by Greta Boris
"S'mores time," Tyler said carrying a bag of marshmallows out of the tent. Rocket's nose followed. It was obvious the dog was divided between fear and food.
"Yay. S'more s'mores please." Emily let go of Art's leg and danced over to her brother.
"You haven't had any yet, so you can't say 's'more s'mores'." Jason said.
"Hey, who has the graham crackers?" Art hoped to deflect the argument he saw growing behind Emily's wrinkled brow. Having two older brothers made her a tough little thing. She didn't back down easily.
"Me, me, me," Emily called out. Insult forgotten, she shot into the tent to find the crackers. Seconds later Rocket emerged with her and the graham crackers—sugar induced courage.
"Make sure Rocket doesn't get the chocolate. It could kill him. I learned about it in health class. It has bro... bro... something in it that's like poison to dogs." Tyler said.
"Poor Rockety-Rocket," Emily said hugging the dog's neck. "I'll make you a marshmallow."
Art looked up at the night sky. Wisps of clouds wrapped around the moon. He wondered how many marshmallows the kids would get to roast before rain put their campfire out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gwen pulled up in front of the house on Sailor's Haven, disabled the lockbox, popped the key out and entered. There was just enough light coming through the windows to see. She carried some of her bundles inside and dropped them on the granite counter in the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. By her second trip to the car—she'd really brought too much—it was pouring, a hemorrhage of water. Thunder rolled again.
The house was chilly. The rain sluicing down the windowpanes blocked the last of the sunset. Gwen shivered. There was a fireplace in the living room with gas and imitation logs. She lit it. It didn't throw much heat, but the glow improved the atmosphere.
Gwen turned to her bags. First, she opened a bottle of Ravish and filled a wine glass she found in the cupboard. She'd stopped by the Barrel again that morning to buy more. She felt so guilty; she'd told Mo she was buying it for an open house at her Sailor's Haven listing in the morning. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how ridiculous she sounded. Mo didn't care why she bought wine. He was just happy she did.
She downed a third of it in the time it took to unpack oysters, strawberries, artichoke salad, a loaf of French bread, Brie, and a chocolate ganache cake—all foods she and Art used to share in the days when they picnicked at the beach.
Gwen lit a few candles and set the table in the dining room with the homeowners' lovely dishes then walked to the warmth of the fire. She stood at the picture window watching the storm clouds undulating across the water, and the harbor lights popping on one by one. A flash of lightning lit the room for a moment and illuminated the clock on the mantel. It was almost seven. A moment later came a clap of thunder so loud it sounded like it originated on the second floor of the house.
Her cell phone pinged from another room. She hurried to the kitchen, rummaged through her purse, found it and read, "Running a little late. Be there soon." Good, she had more time to prepare. She sent a smiley face.
She found a cut-glass vase in the cupboard above the refrigerator for the roses, arranged them and placed them on the table. She set an unopened bottle of Ravish next to the vase. It was suddenly important to her that he like the wine. Too important. As if his like or dislike of it portended something about their future. She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked into the kitchen.
Her cell vibrated in her pocket. "On way," she read.
"Good." Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she typed.
Gwen finished off her first glass of wine and poured another. The twinkling candles, the warmth of the fire, and the heat of the wine combined to drive away the chill she'd been feeling since she'd talked with Art.
She hummed to herself while she cut the loaf of bread. It would be okay. Tonight was a festive occasion, an opportunity to commemorate the biggest deal she'd ever participated in, nothing more. It was an evening to relax, enjoy herself and explore future options. Things were a bit up in the air. That's why she felt jittery. Tomorrow she'd be back on solid ground.
Gwen put the bread into a napkin-lined basket and brought it to the table. As she set it down, she heard a rap on the front door. Lance was on time after all.
Her hands tingled as if she'd grabbed a low voltage electric fence. She walked into the entryway with careful, measured steps. The door stood before her, dark brown and solid. She reached across what seemed a great expanse of tile for the gleaming, brass doorknob, turned it and threw open the door.
