Summertime Dream (29 page)

Enough borrowing trouble. She scooped up an old batiste nightgown and gave it a sharp shakeout.

Ignoring the men moving around the house was impossible. Drifts and snatches of Eddie’s criticisms and the agent’s placating replies drifted up the stairwells. “AC can be added...purely cosmetic. With some paint...Windows can be replaced, what’s important…The kitchen’s large enough to redesign easily.”

The to-keep stack of hand-made and antique items grew slowly, and the donate pile of clothing grew rapidly, as did the bag of trash.

The agent and Eddie reached the second floor, their footsteps quicker, taking little time viewing the rooms.

“Really, I would need to gut the place.” A sulky undertone filled Eddie’s voice she didn’t remember him having. Well, maybe she’d missed that too. She’d been proven mistaken about him in other things.

“The plaster’s in good shape in most of the rooms and the woodwork is original. It might not be so bad.”

“And this library, it’s too dark. The wood would need to be stripped and bleached or painted to brighten up the space.”

“It’s a unique space and I believe this is the original finish. You want to restore fine woodwork like this with care. I’ve seen too many lovely old homes buried under layers of paint.”

Their footsteps drew closer. Margie contemplated shutting herself in the closet.

The agent poked his head in the room. “Hello, Miss Olsson. This is a grand old room.”

He was being nice, and the situation she was in wasn’t his fault, so she gave him a smile. “This was Mrs. Falk’s bedroom. We believe Mr. Falk had the bedroom opposite.”

The agent grinned. “My wife would probably like that set up, given how often she complains about my snoring.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ed, you might want to take a look at this room. It’s in nice shape, with a very fine marble fireplace mantel.”

Eddie answered from somewhere in the library. “I’ve seen enough of this floor. I want to see the third floor and the tower.”

The agent shrugged. “I’ll be right with you, Ed.”

Margie cleared her throat. “Ah, Mr. Baker? Just so you know, we haven’t finished clearing the third floor yet, so it’s a massive mess up there. Basically used for decades as attic storage.”

“Understood. Emptying an old house like this can be a huge job. I’ll leave you to your work.”

She focused on refolding and packing up the donate pile, failing miserably to ignore the footsteps above. She wanted a cold drink from the kitchen, but she also didn’t want to chance running into Eddie again. Once today was more than enough. She settled for a cup of water from the bathroom.

Then all was quiet. They must be outside walking the property.

A good amount of time passed. She’d emptied the last drawer and was bagging up the last pile of clothing to donate when the agent’s voice drifted through the window. They must be on the side porch.

“It’s a very good deal. The seller is motivated and the asking price is extremely reasonable. You won’t find a property or location like this one very often.”

“I agree the property’s a good investment. But the house...Between the water damage, the termite damage, the wiring, the ancient plumbing, the foundation issues, the painting...All the outbuildings should be bulldozed. It might be cheaper to demolish everything and rebuild.”

“The house needs work, yes, but believe me, Ed, you have a diamond in the rough here. With the acreage you have here, if the property can be subdivided as you envisioned, this house on a smaller, more manageable parcel could be very tempting to someone wanting a restoration project. Or, I have some contractors I could recommend who can do the quality restoration an historic home like this deserves.”

“I agree on the price being reasonable. I want to make an offer.” They faded out of hearing.

This was awful. She stood frozen, listening to the cars start up and leave. No, an offer was good for Christopher. He’d wanted the property to move quickly. But...Eddie? Break up the acreage and maybe destroy the house?

She wanted to call Christopher and tell him he mustn’t sell it to Eddie. She couldn’t let him allow the place to which she had so many dreams and memories attached to be destroyed. If he had to sell, sell it to someone who would love it as she did, someone who would restore it and want it as a home for their family.

But she had no say in any of this. The house wasn’t hers. She couldn’t afford to make the house hers. She had to let go.

Fighting tears, she methodically went floor to floor shutting windows and locked the house. Joe was right. Helping Christopher with the house was ridiculous torture. She was just playing pretend like a child. She needed to face facts, grow up, and move on.

