“Personally, I liked your uncle. Never laughed so much as when I was with him. But if you want the truth, I think he was just about the biggest fool who ever lived. She loved him and he let her get away. For which I will be eternally grateful.”
Reid watched him head out to the kitchen, wondering how he could begin to explain his uncle to a man who would never understand. George was content here, in this house with the pictures on the mantel and the knickknacks on the table. Pressed flowers on a Mother’s Day card, a needlepoint sampler, a silver frame with Twenty-fifth Anniversary engraved across the top. All the small, intimate details that spoke of the life he’d lived here, with Willy and their daughters. Exactly the kind of details that were missing from Reid’s life and his room at the Riviera Motor Court.
“That much?” Vicky said, and Reid looked over again, seeing her shove her hair out of her face, stare up at the ceiling. He knew she was doing calculations in her head. Four commissions, less the drywall, left how much for a down payment?
He turned as voices drifted in from the front hall. Willy’s low and soothing, the other higher pitched, excited, her words running together as she tried to get everything out at once. She was fine, the baby had kicked for the first time, Greg couldn’t be there because he had a chance for an extra shift, and what with the baby coming and all, well. She took a breath, laughed. “You know how it is.”
“I certainly do,” Willy said, leading her patient along the hall to her office.
Reid glanced back at Vicky, thinking how simple life had been then. The two of them lying in bed, his hand on her belly. Talking, making plans, waiting for that first flutter, that first kick. Proof that they were going to have a baby, be a family. And Albert, driving up from Mexico the moment he’d heard, with a rocking chair strapped to the roof of his car. As pleased for them then as he had been the day they married, but not wanting the same things for himself.
Reid rose and crossed to the mantle. Studied the pictures of Willy’s daughters, one white-blond as she had been, the other red-haired, as George might have been once. He tried to imagine them as Albert’s children, but just as he couldn’t picture himself pushing a lawn mower, neither could he picture Albert pushing a baby carriage.
Reid knew there had been women in Albert’s life. He’d even met one or two. Beautiful women who came and went, every one of them eager to change him, to marry him. But Albert was always honest and the women eventually moved on, leaving him as they’d found him. A man content with who and what he was, and the life he had chosen.
Vicky turned slowly, the phone dangling at her side, a shaky smile coming to her face. “He went for it,” she said and held out the phone as if it could better explain what he already saw in her eyes.
“Zack will do the drywall next week, and Mr. Robinson is faxing the signed offer to my office right now.” She shook her head, sank onto the sofa, and Reid could almost hear those dominoes, bang, bang, bang. The pieces of her new life falling into place and piling up between them.
“I take it this is good news,” George said as he came back in with more lemon.
Vicky nodded, still staring at the phone. “It’s everything I wanted. All I have to do now is get hold of the Claytons and draw up the waivers.” She walked back to the sofa for her purse. “I’ll need an internet connection tonight and a flight out tomorrow. We really should be going soon. We still have to find a place for Albert, get settled for the night—”
“I just thought of a spot near Mendocino that Albert liked,” Willy said as she came back into the room. But her steps faltered when she saw Vicky on her feet. “You’re not leaving already?” She made a vague gesture toward the hall. “That was my last patient.”
“And we’d love to take you out to dinner,” George said.
“Dinner, yes.” Vicky nodded. “Somewhere crowded and noisy. The kind of place Albert would have loved.”
Willy smiled and took George’s arm. “I was hoping the two of you would stay the night as well. The spare room is already made up. And Adrienne swears that bed is the most comfortable she’s ever slept in.”
Vicky’s face warmed. “We don’t want to impose.”
“It would be our pleasure,” George said.
“Will you stay?” Willy asked, her smile small and hopeful. “Give me a chance to hear more about Albert, and get acquainted with the happiest couple he knew.”
Vicky looked around the room, then down at her hands. She wanted to stay, Reid could see that, but a corner had already been turned. His chances of holding onto her and the life he wanted were slipping away. She would be gone tomorrow, which only left him tonight.