"Oh, it's you." A thin woman with tufts of gray hair poking out from under her umbrella squinted at Gwen and blinked twice.
#
"Mrs. VanVlear. Can I help you?" The words rushed from Gwen's lips.
"I saw lights and wondered if the Frobishers were home." Esther VanVlear tilted her head to the side, trying to see into the house. Gwen held her arms wide to block as much of the view as possible.
"I'm getting ready for an open house," Gwen said.
"You have candles lit." It was not a question. It was an accusation.
"Yes," Gwen said. Sometimes the less said at these times, the better.
"Trying to create some ambiance, I guess?"
"Yes." Good response. Gwen wished she'd thought of it.
"You're drinking wine?" Not an accusation, a request.
"Yes." Gwen couldn't invite her in. Lance would be there any moment.
Mrs. VanVlear stood, dripping rainwater, on the front stoop like a stray cat looking for a warm hearth. The standoff lasted an uncomfortable thirty seconds. She pursed her lips and wrinkled her forehead, but before she could come up with a reason she should be allowed in, Gwen said, "I've got a lot to do before I can head home. I'd better get busy. Thanks so much for stopping by." She began to close the door and heard her cell phone ping from the dining table.
"I could help," Esther said.
"No, really. That's so sweet of you. I've got it." Gwen's pulse danced with impatience.
"No trouble." Esther VanVlear put one foot inside the house. Gwen's phone chimed again. "Do you need to get that?" Her other foot slid over the doorstep.
Gwen dropped her arms in defeat and went to retrieve her phone. The screen read, "Need anything?" Yes. Help getting rid of a nosy neighbor, she thought but slipped the phone into her sweater pocket unanswered.
Mrs. VanVlear was eying the spread on the dining room table. "You go all out don't you?"
"Yes."
"If I ever sell, I'll make sure to call you." She licked her thin lips and looked longingly at the half-empty wine bottle and the chocolate ganache cake. "In fact, I'll make sure to tell the Frobishers' what a wonderful job you're doing for them. Setting the table with their best china, lighting candles all over the house, having wine and food. It's so welcoming. Just like you were getting ready for a...," she looked at the ceiling for a moment. "An intimate tête–à–tête."
Was there a threat hidden behind that waterfall of words? Gwen couldn't be sure, but thought a small bribe might ingratiate the woman. "Would you like a glass of wine, Mrs. VanVlear?"
"If you have enough. I don't want to put you out."
Gwen reached for the glass she'd set on the table for Lance, filled it a third of the way and handed it to the old woman. Then she stood, arms crossed, and restrained her foot from tapping. Her phone jangled in her pocket again, but she didn't dare read it. Every time she looked away, Esther VanVlear slid a little farther into the house.
"I hate to leave you standing in the doorway, but I don't want to get the Frobishers wood floors all wet," Gwen said.
"I understand, dear. I understand." The woman looked at her empty glass and back to Gwen. Gwen's face settled into the mask she wore with the kids on the candy isle of the grocery store.
"That was a lovely wine. It will fortify me for the trip home," Mrs. VanVlear said without enthusiasm. Why she needed fortification for a trip next d
oor was anyone's guess.
"It was so nice of you to stop by." Gwen herded her outside.
"I always strive to be a good neighbor. One can't be too careful these days." Mrs. VanVlear opened her umbrella. "Vagrants are known to move into empty homes when the owners are out of town. When the family returns, they have to evict them. Can you imagine?"
She turned toward the street and made her way around the puddles that had formed on the path. "I read about it in the paper. Sometimes it takes months to get rid of them. Squatter's rights, I think they call it," she yelled over her shoulder.
"Yes," Gwen said.
"Terrible. It's just terrible. I don't—" Gwen shut the door on the final words and pulled her phone from her pocket to read the new message.
"Well? I'm passing Ralphs?"
"No. I'm good." She typed. She took Mrs. VanVlear's glass into the kitchen, put it in the sink and reached for a clean one.
