Beth’s faith had suffered its first blow when Stephanie refused to allow Beth to attend parents’ night at school along with Peter. It had cracked a little more the first time Josh ran away, blaming her for his not wanting to live at home anymore. It had taken a nosedive when Peter undercut her attempts at discipline time after time.
There had been incident after incident, some small, some large, chipping away at Beth’s belief in her own maternal instincts and keeping the household in constant turmoil. For three years she felt as if she were living in an enemy camp with no reprieve in sight. Of all the roles she had ever envisioned for herself, wicked stepmother had never once been among them.
The final blow to the marriage had come when Peter had refused to consider having a child of their own, blaming the tension in the family entirely on Beth. “After all, you’re the adult here. If you can’t handle two teenagers, how on earth do you expect to deal with an infant?”
His decision, which he had declared irrevocable, had destroyed not only the marriage but the last of Beth’s already tattered self-esteem. She had left with little pride and no self-confidence, but had accepted a tidy settlement that had enabled her to move as far away from California as she could get. She had firmly declined alimony, but that lump-sum payment for three years of hell had allowed her time to get her real estate and interior designer’s licenses and to open her specialized agency.
Her wildly successful one-woman operation offered everything from the property itself to choosing wallpaper for the client rich enough to customize a country house but unwilling to spend the time and energy it took to do it right. Beth didn’t want it to appear that the sale of a client’s home hinged on the buyer accepting her additional services, so she optioned her chosen listings herself at a fair market price. She kept only a select few homes on this basis but they were the cream of the market. Each project required patience and dedication, something a good many of the buyers lacked and which Beth had in abundance.
Of all of her select listings in Berry Ridge and the surrounding countryside, the Grady place was Beth’s favorite project. She almost hated the prospect of giving it up when it sold. And though she could have afforded to keep the house herself, she had no desire to rattle around in the lonely rooms or to look longingly out the window at an empty swing. She wanted to see the house occupied by the large, happy family it deserved.
Her particular dream for the old Victorian made the call from Ken Hutchinson somewhat disconcerting. He had been referred to her by a satisfied client who had since become a good friend, Chet Mathias, so she knew this Mr. Hutchinson could afford not only her pricey listings, but her additional services, if he wanted them.
But in their brief conversation on the phone yesterday, he had made no mention of a wife, much less children. He’d simply asked what she had available, then picked out three houses based on her detailed descriptions without giving anything away about his own requirements. He had made an appointment to see them all this afternoon, starting with the Grady place.
As a result, Beth had taken an instinctive dislike to him on the phone. He had set her teeth on edge with all of his cool, businesslike questions about plumbing and wiring and heating. The questions were reasonable, but the fact that he’d concentrated on those issues more than any other told her a lot about him. He certainly hadn’t sounded like the kind of man who’d bring much liveliness into any house. In fact, he had sounded like a crotchety old bachelor, who had grown more set in his ways with every passing year.
As she waited, shivering just a little in the icy air and watching the sunlight catch on the old rippled glass of the glistening windows, she was almost tempted to break the appointment. Only her pride in her professionalism kept her from doing that. At the very least, though, she would steer Mr. Hutchinson to another property, one that was smaller and more austere, to suit his personality.
Her first clue that she might have misjudged her client was the swirl of powdery snow that rose as an expensive, deep green sports car tore up the lane. The driver was apparently recklessly oblivious to the icy conditions. He was bouncing over the ruts carved by last spring’s rains as if they were no more than a minor nuisance. The driver swerved with the skill of an Indy 500 competitor, never once slowing his speed. She had to struggle to reconcile this image of Ken Hutchinson with the stodgier one already formed in her head. It wasn’t easy.
But if that was difficult, seeing him emerge from that mud-streaked, highly impractical two-seater was enough to send her into shock. This was not the crotchety, middle-aged man she’d envisioned. If, in fact, this was Ken Hutchinson—and she had what she considered to be reasonable doubts about that—he was definitely more hunk than Hitchcock.
Tall and lean, he had a long, purposeful stride that occasionally caused him to wince, as if he’d been recently injured and was still not used to the slowing down that required. His sun-kissed brown hair was a shade too long and beguilingly tousled. As if that weren’t intriguing enough, he had the sort of engaging smile that probably left most women speechless. Beth hated to include herself among those ranks. Unfortunately, though, she could barely form a coherent thought.
“Ms. Callahan?” he said.
He spoke in that brusque, no-nonsense tone that had so irritated her over the phone. In person, his crooked smile took the edge off it and the glint of amusement in his gray eyes replaced coolness with warmth. No doubt about it, he was a charmer. Which suddenly raised all sorts of images of wild parties and raucous nightlife in her beloved house.
She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sell the Grady place to this man. He would spoil her vision for it. As costly as it would be, she would keep the place herself before she would let that happen.
Beth drew in a deep breath and prepared to do something she had never, ever done before. She was about to lie through her teeth to a prospective client.
