So far it had been a disastrous year, saved only by her sale of the house on Old Mill Lane to Alex Nolan. That one had caught her up on overdue bills at the office. She had very much wanted to be present that morning when Nolan presented the house to his wife. I hope she likes surprises, Georgette thought for the hundredth time. She worried that what he was doing was risky. She had tried to warn him about the house, about its history, but Nolan didn’t seem to care. Georgette worried also that since he’d put the house in his wife’s name only, if she didn’t like it, she might be wide open to a violation suit.
It was part of the real estate code of New Jersey that a prospective buyer had to be notified if a house was stigmatized property, meaning one that might be impacted by a factor that, on a psychological level, could cause apprehension or fears. Since some people would not want to live in a house in which a crime had been committed, or in which there had been a suicide, the real estate agent was obliged to make a prospective client aware of any such history. The statute even required the agent to reveal if a house had the reputation of being haunted.
I tried to tell Alex that there had been a tragedy in the house on Old Mill Lane, Georgette thought defensively as she opened the office door and stepped into the reception room. But he had cut her off, saying that his family used to rent a two-hundred-year-old house on Cape Cod, and the history of some of the people who lived in it would curl your hair. But this is different, Georgette thought. I should have told him that around here the house he bought is known as “Little Lizzie’s Place.”
She wondered if Nolan had become nervous about his surprise. At the last minute he had asked her to be at the house when they arrived, but it had been impossible to change the other closing. Instead, she had sent Henry Paley to greet Nolan and his wife, and to be there to answer any questions Mrs. Nolan might have. Henry had been reluctant to cover for her, and in the end she had been forced to remind him, rather sharply, not only to be there, but to be sure to emphasize the many desirable features of the house and property.
At Nolan’s request, the driveway had been decorated with festive balloons, all painted with the words “Happy Birthday, Celia.” The porch had been draped with festive papier-mâché, and he also had asked that champagne and a birthday cake and glasses and plates and silverware and birthday napkins be waiting inside.
When Georgette pointed out that there was absolutely no furniture in the house, and offered to bring over a folding table and chairs, Nolan had been appalled. He rushed to a nearby furniture store and ordered an expensive glass patio table and chairs, and instructed the salesman to have them placed in the dining room. “We’ll switch them to the patio when we move in, or if Celia doesn’t like them, we’ll donate them to a charity and take a deduction,” he had said.
Five thousand dollars for a patio set and he’s talking about giving it away, Georgette had thought, but she knew he meant it. Yesterday afternoon he had phoned and asked her to be sure there were two dozen roses in every room on the main floor, as well as the master bedroom suite. “Roses are Celia’s favorite flowers,” he explained. “When we got married, I promised her that she’d never be without them.”
He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s charming. And he’s clearly devoted to his wife, Georgette thought as she stepped inside and automatically glanced around the reception room to see if any potential clients were waiting there. From half the marriages I’ve seen, she’s a damn lucky woman.
But how will she react when she starts hearing the stories about the house?
Georgette tried to push the thought away. Born with a natural ability to sell, she had progressed rapidly from being a secretary and part-time real estate agent, to founding her own company. Her reception room was a matter of special pride to her. Robin Carpenter, her secretary-receptionist, was positioned at an antique mahogany desk to the right of the entrance. On the left, a brightly upholstered sectional couch and chairs were grouped around a coffee table.
There, while clients sipped coffee or soft drinks or a glass of wine in the early evening, Georgette or Henry would run tapes showing available properties. The tapes provided meticulous details of every aspect of the interior, the exterior, and the surrounding neighborhood.
“Those tapes take a lot of time to do properly,” Georgette was fond of explaining to clients, “but they save you a lot of time, and by finding your likes and dislikes, we can get a very good idea of what you’re really looking for.”
Make them want it before they set foot in it—that was Georgette’s game plan. It had worked for nearly twenty years, but in the last five years it had gotten tougher, as more and more high-powered agencies had opened in the area, their young and vigorous brokers panting for every listing.
Robin was the only person in the reception area. “How did the closing go?” she asked Georgette.
