Her other problem was with the potential buyers. The two dynamic young men in three-piece suits weren't interested in the house for themselves. They represented a California company that had moved into Washington and wanted to turn the Irving House into condominiums.
"We ought to be able to break it up into five, maybe six," one of them had told her confidently. "Depending on the layout, of course."
"But...it's out in the country," she'd faltered.
He waved that off. "Easy commuting distance to Everett. And the house's historical interest, combined with the gardens and land, ought to make it a natural. Rising young professionals who couldn't possibly afford the house—and wouldn't want that much floor space, anyway—can buy a part of it. They get the charm, the prestige, stabling for a horse or two, for a lot less than if they were to buy the house itself. It's a natural."
Abigail smiled uncertainly, suppressing her instant and unprofessional feeling of repugnance. "If you say so," she'd murmured.
She could only recall a time or two that she had not wanted to make a sale. Then it had been because she'd taken such a dislike to the would-be buyer. Today it was to their purpose. Darn it, she liked the Irving House. She wanted to see it restored to its once-upon-a-time splendor, filled with a family who loved it. She hated the idea of five separate entrances, walls thrown up and others torn down, the staircase in the possession of one buyer, the library belonging to another. And the ballroom, gone forever. Where would the ghosts dance?
She almost hoped Nate wouldn't be here today. He hadn't said if he would be when she called to warn him of their imminent arrival. His voice had sounded strange to her, although, like the last time, he'd been polite. She couldn't put her finger on what it was; resignation, maybe? Oh, well, he obviously was less than eager for her to sell the house out from under him, so that wasn't exactly surprising. Instinct told him he would like the idea of these particular buyers even less than the Petersons, however.
Abigail stopped her car as close to the front porch as she could manage. The moment the wipers were off, the driving rain sheathed the car in a gray envelope. She couldn't even see the carriage house, much less its interior.
"Shall we go?" she said.
The two men, whose names were Phil Browder and Colin Santos, nodded reluctantly. Their enthusiasm had dropped a few points on the drive here. Abigail suspected the gray rural view was not their idea of beauty. Getting those handsome suits wet was clearly even less appealing to them. They weren't prepared with raincoats.
Once on the porch, shaking off the rain, all three stood and looked in silence out at the yard. What had been a scene of high summer and pastoral peace a few days ago was now dismal, the heavy-headed peonies beaten into the grass and the leaves sodden with rain. Even the colors were washed out.
Abigail couldn't think of anything to say, and neither man commented. After a moment she turned to give the door a cursory knock. When no response came, she let them into the house.
Abigail had a momentary feeling of deja vu as she stood in the dim, silent entry hall. When she took a cautious sniff, however, all she caught was the scent of floor polish and a faint mustiness, not surprising in an old house with many of its rooms shut up.
As they trailed through the first floor, Phil and Colin, as they'd insisted on being called, mostly murmured to each other and jotted down notes on pads. Abigail felt superfluous, since she had already told them about the remodeling Ed Phillips had done. When they started throwing up imaginary walls and talking about where exercise rooms and hot tubs might go, she dropped back, feeling a stab of anger and pity for the house.
As they mounted the main staircase to the second floor, Abigail asked, "What do you think so far?"
Colin frowned. "We're facing bigger expenses than we'd envisioned. The layout isn't ideal, you know." He looked at her as though it were her fault.
"The house is beautiful, of course," Phil's interjection was perfunctory. "But we'll need to go back to our offices and do some figuring before we can tell how the numbers will add up."
Inexplicably, Abigail's spirits rose. Her step was lighter as she led the way through the bedrooms with their attached sitting and dressing rooms, eloquent of a grand age that servants had made possible. She paused in the doorway of the one she liked best, letting the two men wander ahead. The room was huge and airy, with French doors leading out onto one of the balconies. The wallpaper was fading and torn, but Abigail loved it anyway, with the tiny butterflies against a pale yellow background. That it happened to be the only furnished room told her that Nate liked it, too. Her gaze avoided the bed, which she had admired the day Ed showed her the house, before she'd met Nate. It was a nineteenth-century spool bed, covered with a quilt in the log cabin pattern, done in bits of blue and yellow. Somehow the effect was too domesticated to fit her image of Nate.