The phone lit up. "Too late anyway."
The clock in the great room said 7:17. The sun was long gone, and the black windows now looked like prying eyes. Gwen turned down the lights. She felt less visible in candlelight.
She sat on the couch, picked up her wine, and tried to slow her racing heart. Why did she feel so guilty? She wasn't doing anything wrong. Okay, maybe a little wrong. Flirting wasn't the best behavior for a married woman, but it wasn't an affair. It wasn't whatever she'd seen between Art and the waitress. By the time she heard the knock on the door, she had drained her second glass and was feeling better about the evening.
CHAPTER FORTY
Rain puddled on Art's sleeping bag. The walls of the tent flapped in the wind like the sail of a boat. He couldn't believe the kids slept through the racket.
He lay on his aching back in his damp sleeping bag, the musty odors of teenage boy, wet dog, and dirt filling his nostrils. At the moment, he couldn't remember whose idea this camping trip was.
Emily was restless; her bag knotted from constant twisting. She fussed whenever the noise of the storm hit a certain decibel, but didn't wake. This was not the trip he'd envisioned.
He rolled over to reach into a pocket built into the tent wall, slammed his hip into a rock, and swore under his breath. After groping in the dark, he found his cell phone.
When it lit, the cozy glow made him long for some of the other comforts of civilization, like real walls, a roof that didn't leak, and the warmth of a wife next to him. He pushed the weather app icon and typed Big Bear into the search menu. It came up, and he groaned. It showed rain all day Saturday and Sunday.
He pondered his options for the morning. They could get up and go into town for a big breakfast, buy rain parkas, and soldier on. Or, they could pack it up and try again another weekend. He knew which the boys would opt for. They would happily turn blue from cold if they could stay in Big Bear.
He shifted in his bag. A trickle of cold water seeped through a gap in the zipper soaking the right leg of his sweat pants. Emily flailed and moaned like a trapped animal. Art flopped onto his back and stared at the undulating tent roof, miserable.
The walls of the tent lit with an amber light. Seconds later, thunder boomed like a bass drum. Rocket tried to bury himself under Art's legs.
Great. They were lying in a pool of water. Forget morning; they should leave tonight. The tent was illuminated as lightning struck again. It was close. Too close. A long, menacing rumble reverberated in the air around him, and he began to think through the quickest way to break camp.
The world became as bright as day. A crack exploded near his head. Emily screamed and fought her way out of her tangled bed to a sitting position. Both boys lurched up, eyes wide.
"Daddy!" Emily called out.
"Shh, shh, I'm here," he said reaching for her.
"I don't like this," she said, whimpering.
"What the heck," Jason said. He was leaning on one elbow with a look of excited wonder on his face.
Another crash detonated near the tent. It was like a war zone out there.
"Okay, guys, we're leaving," Art said. The boys broke into an instant argument. Emily wiggled from her bag and climbed into Art's lap. "Listen to me. No arguing. This isn't safe."
"I have to go to the bathroom," Emily whispered with a panicky look on her face.
"I'll take her," Tyler said.
"I want Daddy." Emily tightened her grip on Art's neck.
"Go with Tyler, honey. Jason and I will start loading the car so we can get out of here." Art unraveled her from around him and passed her off to Tyler. "Let's get going J-Man."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lance arrived ten minutes later. Gwen pulled him into the house, away from Esther VanVlear's spying eyes, and closed the door behind him. "Crazy weather," he said, removing a dripping jacket and hanging it on a hook in the entryway.
His hair sparkled with water droplets. A stray lock curled across his forehead. He looked like a disheveled Prince Charming just in from a ride on his white steed.
But this was no fairy tale. He was a real flesh and blood man. The musk of the cologne he always wore filled Gwen's head. Her thighs went weak, but not from passion or longing. It was nerves. Anxiety knocked against her rib cage, making it hard to fill her lungs.
"Come and have some wine." She hoped he didn't hear the breathlessness of her voice.
