“There are three partners, you said?”
Daphne nodded. “Three male partners, the youngest of whom is in his late fifties. I’m going to fit right in,” she concluded with a dry laugh.
“Obviously they think you will,” Brad pointed out. “Partnership decisions aren’t made frivolously. I’d give my eye teeth to be offered a partnership at my company.”
“I’m sure you will,” Daphne told him. “Maybe even before you start losing your teeth.” She took some small pleasure in the thought that, even though Brad had fantastic looks, affluence, and beautiful women like Phyllis fawning all over him, he didn’t have a partnership offer—and Daphne did.
Brad accepted her mild teasing without complaint. “Okay. I want to hear all the details. What did the guy say when he called you?”
Daphne smiled. She couldn’t imagine Phyllis and Andrea grilling her about the minutiae of her conversation with Bob. Yet Brad’s interested in her success didn’t seem forced. Once more, she realized how right it was for her to have shared her news with him first, rather than anyone else. “Bob asked me to drive over to the Montclair office to discuss some important business. I went over, and there were all three partners. Mr. Hayes—Gerald—had a heart attack a few months ago, and all the office managers had been informed that he was thinking about retiring. Well, the three of them told me they’d talked it over and decided that they wanted me to take his place. I’m still kind of stunned,” she admitted.
“How are the finances going to work out?” Brad asked.
His question caused her smile to fade slightly. That the company was successful was what made the partnership worth having—but it also made buying in expensive. Daphne had resolved that she wouldn’t even think about how she was going to buy Gerald Hayes out until tomorrow. Today, all she wanted to do was savor the idea of it, to wrap herself up in the excitement of it.
“I haven’t crunched the numbers yet,” she said vaguely. “I’ll probably have to take out a loan, but I’ll figure out a way to pay for it, somehow.”
“I’m thrilled for you, Daff,” Brad murmured, weaving from lane to lane as he approached the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel. “What have you got planned for tonight? How are you going to celebrate?”
The car entered the cave-like darkness of the tunnel. Daphne squinted until her eyes adjusted to the murky yellow lights lining the tunnel. They illuminated Brad’s face in a flickering amber pulse. Somehow, in this dark, echoing world, she found herself thinking again of the swift, reflexive hug he’d given her, and the graze of his lips across her cheek. It wasn’t love she was thinking about, but something else, something akin to celebration.
When Brad had kissed her eight years ago, the occasion had called for whatever was the exact opposite of celebration. Mourning? she wondered. Misery? She ought to associate erotic thoughts of Brad with that dismal incident.
She ought to avoid having any erotic thoughts of Brad altogether. Surely he hadn’t had any erotic thoughts of her when he’d hugged her. Just because the strobe-like yellow lights kept throwing his face into stark relief didn’t mean Daphne had to respond to his striking handsomeness.
“I haven’t really thought about celebrating,” she said, realizing that he was waiting for an answer. “I guess when I get home from work, I’ll break open a bottle of apple juice and live it up. Maybe I’ll even whistle some more.”
Brad pretended to yawn. “You’re really aiming to break a few laws, aren’t you,” he teased. The car emerged into the glaring daylight on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, and Daphne squinted again. “I’ve got a better idea,” he suggested, cruising around the ramp to the highway.
“Better than apple juice and whistling?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Daphne said.
“If I had to, I wouldn’t want to. How about it, Daff? We’ll check out the house one last time and then stuff our faces.” He shot her a swift look, then turned back to the road and grinned. “Let’s go someplace fattening. Do you like Italian food?”
Daphne loved it. She also avoided it whenever possible. “If I merely whisper the word pasta I gain three pounds. Oh, no!” she moaned, pressing her hands against her abdomen. “I said it! I can already feel my weight ballooning.”
“That settles it,” Brad said. “Spaghetti, garlic bread, and tiramisu for dessert. You could use a couple of pounds.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
Brad shot her another brief look, then laughed confidently. Daphne could tell, from reading his resolute expression, that her waistline was doomed.