Just for a second she tried to imagine him in that bed, and succeeded with disquieting clarity. The quilt was rumpled now, and in her imagination Nate's sleek, tanned chest and shoulders were bare above it as he stretched, giving her a sleepy, appreciative smile brimming with devilish intent.
Damn. She turned sharply away and marched down the hall toward the sound of voices, which came from a room at the end.
When she glanced in, it was to receive a shock. Phil and Colin weren't talking to each other, they were talking to Nate, who was leaning against a tall drafter's table by the windows and listening with an impenetrable expression. His gaze left them the moment she appeared, his eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. Just for an instant she regretted the slacks and bulky raincoat. Then she reminded herself tartly that looking sexy wasn't supposed to be her principal aim in life. And if Nate Taggart was starting to make her think it was, she'd better watch herself.
"Mr. Taggart," she said neutrally.
Amusement glinted in his eyes and he inclined his head slightly. "Ms. McLeod."
"I take it you've met Mr. Santos and Mr. Browder?"
"Yes." His voice hardened. "They tell me I'm standing in one of their future condominiums' kitchens."
Abigail's lips parted, but no words emerged. What could she say? I'm sorry? All she was doing was her job. As a broker she had agreed to show the house, to sell it. Nate Taggart had no business trying to make her feel guilty.
Phil Browder chuckled uneasily, sensing the atmosphere even though Nate's emotions weren't overt. "You're getting ahead of us, Mr. Taggart. Who knows, the whole project may not prove to be cost effective."
Nate didn't say anything. His back was to the bright goose-neck lamp that shone down on his slanted table. Perhaps because of the rain-washed, gray windows behind him, his eyes looked almost black today. The hollows under his cheekbones were shadowed and the grooves beside his mouth were cut deeper than usual. He looked tired, Abigail thought suddenly. She wished he didn't. She wished he'd give her one of those lazy, mocking smiles that sent shivers down her spine. She'd settle for him just saying something.
But he didn't. He only nodded without interest as Abigail's two businessmen murmured pleasantries and made their escape.
She stood aside for them, but hesitated in the doorway once they'd passed. "Nate, is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" He looked at her as though surprised that she was still there, and not very interested. "I'm working, that's all."
"But...." The protest died on Abigail's tongue. She lifted her chin in a deliberate gesture of pride and said distantly, "I'm sorry we disturbed you, Nate. Excuse me now." With that she turned and walked away.
Nate's fingers curled into tight fists as he stared at the empty doorway, listening to the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall. Then he swore sharply under his breath, meaning every word. So much for his little delusions. It had taken Abigail only four days to come up with another potential buyer. He guessed this was his second chance, one that he was flunking, although Abigail didn't know it yet. And they hadn't even had that date. He hadn't been able to kiss her. He never would be able
to kiss her, if she even began to suspect....
"Hell!" he muttered again. He'd never expected to feel guilty; the house meant so much to him. By rights of affection, it should have been his. If only old Josiah Irving hadn't clung to antiquated notions about the importance of family, despite his personal feelings about Ed Phillips, his great-nephew. But Nate didn't hold that against Josiah; he didn't mind having to buy the house. What he did mind was Ed breaking their agreement.
He drew a harsh breath and released it with a growl of frustration. He couldn't stay down here and pretend to work. It might be a stupid move on his part, but he had to see her reaction. Leaving the light shining on the desk behind him, he headed with long strides for the stairs.
Abigail's face, white and set with shock, was the first thing he saw when he emerged into the huge, echoing expanse of the ballroom. She was staring up at the impressive ceiling, ribbed with carved, decorative beams like a nave in a cathedral. Specifically, her eyes were focused on the largest of a number of ugly, damp spots on the plaster. A rhythmic drip was filling a small puddle of water at her feet.