“Smoothly, thank God. Is Henry back?”
“No, I guess he’s still drinking champagne with the Nolans. I still can’t believe it. A gorgeous guy buys a gorgeous house for his wife for her thirty-fourth birthday. That’s exactly my age. She’s so lucky. Did you ever find out if Alex Nolan has a brother?” Robin sighed. “But on the other hand, there can’t be two men like that,” she added.
“Let’s all hope that after she gets over the surprise, and has heard the story of that house, Celia Nolan still considers herself lucky,” Georgette snapped nervously. “Otherwise, we might have a real problem on our hands.”
Robin knew exactly what she meant. Small, slender, and very pretty, with a heart-shaped face and a penchant for frilly clothes, the initial impression she gave was that of the air-headed blonde. And so Georgette had believed when she applied for the job a year ago. Five minutes of conversation, however, had led her not only to reversing that opinion but to hiring Robin on the spot and upping the salary she had intended to pay. Now, after a year, Robin was about to get her own real estate license, and Georgette welcomed the prospect of having her working as an agent. Henry simply wasn’t pulling his weight anymore.
“You did try to warn the husband about the history of the house. I can back you up on that, Georgette.”
“That’s something,” Georgette said, as she headed down the hall to her private office at the rear of the building. But then she turned abruptly and faced the younger woman. “I tried to speak to Alex Nolan about the background of the house one time only, Robin,” she said emphatically. “And that was when I was alone in the car with him on our way to see the Murray house on Moselle Road. You couldn’t have heard me discussing it with him.”
“I’m sure I heard you bring it up one of the times Alex Nolan was in here,” Robin insisted.
“I mentioned it to him once in the car. I never said anything about it to him here. Robin, you’re not doing me or, in the long run, yourself any favors by lying to a client,” Georgette snapped. “Keep that in mind, please.”
The outside door opened. They both turned as Henry Paley came into the reception room. “How did it go?” Georgette asked, her anxiety apparent in the tone of her voice.
“I would say that Mrs. Nolan put up a very good act of seeming to be delighted by her husband’s birthday surprise,” Paley answered. “I believe she convinced him. However, she did not convince me.”
“Why not?” Robin asked before Georgette could frame the words.
Henry Paley’s expression was that of a man who had completed a mission he knew was doomed to failure. “I wish I could tell you,” he said. “It may just be that she was overwhelmed.” He looked at Georgette, obviously afraid that he might be giving the impression that he had somehow let her down. Henry was acutely aware that he had not managed to close a single sale in months. “Georgette,” he said apologetically, “I swear, when I was showing Mrs. Nolan the master suite, all I could visualize was that kid shooting her mother and stepfather in the sitting room years ago. Isn’t that weird?”
“Henry, this agency has sold that house three times in the last twenty-four years, and you we
re involved in at least two of those sales. I never heard you say that before,” Georgette protested angrily.
“I never got that feeling before. Maybe it’s because of all those damn flowers the husband ordered. It’s the same scent that hits you in funeral homes. I got it full force in the master suite of Little Lizzie’s Place today. And I have a feeling that Celia Nolan had a reaction like that, too.”
Henry realized that unwittingly he had used the forbidden words in describing the house on Old Mill Lane. “Sorry, Georgette,” he mumbled as he brushed past her.
“You should be,” Georgette said bitterly. “I can just imagine the kind of vibes you were sending out to Mrs. Nolan.”
“Maybe you’ll take me up after all on my offer to back you up on what you told Alex Nolan about the house, Georgette,” Robin suggested, a touch of malice in her voice.
3
“But Ceil, it’s what we were planning to do. We’re just doing it a little faster. It makes sense for Jack to start pre-K in Mendham. We’ve been cramped for these six months in your apartment, and you didn’t want to move downtown to mine.”
It was the day after my birthday, the day following the big surprise. We were having breakfast in my apartment, the one that five years ago I had been hired to decorate for Larry, who became my first husband. Jack had rushed through a glass of juice and a bowl of cornflakes, and hopefully was now getting dressed for day camp.
