It Started with a House... (8 page)

“We barely escaped what could have been a highly embarrassing and life-complicating predicament,” she replied, unable to keep the entreaty from her voice. “Fine. So you're proving that you can touch me and make me respond to you. All that does is leave me with no choice but to keep my distance.”

Marshall shook his head. “I'll agree to anything you want short of agreeing not to see you.”

“I
think we have a deal.”

Genevieve beamed with satisfaction as her clients Glenn and Maureen Bigelow voiced their approval and reached for the pens she'd set on their breakfast-nook table of their home. She had just presented them with an offer on their house for their asking price—unusual in the current market. But location, structure and timing had all played a strong role in the buyers' decision-making—as did the Bigelows' willingness to leave behind a few rooms of furnishings for the young couple recently married and in need of everything.

“Great,” she said. “As you can see, I've marked the various paragraphs where I'll need you both to initial and at the end your full, legal signatures.”

This house on the east side of Lake Starling was considerably smaller than where her mother and Marshall lived, and about one-third of the price, but it was still
a handsome property with wonderful landscaping and boat ramp access to the water. She had met and liked the buyers—Raenne's clients. And this meant more professional people were coming to town—an avionics engineer who was being hired to man the first machine shop at the local airport, and his state police officer wife being transferred up from the San Antonio area.

While the Bigelows went to work, Genevieve picked up her BlackBerry and checked her messages. It was almost four in the afternoon and she was running a good hour behind, which wasn't unusual or problematic for another client, but she hadn't yet eaten except for a donut hole this morning that Ina had popped into her mouth when she'd handed her a coffee to go. No surprise that she was starting to feel shaky and weak. Then again it could be something else. Marshall wanted to take her to dinner in gratitude for what she'd helped him with so far in decorating his house, and she supposed she couldn't get into too much trouble with him if they were in public. But she was worried that she was catching someone's bug. The flu season had, of course, begun weeks ago and she'd gotten her flu shot, but she was fairly certain this wasn't that.

Once the Bigelows pushed the forms back across the table, Glenn—a retired electrician—asked her, “So if all goes well, this October 30th closing date looks good?”

“Raenne tells me your buyers are pre-approved for their mortgage and were renting while trying to find something up here, so there's no second house to wait on selling. You should be settled into your new home in New Mexico in time to entertain for Thanksgiving. Sound good?”

“We're so grateful, Genevieve,” retired schoolteacher Maureen said as they all stood. “I can't believe how easy you made this for us.”

“You had the desirable property, and made things easy for me,” she assured them.

She warned off Maureen at the door when the older woman wanted to hug her, and told them she had to settle for handshakes, provided they wash their hands right after she left. Promising that she would be in touch shortly to confirm matters, she hurried to her car. She was afraid that they would notice she was increasingly nauseous and ready to collapse.

At the office, she went straight for the small pantry next to the fridge to see what was available in the form of a quick sugar surge to get her to dinner. But another wave of nausea had her leaning against the doorjamb and holding one hand over her mouth and her arm around her middle.

Raenne emerged from her office with her empty mug to wash and put up. “Hey, there you are. Did everything go— Whoa. Gen!”

 

Marshall was entering the quaint cottage that was Gale Realty when he heard a woman cry out. Seeing Ina's reaction as she jumped out of her chair at the front desk, and recognizing that “Gen” probably meant “Genevieve,” he raced after the receptionist to the kitchen area. There he found what he feared—Genevieve on the linoleum floor and Raenne kneeling beside her smoothing her hair off her face.

“What's happened?” he demanded, immediately dropping beside her.

“She just sank to the floor,” Raenne told him. “Gen, can you hear me?”

Genevieve brushed away the other blonde's hand. “Yes. Please stop fussing.”

“Stay put for a second.” Marshall signaled Raenne out of the way and took the pulse of the woman who more than ever had become his chief preoccupation since that brief interlude they'd shared in his house three weeks ago. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“I'd say my pride, but that's a given.”

“Your skin is the color of egg mixed with ashes,” he told her. “Do you need to get to the bathroom to be sick?”