A half hour later, they arrived at the house. It was deserted; the owner had been transferred to Boston, and he’d had to move before he could sell the place. Since it was her listing, though, Daphne made sure the property was well tended. She’d hired a landscaping company to keep the grass trimmed, the shrubs pruned and the beds mulched, and she’d placed a few lamps on timers inside the house so it wouldn’t look dark and abandoned at night.
Brad waited for her to unlock the front door, and they entered together. She lingered in the entry, allowing him to wander through the first-floor rooms by himself.
He ambled through the living and dining rooms before disappearing into the kitchen. Daphne was able to follow his footsteps. his long legs carrying him to the sink, to the stove, to the back door and out to the porch. Even though her eyes were on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, her mind focused on a picture of the tailored slacks Brad had on, the dress shirt with the rolled-up sleeves, the loosened necktie. The strong arms that had nearly lifted her off her feet in his enthusiasm. The dimpled smile, the even white teeth. The striking blue of his eyes gazing at her.
She had always known that he was attractive; she’d always agreed with Phyllis that he wasn’t the sort of man you’d kick out for eating crackers in bed. But why, when she and Brad had finally made their peace with that ghastly encounter in their past, did Daphne suddenly discover herself thinking of how desirable he was, and how exciting it would be for such a desirable man to think of her as something other than a sister?
Maybe she ought to start whistling again.
She was halfway through the Star-Spangled Banner, and well beyond the paltry one-octave range of her whistle, when Brad returned to the entry. “That’s it for down here,” he said.
“Let’s go upstairs,”
She would have let him go upstairs himself, but it was obvious that he wanted her with him. She led him up the stairway to the second floor.
“What’s the asking price?” Brad asked as they ascended, even though he knew damned well what it was. He’d visited the house several times already, and he had the brochure she’d printed out for him.
“Five hundred fifty-nine nine.”
Brad followed her into the master bedroom. Like the two smaller bedrooms, it was built under the eaves, with the ceiling sloping on either side of the full-shed dormer. Only at the edges of the room did Brad have to bend to prevent himself from bumping his head. “How much play is there in that price?” he inquired.
Daphne knew this routine well. It came with almost every purchase of a house, and she enjoyed the give and take of the negotiations. She viewed them as a cross between chess and poker—mostly skill, but with a varying amount of luck and bluff involved. “What are you thinking of offering?” she asked.
Brad peered out the side window. “Five-thirty?” he suggested.
“Try a lower starting offer,” Daphne counselled him. “I think you could get it for under five-forty. Offer five-twenty.”
“I’ve got to get back to Seattle,” Brad pointed out, spinning around. “I’m supposed to be back there next week. I don’t have time to play games. I want to settle this thing fast.”
“I’ll negotiate on your behalf,” said Daphne. “I’m your broker, Brad. If you’re sure in your mind that this is the house you want, I’ll get it for you at the lowest price I can.”
“But you’re his broker, too,” Brad noted. “Whose interests are you going to be representing in the negotiation, his or mine?”
“Both,” Daphne assured him. “He’s got a valuable property here, but he’s paying two mortgages and he’s anxious to get rid of one of them. He’ll get a fair price, and so will you. Trust me.”
Brad leaned his hips against the window sill and scrutinized her. His smile spread slowly across his face, lazy and dimpled, and he folded his arms over his chest. “Do you really think I should trust you? You’re a hot-shot wheeler-dealer. A bunch of old white farts don’t invite just any thirty-year-old woman to become a partner. They invite the sharpest, shrewdest person they can get their hands on. Maybe I shouldn’t trust you at all.”
Daphne knew Brad was testing her, but she appreciated the humor in his tone. “You’ve got to trust me,” she reminded him. “We’re friends.”
Brad mulled that over, then nodded. “I suppose if you can’t trust your friends, you’re in pretty bad shape.” He shoved away from the sill and slammed his head into the angled ceiling. “Ow!”