She smiled, hopefully matching his grin in warmth and charm and convincing sincerity. “Mr. Hutchinson, I’m terribly sorry for bringing you all the way out here, especially with the roads such a mess.”
Wariness immediately replaced the warmth in his eyes, turning them from glimmering silver to the shade of granite. “Is there some sort of problem?”
“Not a problem exactly. It’s just that I’ve made a dreadful mistake.” She drew in a deep breath. “You see, this house isn’t available after all.”
Chapter 2
Ken studied Beth Callahan’s face with its model-perfect cheekbones, wide, innocent green eyes and generous mouth and wondered why the woman was brazenly lying to him. She’d planted herself in the middle of the snow-dusted front walk—right next to the prominent For Sale sign—as if she were an armed guard singlehandedly responsible for the safety and preservation of a national treasure.
From where he stood, her stance wasn’t justified. The house looked a little too fussy for his taste and definitely in need of fresh paint. Half the boards on the sagging porch were probably rotted through, as well. Maybe this was her sales technique, he theorized. Tell him the place wasn’t available, just so she could get him into a bidding war with some nonexistent would-be buyer. Fat chance.
Still, he was intrigued about what had happened between yesterday afternoon and today to get her to take this house off the market. Surely it hadn’t been the sight of him, though now that he thought about it, she had regarded him and his car with a certain aura of dislike. It was not a reaction he was accustomed to. Football heroes—even recently fallen heroes—generally had their pick of the female population, whether they wanted them or not. Oddly, though, there hadn’t been the slightest glimmer of recognition in this woman’s eyes, just that faint expression of disdain.
He studied Beth Callahan’s sturdy, low-heeled brown shoes, her tweed blazer, slim brown skirt and the beige silk blouse with its prissy high neck. Ironically, the outfit was just about what he’d expected.
>
She, to the contrary, was most definitely not. He wondered why an attractive woman no more than thirty had deliberately gone the fashion route of a spinster librarian. She’d even pulled her rich, chestnut brown hair into a severe style, though it hadn’t managed to tame all the curls. A few tendrils had escaped to brush against her cheeks. The flush of color that tinted her face as he continued his slow, deliberately impudent inspection and the wariness in her eyes added to the almost virginal aura about her.
Of course, those pink cheeks and wary eyes might also have been due to the fact that she wasn’t used to lying. He supposed that would be a lousy trait for a woman whose career depended on her credibility. He had no doubt at all, though, that she’d suddenly veered away from the truth. The way she was unconsciously twisting her gloves into a knot was a blatant giveaway.
“Sold, huh?” he said finally, watching her closely. Some of the color seemed to drain out of her face.
“Um, not exactly,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
Ken held back a grin and barely resisted the urge to murmur “Gotcha!” Instead he nodded soberly and strode up the walk, trying like hell not to favor his injured knee. The brace he was supposed to wear had been giving him fits, so he had left it off. Now, between the long drive and the cold, the damn knee ached like the dickens.
He glanced back and saw that she was still rooted in place. “Come on, Ms. Callahan. Let’s get a look at the house. No deal’s final until the money’s in the bank.”
Despite his encouragement, he noticed that the reluctant Ms. Callahan was still lagging behind. With his hand on the doorknob, he beamed at her. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” she conceded. “I suppose there’s no harm in looking.”
As she joined him on the porch, he tested a couple of the boards with his weight. “Rotten,” he muttered. Probably termite infested. It was just as he’d expected. The house was a money pit.
Rather than being offended by his remark, she seized on his critical comment as if he’d tossed her a lifeline. In fact, a smile spread across her face. That heart-stopping smile made his blood hum in a way it hadn’t for some time now. It was a good thing, too. It was damn cold outside.
Moving a little faster now, she stepped toward a sagging shutter and fingered it pointedly. “You’re right, Mr. Hutchinson. It really would take a lot of work to fix this up right. Perhaps we should move on. I think you’ll find the other houses more suitable.” She glanced quickly toward his leg, then away again. “Besides, there are a lot of steps inside.”
Ken bristled at the display of sympathy. She had unwittingly fueled his stubborn determination to see this house. “So?”
She winced at his tone, but faced him bravely. “You might find that troublesome.”
“I can handle the damn steps,” he retorted irritably. He turned to look her directly in the eye. “Ms. Callahan, you have a reputation as the best real estate agent in the area, am I right?”
She murmured assent, that delightful pink tint back in her cheeks again. Whether it was due to pleasure or embarrassment or the blasted freezing wind, he couldn’t be sure.
“Then you wouldn’t have told me about this house unless it was something special, right?”
She evaded his gaze. “But it’s difficult to tell if a house is right for someone until you’ve met them.”
Bingo! “So you don’t think this house and I are well suited?”
To his chagrin, she didn’t hesitate. “No.” She studied him worriedly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. Actually, I have a place in town that would be just right,” she said with enthusiasm. “It’s small, completely modernized, well-maintained. I’m sure you’d be much happier with that. It would be perfect for entertaining.”