“The problem is,” she said, “I need to set up my laptop, connect to my office.”
“We have wireless,” Willy said.
Vicky shifted from foot to foot. “Then of course there’s the fish.”
Reid got to his feet. “What she’s trying to say is that we’d love to stay. But only if you have a spare couch as well.”
TWELVE
Vicky clicked Connect on her computer and smiled when the familiar screen opened in front of her, confirming that her laptop was connected to the office computer hundreds of miles away.
She logged in, then slid the chair in closer to the vanity, genuinely pleased that they’d been able to stay with Willy and George after all, and that Reid wouldn’t be sleeping on a sofa.
Vicky had taken Adrienne’s old room overlooking the front yard, and Reid had been given Janice’s in the back with a promise that the bed was every bit as comfortable. While the bedrooms were similar in size, they were nothing alike in appearance, much like Willy’s daughters themselves.
Adrienne’s room was a fantasy of romance and childhood memories, with raspberry walls, lace curtains, and shelves of toys, snowballs, and ornaments. Janice, on the other hand, had gone for a tailored look, with a crisp white spread, ice-blue stripes, and shelves that held books and magazines. Vicky was fairly sure Reid wouldn’t have traded places with her even if his bed had been made of nails.
Since she had somehow been granted custody of the fish again, Vicky opened the tin of food they had stolen from the hotel, and sprinkled a few flakes into her new home. The goldfish gave the offering a cursory sniff, then went back to investigating the porcelain diver George had put into her bowl, along with a sprinkling of colored stones he’d found in the basement. Turned out that Adrienne had kept an aquarium when she was ten, and George never threw anything away.
Vicky smiled, remembering his grin as he came up the stairs with the bowl, like a kid who had just discovered where the Halloween candy was stashed. He’d taken such care in moving the fish to her new quarters. Going slowly, trying to disturb the fish as little as possible, knowing the poor thing had been through enough in that awful mini.
Vicky had to admit she looked quite happy now, with the hand-me-down diver to keep her company and a lace doily beneath her bowl. Almost as though she belonged there on the dresser when in truth they’d stolen the spot from a porcelain doll who now sat on the rocking chair with two teddy bears and a Barbie dressed like Scarlett O’Hara.
Every room in the house had the same friendly clutter, the same nostalgic feel as the parlor, but nothing had been added simply for effect. There were no baskets of wool that would never be knitted, no books that had never been read. Theirs was a family home, meant for living not for show and she wondered if Reid could even see the difference.
Vicky hit any key and the screen saver gave way to her broker’s new Web page. He’d been slow in warming to the idea of upgrading, but once he had come on board, he’d pulled out all the stops. There was music, graphics, links to everything from weather to community groups. And in the top right-hand corner, a picture that changed every twenty seconds, moving alphabetically through the faces of the sales staff.
She logged into the area reserved for staff then clicked over to the real estate board for an update on new listings, recent sales, and conditional offers. Keeping a
n eye out for addresses in Milton and breathing a sigh of relief when the one she wanted was still there, complete with a price reduction.
She called up the listing and a picture of the house. White with blue shutters, everything as it should be. She leaned back and clicked through the gallery of pictures, expecting a rush of excitement now that her life was coming together, but feeling only a vague restlessness as the pictures passed. Suddenly finding the rooms small, the garden rough. And how old was that roof anyway?
She laughed at herself. Buyer’s remorse already and she hadn’t even put in an offer. It was only natural when she thought about it. Buying a house was a big step, and she was about to take it alone. Just her and the kids starting out again in Milton. New life, new friends. And why had they reduced the price already?
Vicky gave her head a shake and clicked back to her broker’s site. She’d look at the listing again later. Maybe give the agent a call, see how much activity he’d had, whether or not she’d be competing with anyone else. Not that she would get into a bidding war. She’d seen where that kind of the thing could lead and always advised her clients to back away, to look for something else. There were plenty of houses out there, after all. At better prices. With bigger rooms, newer roofs.