Lance flopped on the couch, and Gwen went to the dining room. After she filled a glass for him and refilled her own, she joined him in the great room and set the drinks on the coffee table. She took the chair across from him, the one she'd sat in to explain the ins and outs of lockboxes to Mary Beth Frobisher what now seemed eons ago. She studied his face.
It was a stunning face, perfect for the cover of a romance novel. Large, dreamy, espresso-brown eyes sat above high cheekbones. In that genre, his mouth would be described as full and soft and promising pleasure. His gold-brown hair might be compared to tousled bed sheets. It begged to have fingers run through it.
She shouldn't be thinking these thoughts.
Love you, babe. Art's last words to Gwen blared like hunting horns in her mind. Love you, babe. Love you.
"The house looks great." Lance sipped his wine.
"Thanks. It's a beautiful place."
"I forgot how beautiful it was. I haven't been here since you first listed it."
An uncomfortable silence muted the easy banter that normally existed between them. Lance finally spoke. "I took Betty from-three-doors-down's cousin out yesterday. She fell in love with a house in South Laguna. I think we'll have another big deal in escrow soon."
Gwen leaned forward and clinked glasses with him. "Lots to celebrate."
"I'm glad you suggested doing it here. Quieter than a restaurant."
"That's what I thought. Better for conversation."
He raised his eyebrows. "Conversation?"
"Yes, I wanted to talk to you about our... partnership. I mean, moving forward. I want to know your thoughts."
He looked at her over the top of his glass while he drank, then lowered it. "I'd like to make it an official partnership, if that's what you're asking."
"What would that look like?"
"What would you like it to look like?"
Gwen stared at the water cascading down the black windows. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Turmoil outside and inside. A business partnership with Lance made sense. She could achieve more in her career with his help. She would make more money. More money was better for her family. So, why did she feel like she was being disloyal to Art by considering it? For that matter, why should she even worry about loyalty? Art hadn't. Sitting became impossible. She stood.
"Where are you going?" Lance reached for her hand.
"Let's talk about it over dinner."
He held onto her hand like she hadn't spoken. After a beat, she pulled it away. An angry expression flashed across his features marring them for a second.
"How do you like the wine?" Gwen asked, more brightly than she'd intended.
; "Not bad." He twirled the stem of the glass between his fingers and stared at the movement. A few long moments passed, then he asked in a resigned voice, "What are we having?"
Gwen led him to the dining table where she'd artfully laid out her picnic around the vase of roses. Art always said you eat first with your eyes. Stop it. She was thinking about Art again.
He had been unfaithful—she was almost certain. He didn't deserve her consideration. She shoved him firmly from her mind.
Lance sat and began picking through the plates with a fork. He speared an artichoke heart. "What's this?"
"An artichoke, silly." Gwen sat across from him.
He stroked his five o'clock shadow while his eyes traveled from plate to plate. Gwen had assumed Lance would like the same things she and Art did, but now realized she had no idea what he liked. Whatever it was, it didn't appear to be on the table.
"We should share any deals that come as a result of the Cliff Drive property," Gwen said.
"I thought that was a given." He helped himself to some bread and Brie.
"What about listings we already have, or clients we had before we started working together?"
He reached across the table and touched her hand. "Gwen, are you sure you should be making this kind of decision right now? I want to know how you're doing first. You had a real shock yesterday."
Sympathy wasn't good. Sympathy threatened to bring on tears, or rage, or weakness. "I'm okay. Try the artichokes." She handed him the bowl of salad.
He took a small spoonful and put it on his plate. He didn't take any of the oysters. "I have a deal closing at the end of the month. You have this place. Those are done. I vote we pick a starting date and share anything we get after that."
Gwen relaxed a little. They were on familiar ground, talking unemotional shop. "Should we sign a partnership agreement?"
"Absolutely. I have a buddy who's a lawyer. He'd probably write something up for us cheap. Unless you have someone else you'd rather use?"