“Ms. Callahan, I don’t do a lot of entertaining.”
Her spirits deflated as obviously as if he’d poked a pin into a balloon.
“Oh,” she said.
“Now, let’s just pretend for a moment,” he began in the tone he used when telling a story to his daughter, “that you think this house is suitable for me. Cut to the chase. What are its selling points?”
She regarded him with obvious disapproval. “Mr. Hutchinson, buying a house isn’t like investing in a stock portfolio. It’s not the bottom line that’s important. You should have a feeling for a house. It should reach out to you.”
That sounded like heresy to him. Ken knew quite a lot about investing in stock portfolios, but he had to admit buying a house was new to him. He’d figured the strategy was the same: buy low and eventually sell high. Judging from the expression on Beth Callahan’s face, that wasn’t going to work for him today. He was beginning to get a vague inkling of the problem.
“This house reaches out to you, doesn’t it?” he said, throwing her own phrasing back at her.
She nodded, suddenly looking younger and more vulnerable. Appealing, in fact. He wondered why she worked so darned hard to hide her physical attributes.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” she admitted with a self-conscious shrug that he found downright charming.
“And you don’t want me to have the house, because you want it for yourself,” he suggested, finally understanding her dilemma.
“No. Actually, the house is mine. That is, I bought it for resale. I want to see it sold to the right people,” she blurted out, then groaned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”
Ken had to admit he was intrigued by her notion of who the right people would be for this dilapidated monstrosity. He normally didn’t like wasting time on fanciful nonsense, but he was in Berry Ridge overnight, anyway, and he had promised Chelsea he’d come home tomorrow with pictures of their new house. He was hoping to spark some enthusiasm for the move she’d been resisting from the minute he’d mentioned the possibility.
“Tell me what you see in the house,” he urged. “Room by room.”
As she listed its attributes, which were a wide stretch of anybody’s imagination as far as he could tell, Ken began to see it through her eyes. He could also begin to imagine Chelsea clattering up and down the stairs, sitting in the window seat upstairs on a rainy day with a book, swinging from the branch of that maple tree—once the worn-out ropes had been replaced—and Chelsea and him baking cookies in the old-fashioned oven, which probably had about another fifteen minutes of life left in it.
“Sold,” he said when Beth Callahan had toured him through every room, delivering her sales pitch at last with unchecked enthusiasm. She looked stunned...and adorable.
“But...” she began, then apparently lost her tongue.
“What’s the asking price?” He kept his gaze pinned on her face to make sure she didn’t inflate it outrageously.
She started to give him a high figure, then met his gaze and blinked. She sighed and named a lower one.
He countered by offering fifty thousand less. It was the first time in his experience he’d ever seen a real estate agent look utterly defeated at getting a firm offer that was clearly above the property’s appraised value. He’d checked it out the day before and knew it was worth less than what he was offering to pay for it, according to the tax assessor’s office.
“Are you sure?” she asked, casting one last wistful look toward the house.
“Absolutely.”
She held out her hand. “Then I suppose we have a deal, Mr. Hutchinson. I hope you’ll enjoy the house. The papers will be ready as soon as you can arrange financing.”
She added the latter with the air of someone clinging to a last desperate hope that he would be disqualified for the mortgage. He dismissed an instant’s guilt for robbing her of her treasured house, then announced cheerfully, “That’s taken care of. I deposited cash in the bank here this morning. We can take care of all the details first thing tomorrow, if that suits you.”
She looked as
if she might cry, and suddenly Ken had the oddest desire to pat her consolingly on the back. Or maybe kiss her until she smiled again, which, he decided, was a very bad idea. Still, to be fair, he would give her one last shot to stake her own claim on the house. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep this house for yourself?”
“No,” she said unconvincingly, her gaze pinned on that swing. “I hope you’ll be very happy here. Berry Ridge is a nice community.”
She said it in a flat, unemotional tone, as if she thought this sale had just caused the town’s property values to plummet, rather than just the opposite.
* * *
“Do we have to move to Vermont?” Chelsea demanded later that night when Ken called home.
The question had him rubbing his head, which was starting to pound. It seemed nobody today wanted him to buy this house. He held back a sigh. “It’s for the best, Shortstuff. You’ll love the house. It’s like something out of a storybook.”
“But, Daddy, I like this house. I have friends here. I like my school.”
“Your report cards aren’t much indication of that,” he countered dryly.
“I’ll do better. I promise. Please.”
Even though the tearful plea cut straight through him, Ken kept his own voice firm. “We’re moving and that’s that.”
“But you didn’t even discuss it with me,” she said in that grown-up way that mimicked her mother.
Forgetting that she was seven, not twenty-seven, he kept the argument alive instead of asserting his authority and putting an end to the debate. “I told you exactly what I had in mind before I left to come up here.”
“You told me. You didn’t ask me. That’s not a discussion.”
One Step Away: Once Upon a Proposal Page 2