She looked away from the screen, stared at the dolls on the chair. What was wrong with her?
“Lack of sleep,” she muttered, and clicked over to e-mail before she could talk herself out of the house completely.
Seven little envelopes lined up neatly in a row in front of her. Five from people she didn’t know—potential clients if she was lucky—plus one from Rita, with an attachment, and one from her father.
Vicky smiled and opened the message from her dad.
Hi mommy. This is Kira. Opa is helping me send this because Oma says we just talked to you and we should give the wish a chance to work, for heaven’s sake.
Vicky propped her chin on her fist, smiling as she read the latest update on the dog, and where Oma was taking them tomorrow, as well as a P. S. from her father saying he still didn’t have a price for the earrings, but he’d get one if she was sure.
Vicky typed a quick response, wondering who would be the most disappointed when she arrived home alone tomorrow, her parents or Kira.
She flipped over to Rita’s message. It was short and sweet, completely unlike Rita herself.
Have you booked your flight? See below for details.
Curious, Vicky clicked on the attachment and couldn’t help laughing when a picture of Rita’s cousin Frank materialized on her screen, complete with profile:
Hi, My name is Frank. I’m 36. I like long walks on the beach, love kids, and am handy around the house. Call me. 1-800-MrRight.
“Rita, you are such a nag,” Vicky said, and hit reply, sending back a note saying exactly that. But she didn’t delete Frank’s picture right away. Instead she sat back and took a good hard look at his face.
Too long to be handsome, too serious to be cute. But there was a soulful cast to his eyes that clearly said sincerity, and a set to his mouth that said stable. And she tried to imagine herself on a beach with a man who would never do Fabulous Pierre.
A tap on her door drew her around. “Come in,” she called, expecting Willy with towels, but seeing Reid instead, Albert in one hand and the leather satchel that was his legacy in the other.
Reid had showered and shaved, his hair still damp and slicked back from his face. Damned if her heart didn’t start right into that silly little dance all over again, the one that made her blood warm and her skin tingle in a way she doubted sensible Frank ever could.
He made no move to enter the room, but rather waited to be invited. If not for Albert and the suitcase she might have thought he’d come courting again. And the memory of the last time she’d invited him into her room did nothing to slow her heart or cool her blood.
“I figured this would be a good time to talk about Albert,” he said. “Maybe sort through his things. But if you’re working—”
“It’s fine, come in,” Vicky said and clicked back to her broker’s Web site. Saving Frank’s picture to look at later, when Reid and Seaport were far behind, and Fabulous Pierre no more than a fading memory.
“Willy told me to pass on a message,” Reid said, setting Albert beside the fish, and the satchel on the bed. “She’s made dinner reservations at the Fiddlehead Bar and Grill. Assures me they make the city’s best margaritas.”
“That’s important,” Vicky said, staying seated at the vanity as he sat down on the bed and opened the bag. “What time did she want to go?”
“Six.”
“We should do this quickly, then. So I can get ready.”
“Sure.” He held her gaze a moment, then tipped the bag over, spilling everything onto the floral comforter. Whoopee cushion, chicken, Groucho Marx glasses, and a few things they hadn’t seen in Lyle’s office. An eyeball, a Betty Grable pen, a package of sea monkeys — just add water.
Vicky watched as Reid separated the items. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen in total, most of them old, antiques if she was generous, and nothing of value. But everything there said “Albert,” and it was enough to make her eyes sting and wish her children could have known him better.
Reid lifted the chicken. “I believe you had dibs on this.”
“And the cushion,” she said softly, coming toward him at last.
He held the chicken out to her, feeling his heart squeeze as the sadness in her eyes disappeared behind the kind of smile Albert could always win from her.
She sat down on the other side of the bed, Albert’s treasures and the chicken between them. “Did Willy say anything more about the key?”