Debi was right. She needed a change.
She
needed to change. She needed to call Christopher and tell him sorry, but she couldn’t help anymore.

Her longing to own the old house was really hanging onto old dreams and a misread need for her own space. She needed a place to build new dreams. On a more modest scale than the Falk House, of course.

Instead of driving home, as she’d first intended, she drove out to Collingswood, hoping the roundtrip drive would give her some good calm-down-and-think-clearly time. She was passing Debi’s apartment complex when the
Units Available
sign caught her eye.

Why not look?

Her visit must have been meant to be. They had the one-bedroom unit available as of the fifteenth, with a small loft space perfect to fit Christopher’s desk and her books, a balcony looking out to the woods, and only two buildings away from Debi. She’d have space and privacy she’d never enjoyed before.

Instead of keeping her hope chest and other belongings stored away in her parents’ attic, she’d finally enjoy using them in her own home. Best of all, the apartment complex allowed pets and had plenty of places for her to walk Penny.

On the days she worked, she could drop Penny at her parents’ home to have the run of the yard. She would make this work.

She needed this change.

After she toured the pool area and green spaces, she returned to the office, filled out the application, and left the deposit so she wouldn’t change her mind. Her family was going to have a conniption. If only they would understand. They had been through this before, in a way, when Eddie and she had been making their plans, and Collingswood was much closer than Dallas. This was different and better. She could work at the restaurant, see her family as often as she liked, and have her space to live and write, and be open to a new future.

This long-distance-relationship thing wasn’t working so well as they had hoped, but her time here with Christopher had been a positive thing. He’d taught her she could move on with her life and love again. She’d hold onto the happy memories he’d given her and the strength he’d helped her find.

She was doing the right thing.

Just, why did moving on have to always hurt so bad?

Chapter Eleven

Christopher stepped through the doorway into the heat and rush hour bustle of LAX. A heavy wave of dejection stopped him in his tracks.

What was he doing here?

His limo driver paused and raised a brow. “Mr. Gordon?”

He gave himself a mental shake and exhaled a huff of breath. “Nothing.”

The traffic and drive back to his apartment seemed worse than usual. Maybe it was just piling Los Angeles traffic on top of New York City traffic and three major airports all in the same day. He’d been working too hard for certain. He’d left his client Gloria Everett happy—she’d already sent him two referrals—but her caffeine-fueled Type A micro-managing had put his patience through the wringer. He couldn’t even face turning on his phone long enough to let Margie know he’d landed.

Welcome silence met him inside his apartment. After pouring himself a stiff scotch, he set to unpacking, moving like an automaton sorting clothes into drawers, closet, and hamper for washing. He needed to drop his suits at the dry cleaner first thing tomorrow morning and see if Jacinta would give him same day turn around. He unloaded his briefcase and computer bag in the office and set the laptop and phone to charge. He should call Margie. He should check his emails.

But he sat there, sipping at his drink, head still throbbing in time with the thrum of the plane’s engines. The loud ticking of the chrome wall clock grated on him. What was he doing here?

Making a mistake.

No. He was where he had to be. He was doing what he needed to do. He was simply beat from work and travel. He’d give himself one evening of quiet, get a decent night’s sleep, and then wake early and start his day on New York time to make up for the evening off.

He turned on the stereo. His CDs shuffled, and a sensual Carlos Santana piece filled the room, instantly flooding his mind with memories of Margie and him wrapped in each other, moving together, and slow hot kisses. No, that wasn’t going to work tonight. He hit pause and studied his rack of music. Only then he couldn’t find an album that didn’t make him think of Margie in one way or another. Giving up, he shut off the stereo.

After he ordered his usual take-out from his favorite Thai restaurant, he sorted the mail Patrice had left stacked on the counter. Three large boxes had also arrived from Mom and sat in a row against the wall. Oh, please, not more
stuff
. She’d been waffling about selling and moving somewhere warmer. She must be on a decluttering kick again. He stacked them beside the filing cabinets in his office. He’d deal with them tomorrow.