Their mouths unattractively open, both of the men with her were staring up as well. But for the tiny flash of motion, the ping as each drop of water struck the wood floor, the tableau was a frozen, silent one. Nate's jaw muscles flexed painfully as he looked at Abigail. Then he forced himself into action.
"What in God's name...?"
Her face still stunned, Abigail turned to the sound of his voice. He walked quickly toward her, exclaiming, "If I could get my hands on those roofers! Didn't Phillips check their work? This is one hell of a mess! Plaster can't stand up to water damage." He stopped beside Abigail and stared up, too, although his senses remained attuned to her.
"Haven't you been up here since it started to rain?" The question was cool, Abigail's voice tinged with the beginnings of anger.
Nate took his time looking away from the ugly stains to meet her eyes, which still reminded him of forest pools. Unfortunately, at the moment they seemed to have a thin crackling of ice over their limpid depths.
He didn't like the question, and especially the way she'd asked it. He had a feeling she wasn't buying his act. All of this lying was starting to make him feel queasy. It didn't come naturally to him, and he hadn't foreseen the necessity of it when he started this charade.
In an unconscious gesture, he hunched his shoulders a little, evading Abigail's gaze while he did the same to her question. "I don't have any reason to come up here for weeks at a time," he said, his answer truthful as far as it went. "If you'll excuse me right now, I'd better get some buckets and a mop. I want to save the floor, at least."
As he turned away, Nate could see the uncertainty in Abigail's eyes. Feeling like the lowest scum on earth, he heard the awkward beginning of her apologies to the two businessmen she'd brought to the house.
"This is a real shock to me. I think it will be to Mr. Phillips, too. Before he even put the house up for sale, he had one of his crews replace the roof. He said the existing one was in abominable shape." She stopped abruptly. Even Nate couldn't resist a glance back at the discolored ceiling.
In the ensuing silence, however, he made his escape. Maybe, if he was very lucky, she'd be gone before he got back.
*****
By six o'clock Friday evening, Abigail was getting flustered. She'd been stuck at the office with a couple who had appeared just before closing and were anxious to talk about listings. Since they both worked and couldn't come during the day, Abigail had made herself be patient, even though she was desperate to get home. Just because it interfered with her social life, she couldn't jeopardize a possible sale. Times arose often enough when she had to put Kate's needs ahead of her work.
So now she was flinging on the first suitable dress that came to hand, a summery white silk one that outlined her figure nicely. She slapped on makeup with a careless hand, all the while trying to ignore the critique on her appearance that her four-year-old daughter was offering from her cozy spot on the bed. Every couple of minutes Abigail stuck her head out to issue one more instruction to the baby-sitter, who was in the kitchen dishing up the last-minute dinner for herself and her charge that Abigail had thrown together when she walked in the door.
Peering at herself in the mirror, Abigail muttered under her breath, "Isn't dating fun?"
"I wish I could go," Kate said wistfully, for at least the tenth time.
"Oh, sweetie." Abigail rose and went over to the bed to envelop her daughter in a big hug. "You know Mommy has to do grown-up things sometimes. I'm sorry."
The little girl, who had Abigail's dark curls and her father's blue eyes, made a scrunched-up face that spoke louder than words. Abigail laughed and gave her daughter another squeeze, but felt a pang inside. It was hard for Kate, when her mom was gone all day and then went out in the evening, too. Even if Abigail had felt more inclined, her need to be with Kate would have kept her from dating often.
The sound of the doorbell made her start. She'd missed hearing the pickup pull into the driveway of the small rental house.
"Come and meet my friend," she said, standing and holding out her hand.
Kate looked mutinous, but finally laid her hand in Abigail's and let herself be towed along.
The baby-sitter had already answered the door. Nate stood just inside the small living room. The moment mother and daughter appeared, his gaze flicked over Abigail in a comprehensive survey, then settled on Kate, who stared at him coldly.
Abigail did her best. "Honey, this is Nate. Nate, my daughter, Kate."
"I'm pleased to meet you," Nate said gravely. He didn't make the mistake of offering his hand, which would have sent Kate shying behind her mother.
Abigail didn't really expect her daughter to say anything.