Daphne tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. “If you really want to live here, Brad, you’re going to have to watch your step.”
He grunted and rubbed the crown of his head. “Tell me about it.”
She pushed his hand away, wove her fingertips through the soft dark strands of his hair and felt carefully along his skull in search of a lump. “Are you seeing stars?” she asked solicitously. “Double-vision?”
“If you’re asking me whether I’ve given myself a concussion, I think the answer is no,” Brad said, tilting his head to accomodate her gently probing hand. “But if you want to pretend I’m seriously injured so you can pamper me, be my guest. I’ll start with a stiff drink, and then maybe a hot bath.”
“If I found a bump, I’d bring you an ice pack,” Daphne said briskly, pulling away her hand. “That’s about the limit of my nursing talent. I’m not very good at pampering people.”
“You definitely don’t seem like the pampering type,” he agreed, shaking off the last of his pain. “I don’t like being pampered, anyway.” He peered up at the angled ceiling and snorted. “I ought to be able to handle low ceilings. I’ve had some experience living in attic rooms.”
Daphne knew where he’d gotten that experience: in college, in his fraternity house, in his top-floor bedroom. She’d been there. She’d seen the ceiling.
Her immediately instinct was to avoid looking at him. But he was standing too close to her, with the slope of the ceiling denying her the space to back away from him. She couldn’t prevent herself from meeting his gaze.
“You still feel funny about it, don’t you,” he said, not bothering to spell out what was on both their minds. Not having to.
“Do you?”
“Yeah.” He ran his index finger along the edge of her jaw. Despite the tenderness of his caress, Daphne sensed that he was holding her chin to keep her from averting her eyes. “Maybe apologizing to each other wasn’t enough.”
“I don’t know what else we can do,” she said.
He smiled crookedly. “Find ourselves a time machine?”
Although his hand was the only part of him touching her, she was once again uncomfortably aware of his body’s nearness. In the enclosed space of the bedroom she could feel his warmth, smell the faint traces of his aftershave, see the individual black lashes fringing his eyelids. And she could detect no answering awareness on his part.
“If you really want to go back in time,” she joked, desperate to lighten the moment, “then let’s go eat some Italian food. Maybe I can gain back my ‘freshman twenty’.”
“I wouldn’t let you do that,” Brad argued, sliding his finger under her chin and down to the delicate gold chain circling her throat. He let his hand drop and started toward the door. “Three pounds maximum, Daffy, or there’s no tiramisu for you.”
***
IT DIDN’T SEEM fair to him. She was so damned right in so many ways. Her professional achievements were remarkable, her flair for selling houses impressive. She was smart and funny; he truly enjoyed her company. Jokes about her weight notwithstanding, she had a good figure, a bit scant in the chest area but basically well proportioned and healthy-looking.
So why was it that he could stroke the smooth, clear skin of her face and feel nothing more than affection stirring inside him? Why was it that he could gather her into his arms and hug her, even kiss her, and not feel all the usual responses? He didn’t want to think some residual guilt was dampening his libido. But if that wasn’t the problem, what could it be?
The obvious one: she was homely. No matter how tastefully she dressed, no matter how poised and pleasant she behaved, she still had a plain face, half-concealed by those distorting eyeglasses. She had a button nose, pale lips, nearly invisible eyelashes and kinky hair. She had a collection of features which, while far from grotesque, simply didn’t work any magic on Brad.
Objectively, he was willing to concede that Daphne did the most with what she had. He was willing to concede, as well, that some men might find her cute and appealing in an eccentric way. Subjectively, he was willing to accept that he liked her a great deal. But she wasn’t the kind of woman who could ignite fires inside him, who could drive him to distraction with her feminine charms, who could reduce him to a seething mass of lust with a smile and a wink.
She was a lovely woman, but Brad didn’t love her. He was saving his love for the right woman, the perfect partner. And Daphne wasn’t it.