Reid shook his head and picked up the hand buzzer. “She didn’t mention the note either.”
“Too bad.” Vicky picked up the eyeball. “Although she probably wouldn’t tell us what’s in it anyway.” She put the eye to her own and held it in place by scrunching up her face. “Not that I wouldn’t love to know what was going on all those years ago.”
“She was in love with him,” Reid said, and shrugged when Vicky and the eyeball looked over at him. “George told me. Said she would have run away with him if he’d only asked.”
“So that’s what I saw in those pictures.” Vicky dropped the eye into her hand. “Do you think Albert knew?”
“I don’t think so. Ferguson men often have to ignore the effects of their devastating charm.”
“Not to mention their unfailing egos.”
She swung the chicken but he leapt up in time, leaving her laughing as he strolled across to the neutral zone by the vanity.
He jostled the chair, and the screen saver on the computer gave way to her broker’s website with a picture of two women in the top corner. Professional, polished, they stood back to back with their arms folded and confident smiles firmly in place—Cruz and Marsh the caption beneath them read. Your Home Team.
“You wanted the snakes, didn’t you?” Vicky asked.
“Glasses, too,” he said, and watched, fascinated, as the women on the screen dissolved into a man with a graying beard.
Mat Berger, Number One In The Bay Area. The agent who had helped her out at Mr. Robinson’s, Reid realized, and turned to her. “Have you told your broker the good news yet?”
“I wanted to wait until after I called the Claytons. I still can’t reach them.” She picked up the Betty Grable pen and turned it over, shaking her head as Betty’s dress fell away. “This is definitely yours, too, which means I get the sea monkeys.”
“Just make sure I get the boutonniere,” he said, glancing back at the screen as Mat turned into a couple—Phil and Margie Donaldson, Doing Things Right For Over Twenty Years.
He wondered briefly if anyone ever admitted they’d done everything wrong then turned back to Vicky. “That’s an impressive Web site.”
“I was pleased.” She squeezed the bulb on the boutonniere and glanced over at the screen. “And in a few seconds, I
will be the featured agent.”
Reid pulled out the chair and sat down to wait. “Do you think it helps?”
“Doesn’t hurt, I suppose. People can have a look at the listings, see the videos .” She picked up the whoopee cushion and raised it to her lips. “Here I come.” She smiled. “And there I am.”
Reid turned back as Vicky Ferguson—Working Hard on Your Home Front materialized in front of him.
Her slogan needed a little something, but the picture was good. Sleek and sophisticated with a smile that was every bit as confident as the women who had come before her. This was the new Vicky, the one he’d seen in Lyle’s office. The same one who had gambled on four deals coming together and was about to win big. The new version was hard-nosed and tough, and lurking somewhere inside was the one he knew a whole lot better—the one sitting cross-legged on the bed, blowing up the whoopee cushion.
He turned back to the computer. Beneath her picture was an invitation to visit her personal page, to view her listings. He didn’t stop to ask, just moved the cursor and clicked YES before her picture dissolved and the chance was gone.
“Theth nod muth to thee,” she said, her tongue on the valve, keeping the air in the cushion as she walked over to join him at the vanity. She blew another breath into cushion, twisted the valve closed, set the cushion down and sat on it. The noise was loud and obnoxious. “The kids are going to love this,” she said, tossing the cushion back on the bed and turning to the computer.
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, turning into the agent on the webpage. “See what I mean, not much there.”
It was true. Her name was at the top with that same picture and the unfortunate slogan, and underneath, a single listing. An address in Half Moon Bay that really did look like a ship with porthole windows and flat roofs.
She shook her head in disgust. “No awards, no testimonials. I don’t even know why I bothered.”
But her eyes were still on the screen and she was moving closer, almost crowding him out as he scrolled down the page.
“Wait,” she said. “Go back.” She shoved her hair behind her ears, knelt down on the floor beside him. “I did a video tour of the house. Do you want to see it?”
Love, Albert Page 15