She didn't like to meet new people. But after a thoughtful moment the little girl piped up unexpectedly, "We rhyme."
"I noticed," Nate agreed, the corners of his mouth twitching. "My whole name is Nathaniel. Is yours Katherine?"
Kate didn't appear to be sure she wanted to answer that, but at last she agreed, "Yes."
Abigail smiled and leaned down to whisper in her daughter's ear, "Katie Rose, you be a good girl for Erica. I'll come in and kiss you when I get home. Okay?"
"Okay." She turned up her face for a kiss, then stepped back to the baby-sitter's side. "Have fun, Mommy."
"Thank you, Kate," Abigail said. "I shouldn't be late, Erica. 'Bye."
Once in the pickup, Nate smiled at Abigail. "She looks just like her mommy. Beautiful."
"Thank you," Abigail said politely.
"No, I mean it." Nate reached out and tilted her chin up, so she had to look at him. His eyes had a glow that started a chain reaction in her, and the twist of his mouth was dangerously sensual. "You look very beautiful tonight."
Abigail swallowed. Still, her voice barely reached above a whisper when she said again, "Thank you."
Their eyes held for another irresistible moment. Abigail forgot that they were still sitting in her own driveway in full view of the front windows. But at last Nate looked away and his hand dropped to the key that he'd already put in the ignition. With a throaty roar the pickup started, and the taut thread between her and him was broken. Abigail fastened the seat belt. She felt as shaky as though she were strapping herself in for a trip to outer space.
"Anthony's Home Port okay?" Nate asked, his voice not giving anything away.
Abigail tried to sound as unruffled when she agreed that it sounded wonderful. She'd never actually been to the restaurant before, although she knew that it was one of several clustered in a waterfront development that overlooked a marina in Everett, less than a half-hour drive away.
The evening turned out to be one of the most satisfying Abigail could remember. She'd come to believe that dating was an overrated institution for adults; what was fun when you were twenty was tedious when you were thirty. Over drinks and then dinner, however, she and Nate discovered enough inter
ests in common to provide for comfortable conversation.
"Believe it or not, I grew up in Pilchuck," he said. "My father was a logger."
At eighteen, he'd fled the small town to go to college at the University of California in Berkeley. During her married life, Abigail had lived in San Rafael, a town just inland from San Francisco, so they were able to talk about museums and sports teams without missing a beat.
Abigail had already discovered that Nate liked to read, and she was pleased to find out that he skied, too, a sport she had always loved.
"Although," she admitted, "I haven't been able to afford to go very often these last few years. And when I work all week, I hate to leave Kate on Saturday or Sunday, too."
She hadn't meant to raise the subject, but Nate picked up on it. "Has it been hard being a single parent?"
Abigail took a sip of her Riesling, gazing for a moment out the window at the rows of moored boats bobbing gently alongside the floating docks. The sun was at last sinking toward the horizon, casting a gaudy orange sheen on the unusually still water of the bay. Finally she sighed.
"Yes and no. I wouldn't trade Kate for anything in the world, you understand, but…. Being a parent dominates my life more than it does for most people. I can't take a break, even if I'm ready to scream. One of the toughest parts is not having anybody to talk to. But then," she added with a shrug, "James wasn't all that great a parent, anyway, so I didn't lose anything there."
Nate looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't sound bitter."
"You mean about James?" Abigail tilted her head to one side as she considered his question, wanting to be honest. "I was, at first. On the one hand I was glad to be free. On the other.... There were times I resented what that marriage did to my life." She looked back down the years with pity for her younger self. "I was left with no career, no husband. What I did have was a toddler who really needed two parents. I wasn't so sure there for a while that I was any stronger than she was. Kate was learning to walk, I was learning how to take care of us. Sometimes I was terribly bitter! But that was a long time ago. I went back to selling real estate, which I'd done before I married James. I love it, and I'm proud that I've been able to make a go of it. And I love Kate. We have a good relationship. So, no, I'm not bitter, not now. Good heavens, I never even think about James!"
All Through The House Page 4