I don’t think I closed my eyes all night. Instead I lay in bed, my shoulder brushing against Alex, staring into the dark, remembering, always remembering. Now, wrapped in a blue and white linen robe, and with my hair twisted into a bun, I was trying to appear calm and collected as I sipped my coffee. Across the table, impeccably dressed as always in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and figured blue and red tie, Alex was rushing through the slice of toast and mug of coffee that was his everyday breakfast.
My suggestion that, while the house was beautiful, I would want to be able to completely redecorate it before we moved in had met with resistance from Alex. “Ceil, I know it was probably insanity to buy the house without consulting you, but it was exactly the kind of place we both had in mind. You had agreed to the area. We talked about Peapack or Basking Ridge, and Mendham is only five or ten minutes from both of them. It’s an upscale town, convenient to New York, and, besides the fact the firm is moving me to New Jersey, the added plus is that I can get in some early morning rides. Central Park just doesn’t do it for me. And I want to teach you how to ride. You said you’d enjoy taking lessons.”
I studied my husband. His expression was both contrite and pleading. He was right. This apartment really was too small for the three of us. Alex had given up so much when we married. His spacious apartment in SoHo had included a large study, with room for his splendid sound system and even a grand piano. The piano was now in storage. Alex had a natural gift for music, and thoroughly enjoyed playing. I know he misses that freedom. He’s worked hard to accomplish all he has. Though a distant cousin of my late husband, who himself had come from wealth, Alex was decidedly a “poor relation.” I knew how proud he was to be able to buy this new house.
“You’ve been saying that you want to get back to decorating,” Alex reminded me. “Once you’re settled, there’d be plenty of opportunity for that, especially in Mendham. There’s a lot of money there, and plenty of big houses being built. Please give it a try, for me, Ceil. You have a standing offer from the people next door to purchase this apartment at a nice profit to you, you know that.”
He came around the table and put his arms around me. “Please.”
I hadn’t heard Jack come into the dining room. “I like the house, too, Mom,” he piped up. “Alex is going to buy me my own pony when we move there.”
I looked at my husband and son. “It looks as though we have a new home,” I said, trying to smile. Alex is desperate to have more space, I thought. He loves the idea of being near the riding club. Eventually I’ll find a different house in one of the other towns. It won’t be hard to persuade him to move. He did admit that it was a mistake to buy without consulting me, after all.
One month later the moving van was pulling away from 895 Fifth Avenue and heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. Its destination was One Old Mill Lane, Mendham, New Jersey.
Bernard Vidal
MARY HIGGINS CLARK is the author of thirty-one worldwide bestselling suspense novels and a memoir. She lives with her husband, John Conheeney, in Saddle River, New Jersey.
CAROL HIGGINS CLARK is the bestselling author of eight Regan Reilly mysteries. She lives in New York City.
BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK AND CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
The Christmas Thief
He Sees You When You’re Sleeping
Deck the Halls
BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK
No Place Like Home
Nighttime Is My Time
The Second Time Around
Kitchen Privileges
Mount Vernon Love Story
Silent Night/All Through the Night
Daddy’s Little Girl
On the Street Where You Live
Before I Say Good-bye
We’ll Meet Again
All Through the Night
You Belong to Me
Pretend You Don’t See Her
My Gal Sunday
Moonlight Becomes You
Silent Night
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
The Lottery Winner
Remember Me
I’ll Be Seeing You
All Around the Town
Loves Music, Loves to Dance
The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories
While My Pretty One Sleeps
Weep No More, My Lady
Stillwatch
A Cry in the Night
The Cradle Will Fall
A Stranger Is Watching
Where Are the Children?
BY CAROL HIGGINS CLARK
Burned
Popped
Jinxed
Fleeced
Twanged
Iced
Snagged
Decked
We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster and Scribner eBook.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark
Originally published in hardcover in 2000 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-1813-3
ISBN-10: 0-7434-1813-1
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-1688-3 (eBook)
Front cover illustration by Julie Scott
Deck the Halls (Holiday Classics) Page 17
