call Marshall, either. But on Saturday evening, once the rest of the office had long gone home and it was almost dark, she knew to delay things any longer would be unfair as well as rude, and she rang him.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he began, probably thanks to caller ID.

“I’m sorry. It’s been—”

“I can imagine.”

Genevieve hesitated, wondering if he was being sympathetic or suspecting that she was handing him a line and wanted her to move on to her reason for finally deigning to call. “Is it too late for me to stop by?” she asked.

“Come on over.”

Dusk had turned into night by the time she pulled into Marshall’s driveway and a quick glance toward her mother’s house told her that the upstairs office lights were off. Hopefully, Bart had insisted on going out somewhere. He was twice the social butterfly that her mother was and the couple had an agreement that Sydney not work on weekends.

Marshall stood in the open doorway as she came up the sidewalk. In the glow of the dangling light fixture, she could see that his lips were curved in welcome, but his gaze was definitely gauging her mood and body language. This was the last real summer weekend before the Labor Day weekend and she’d had two closings, a showing and a contract to process today. She didn’t have to pretend to be tired, but she had apparently held up well enough.

As she entered, he leaned over to kiss her cheek and said, “You look wonderful.”

She’d worn a favorite white suit because it was her last chance for the season—at least by fashionista standards. “My aching feet disagree.”

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he said as he closed the door behind her. He gestured to his own bare feet. “As you can see I am.”

Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, he did look ultra-casual, but his understated attire did nothing to mute his physical appeal. It was as though all of the energy in the universe was working in tandem to force her to stay aware of that.

“The problem is that if I took off these heels, I might never get them on again.” Although that was the truth, it was only half of it. “I can’t stay,” she added quietly.

“Somehow I knew you would say something like that. At least join me in a glass of wine,” Marshall replied. “I’d just finished unpacking the last box and showered when you called. I have muscles demanding relief.”

She’d noticed that his hair was still somewhat damp. Thinking a drink would also help her say what she had to say, she accepted. As she followed him, she noted the only lights on were in the kitchen, and those were the accent ones above the cabinets. It made their environment more intimate, yet provided enough illumination for him to work.

“Did you really finished unpacking?” she asked, eyeing the bare counters that she’d left stacked two and three boxes high. Now there was only a toaster, a coffeemaker and a paper towel stand. “Everything?”