It Started with a House... (5 page)

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?”

“Yes. Well, except for the one bedroom.” Marshall drew a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and took two fat goblets from the buffet. “I'll call a charity and donate her clothes—unless you know of someone who could use them around here?”

“I do. There's a church-operated store in town that would welcome the donation. I'll get you the number.”

“Thanks.” With minimal physical effort, he uncorked the wine.

His unwillingness to speak Cynthia's name brought her reticence about Adam back to mind. “I didn't follow my own advice with Adam's things,” she blurted out. “I brought them down to a charity in Tyler. I was afraid I'd be driving down the street here one day and see his favorite shirt or jacket.”

“I won't have that problem,” he said, pouring the first drops of wine into his glass, then filling hers one-third full. “As you saw for yourself, Cyn never veered from the same style thing that she'd worn through college—jeans, Dockers, T-shirts and sweatshirts. Her things will blend in fine here.”

Genevieve nodded. “I remember her saying that she'd been a tomboy and athletic. I suppose comfort was her chief motivation later.”

“That and doing her best to discourage any sexual interest I might have in her.”

“Oh, Marshall.” There didn't seem to be anything she could say that wasn't going to trigger pain, and maybe even bitterness in him. That was never her intention.

“Sorry.” He held out her glass to her. “I did understand, even though I didn't always handle things well.”

“I could see you did—and cared. And from what I could tell, you were very attentive and gentle with her.” Genevieve set her keys on the counter and accepted the goblet. She'd left her purse in the car to give him another sign that she was serious about not staying but a few minutes. “Okay, subject change—are you going to give me a tour? It sounds like you really pushed it.”

“Wait until you see.” Although he touched his glass to hers, there was a hint of mockery or self-deprecation in his voice. “But first, tell me more about your day. Do you realize how long it's been since I had an intelligent conversation? Of course you do—you were it!”

After an initial sip of her wine, Genevieve was about to point out that she could hear the TV on somewhere and knew he had a satellite dish hooked up, but then again that wasn't a conversation, that was all one-sided. “Well, we gained two new residents today,” she told him. “A dentist and a nurse, both from Dallas.”

“Are they a couple?”

“No, each has a spouse.”

“Having professionals moving in is a good sign.”

“It is. Our dentist, Dr. Harvey, is retiring and selling his practice to a young doctor. Tim Petrie. Unless you keep your Dallas doctor, you'll probably meet him sooner or later. He and his wife are energetic and enjoy canoeing.”

“Are they here on the lake?”

“Interestingly, no. In town about three blocks from his office. They bought a historical home. Mrs. Petrie's other interest is antiques and restorations.”

“I remember seeing it. I liked it myself, but three stories wasn't practical for us. So you've saved a local bit of history from further deterioration, as well. That should provide some job satisfaction.”

“I liken it to the pebble-skipping-across-calm-water metaphor. The ripples expand and sometimes merge. You get to see lives touching lives here.”

“Well put. Unlike in the vast sea of Dallas where a pebble vanishes amid all the other frenetic motion going on,” he drawled.

“Okay, you got me. I'm prejudiced.” Smiling, Genevieve lifted her glass. It was a lovely cabernet that he'd briefly cooled to perfection. “This is sheer bliss,” she said after a second sip.

“It is now.”

Those three words cast them back to where they'd been the other day when she'd pulled away from his kiss and her own temptation and fled, stunned and in conflict with the emotions he'd stirred in her. Fighting that new magnetic pull, she gestured toward the dark living room. “Show me what you've accomplished.”

“If you insist, although you might want to delay another taste of the wine,” he said, maneuvering around her to turn on the ceiling lights.

It took Genevieve only a second to realize what he'd done and burst into laughter before she clapped her free hand over her mouth.

“Aha,” she said once she'd recovered. “So this is the other kind of ‘unpacked.'”

Everything was piled on every table surface available as though for an estate sale—lamps, accent pieces, books and collectibles. Even the couches and chairs were
loaded. Carpets were unrolled, but piled knee-high in the middle of the room. Paintings were lined against the walls and windows like suspects in a police lineup.

His dark blue eyes twinkling, Marshall replied, “I warned you that I didn't know what to do with all of this.”

“Well, actually, this isn't as bad as you may have wanted it to look. At least this way you can see what you have to work with.” She cast him a skeptical sidelong glance. “But what does the garage area look like—a fire hazard?”

“The Dallas Mavericks could stand shoulder-to-shoulder and you couldn't find them in that paper-and-cardboard mountain.”

Genevieve believed it was that bad. The movers had done a good job because much of the Roarks' artwork looked to be pieces with a provenance—or at least limited-number prints. “A recycling truck stops at the city hall the first Saturday of every month. They collect bundled newspapers, magazines and cardboard, bagged paper products,” she recited, “plastic bottles and aluminum cans.”

“That's probably a smarter plan than buying someone's decrepit barge and creating my own Viking pyre on the lake.”

This was her first glimpse of his sense of humor and Genevieve was charmed. “No doubt, Beau Stanton would have been inspired to write a song, and you'd certainly become a hero to the kids around here.” She began to navigate her way through the clutter so she could get a closer look at what he had. “You like landscapes. I should have guessed that from your earth tones in the furniture
and linens. These are wonderful. The windows bring the outdoors inside, and this artwork will continue that.”

“Well, once upon a time I liked to camp and hike, but the more breathing problems Cyn developed, the less opportunity there was for that.”

“I suspect that the businesses must have kept you busier and busier, too,” Genevieve said. She would hate it if he let himself see Cynthia as the cause for everything he'd had to give up. But as soon as she met his gaze, she knew he was onto her.

“There was that,” he said. “It was right when we knew her full diagnosis that I got the buyout offer and recognized it as the opportunity to use what time was left to take life slower.”

His shrug suggested those good intentions were too late, and when he lifted his glass, he drank the wine as though it was scotch.

Genevieve appreciated his forthrightness, but not that it was coming at such a price, and she did her best to once again focus on the art. “I would put those two black-and-white photos of the mist-drenched forest in your bathroom,” she said, pointing to the framed pieces a few feet away. “With the silvery-green wallpaper in there and your brown-and-green towels, they'll add the perfect ambiance, especially after a shower when the room is foggy.”