He topped off his drink and stopped, staring at the framed group picture on the sideboard taken by Nate two summers ago. A big gathering that year. Nate and Kay, Lloyd and JoAnn, Scott and Patti. Chuck and Pippa. Nate’s sister Callie and her then fiancé Zeke. The singles: himself, Dave, Rich, Trace, Kimmie, Becca, and Jim. They’d had a blast.

Damn, he should have gone to Mohave this year. Then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so sucked into that house, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so mixed up about Margie, wouldn’t have let things go so far. Too far.

He refocused on the couples. He’d never met a guy who loved his wife more than Lloyd loved JoAnn. Nate and Kay weren’t married, but despite their weird long-distance relationship, their deep connection shone. Scott and Patti, the only ones with kids, were still loopy over each other. Callie had finally married Zeke last year. Chuck and Pippa had been a couple the longest of all his friends.

He stepped out onto the balcony, his breath catching on the hot, smoggy, LA-in-August air.

Shit. His tomato plant was a crispy critter. Not just wilted. Dead. Patrice obviously hadn’t stopped in as often as she’d promised. A hard swallow of his drink sent the whisky burning down his tight throat.

He stared into his apartment. Aside from the personal photos, books, and the paintings on the walls, the place looked like any one of untold number of hotel suites he’d stayed in over the years. Why the hell did he live with furniture and art he didn’t like?

Because the furniture came with whatever furnished apartment he rented and the art might make him money someday and added life to the tastefully bland beige walls.

A bitter tang rose in his throat. He swallowed another mouthful of scotch, trying to wash down the unexpected and unwelcome swell of revulsion. He really hated that beige. He hated the black leather sofa and chairs and the iron and glass dining set. He hated the glossy black kitchen cabinets, black granite countertops, elegant halogen lighting, and the brushed steel appliances.

He hated every last detail that had originally sold him on the move-in ready apartment.

Was he nuts? Was he really missing peeling wallpaper, flaking plaster, fussy Victorian and Art Deco antiques, rattling pipes, and worn scratched wood floors?

Yeah.

This realization called for a refill. Getting attached. He’d given up on that. That was the reason he’d never bought a house, never gotten a pet. Never settled down with the right woman.

His closest friends, they were all pretty much the same. All of them on the move. Nate wandered the globe. Dave lived in a camper. Kay traveled half the year. Ari, the consummate jet-setter. Lloyd was the only one who had roots.

Heck, even his tomato plant grew in a pot, rather than a garden bed.

He stepped back into the chill, air-conditioned apartment and wandered as if seeing the space for the first time. Modern, spacious, comfortable, perfect for his occasional business entertaining. In all of the place, outside of his office chair and filing cabinets, he owned exactly three pieces of furniture and they were all antiques.

How had he never realized that before? Unlike his paintings, he’d bought those pieces because they amused him, not for any collectible value. One was the odd-height little handmade table with a single drawer beside the leather recliner, battered and quaint, that he used to set his drink and the laptop mouse on as he watched television. The second was the small maple cabinet with leaded glass doors he used for his liquor decanters and to display his favorite photograph of his parents. The last was the hand-carved mahogany rocker in the bedroom, perfectly formal and ordinary, until you looked closer at the ornate acanthus leaf pattern of the back panel and discovered the ugly little man sticking out his tongue.

His wandering through the apartment brought him back to refill his glass and stand at the balcony slider while he waited for his supper to arrive, staring at the hazy city skyline, the sun hot over the unseen Pacific, and his dead tomato plant.

Yeah, he was going to regret the scotch in the morning. And, yeah, he was an idiot. Margie wouldn’t have let his tomato plant die.

He knew what he had to do.

He walked into his office, scooped up his phone, and tapped on Arthur’s home number in his contact list. He turned on his computer, waiting patiently through the rings and as Arthur’s teen daughter carried the phone to her father, hollering “Hey, Daddy, there’s some guy Christopher-somebody on the phone!” and then explaining she’d had to answer the phone because Mom was at the movies and Daddy was all greasy playing with his car in the garage,
still
, even though it was totally late, and she had to watch her brother
again
.