He studied her across the small circular table at the rear of the restaurant’s dining room. A candle encased in a cut-crystal glass lit the table, and its dancing flame threw ethereal shadows across Daphne’s cheeks and brow. Maybe it was guilt, Brad thought, because even if he wasn’t able to fall in love with her, he ought to be able to feel something more than what he was feeling.
She shook her head to refuse the cloth-lined basket of bread he extended to her, then asked, “How is your mother doing?”
“She’s feeling very sorry for herself at the moment. My father has begun making noises about wanting to date a widowed neighbor of his.”
“If I were your mother, I’d feel sorry for myself, too,” Daphne defended Brad’s mother. “Expressing a desire to take out other women isn’t exactly a sign that your father’s ready for a reconciliation.”
“That’s exactly what he’s ready for,” Brad maintained, not really expecting Daphne to understand the convoluted dynamics of his parents’ relationship. “He wants to make my mother jealous so she’ll beg him to come back to her. She’s feeling sorry for herself, but she’s too proud to beg.”
“Speaking of jealousy,” Daphne remarked with deceptive casualness, “how would you feel if I told you you might be a home breaker?”
“Me?” Brad froze, holding a chunk of dipped bread midway between the bowl of herbed olive oil and his mouth. “What are you talking about?”
“Phyllis Dunn likes looking at you. Her Significant Other is apparently pissed off about it.”
“She likes looking at me?” Brad laughed. He recalled enough about Phyllis’s muscular boyfriend not to want to be on the man’s enemies list, but looking had never done anyone any harm. Phyllis hadn’t been so horrible to look at, herself.
“I think she’s searching for an excuse to end her relationship with him,” Daphne said. “And I think you’re the excuse she’s looking for. Consider yourself forewarned.”
Brad shook his head and took a bite of his bread. As pretty as Phyllis Dunn was, he couldn’t imagine relaxing over dinner with her the way he was right now with Daphne. Touching Phyllis’s face would probably get his juices flowing in a way touching Daphne’s hadn’t…but he’d rather be with Daphne. Much to his amazement, he didn’t want his juices flowing at the moment. All he wanted was to have dinner with a good friend.
Their entrees arrived, and Brad noted with satisfaction that, after blanketing her pasta in grated parmesan,
Daphne dug into her high-carb meal with gusto. After having spent the past couple of weeks with her, he could no longer remember how she’d looked when she was overweight. She really wasn’t so bad looking. Really. She wasn’t.
Damn. It was guilt. Opening his soul to her last Sunday had helped, but it hadn’t completely healed him. If he was ever going to recover from the disaster that marred his past with Daphne, he was going to have to take more drastic measures. Especially since he was on the verge of becoming her neighbor.
He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d made his mind up about the house, but now, sitting with Daphne in this quaint, unpretentious restaurant in Caldwell, he realized that he was beginning to think of the town as his home. Assuming that Daphne was right about the seller’s willingness to come down in price, Brad would buy the house. Hell, he’d probably buy it even if the seller didn’t come down in price. In that price range, what was twenty thousand dollars one way or the other?
He liked it here. He liked charming suburban village with its twisting, tree-lined roads and gentle hills. He liked the house itself, with its efficiently arranged kitchen and attractive yard. The house needed a little work—fresh paint on the porch, a new lighting fixture in the dining room—but nothing he couldn’t handle. And he even liked the low ceilings. So what if he ran the risk of banging his head every now and then? Brad had never been averse to living dangerously.
He especially liked the notion of having Daphne living nearby. He could imagine asking her for advice about what flowers to plant in his flower beds, which supermarket to shop at, which trains ran closest to schedule. He liked the idea that he could call her up and talk to her whenever he wanted.
Except that there was the guilt, the awkward understanding that still existed between them. He had seen it in her flat green eyes when she’d stood beside him under the eaves in the bedroom he was already starting to think of as his. The air between them had grown electric, tense with something that approximated sheer panic, at least on his part.
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