“Not at the moment. It's passed, I think.” Taking a deep breath, Genevieve's frustration surfaced. “Blast it, I'm too busy to get that bug that's knocking everyone on their backsides. If you don't want to catch it, you'd better back up.”

Marshall wasn't put off by the warning. “I haven't had a cold in four years and I've never had the flu. You can't scare me.”

“Can I videotape you and play it for my supposedly better half?” Raenne asked in all seriousness. “My husband hears me sneeze and he runs for fear that I'll make him too sick to fish at his next bass tournament. Genevieve, let him help you, hon. You really do look as though you've been smelling dead chickens all day.”

“And she's being diplomatic,” Ina piped in, still clutching her throat.

“Raenne, so help me—” Genevieve shuddered and clapped her hand over her mouth.

It took no effort at all to get her up, but Marshall noted
how modesty became Genevieve's priority over her nausea as she quickly shoved her navy-blue pencil skirt down over her thighs. He caught her self-conscious glance at him and would have smiled at her obvious memory of the last time he saw those lithesome limbs, but sensing she was ultrawobbly—and her strappy, blue-leather heels wouldn't help her balance—he kept hold of her by her waist.

“I just need a soda,” she said. “Can someone get me that? I'm thirsty and I'm sure that will settle my stomach, too.”

“Ginger ale,” Ina said, reaching for the refrigerator door. “I read that's good for an upset stomach.”

Genevieve had stopped listening and was frowning at Marshall. “What are you doing here?”

“We have a dinner date for tonight.” He frowned with increased concern. This was totally unlike her. She was a master of details and schedules. She had more data in her head than his BlackBerry possessed. “If you tell me that you don't remember that, I'm taking you straight to the hospital.”

His response won murmurs of approval from the two women still hovering nearby. But with a warning glance from their boss, Ina handed over the soda to Genevieve and followed Raenne out of the room.

“Raenne,” Genevieve called after the other blonde. “The Bigelows have accepted your clients' offer. I'll have the paper ready for you to fax in a few minutes.”

“I'll call and tell them, but take your time. Or better yet, let me do it for you. Just holler.”

Now alone with her, Marshall noted that Genevieve avoided eye contact by fighting the screw top on the
small bottle. “You're not going to get away with not answering the question.”

“I remember dinner, but I thought I was going to meet you somewhere or—”

“We're traveling in two cars? Am I still supposed to be a secret?” He took the bottle from her and opened it with a simple twist.

“Of course not.”

But she sounded less than convincing, and when he handed the bottle back to her, she murmured her thanks and eased around him to make a beeline for her office. Determined to learn what else was going on, he followed. Once inside the room, he was relieved to see that at least she sat down behind her desk, although he suspected that she did it to get more space between them.

He eased the door closed and leaned against it crossing his arms. “Hard day?”

“This contract evens things out. As you heard, Raenne and I have another sale.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” After taking a sip of the soft drink and grimacing, Genevieve pressed a hand to her flat tummy. “I don't think I can do tonight, Marshall.”

“Could it be something you ate?”

“Actually, I didn't eat—and don't start.” She held up her hand as soon as he opened his mouth to protest. “I didn't eat because anything I considered made me feel queasy, okay?”

“This keeps getting better and better,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Have you considered taking a few days off? Humans do now and then.”

“I will around the holidays when it gets quiet. It's
not like I'm not doing anything different than I usually do.” Genevieve tried to take another sip of the soda, but shuddered and replaced the cap instead.

“Then why don't we reschedule the dinner out and I'll go to the market and pick up a few things and make you a nice beef vegetable soup? Maybe potato cheddar and some fresh bread from the bakery? I'll even make it at your place so you can get into something comfy and warm and go to sleep right afterward?”

“That's too much trouble. I can open a can.”

Marshall couldn't resist raising an eyebrow, especially since she continued to avoid eye contact. “So it's okay for you to work yourself sick on my behalf, and I can't do something that I could almost do in my sleep?”

She covered her face with her hands for several seconds, leaving Marshall to wonder if she was going to burst into tears, order him out or get sick after all. But in the end, she simply reached for her purse. Taking out her wallet, she opened the coin section and took out a single key and offered it to him. “It's an extra I carry in case I lose my keys. Please don't go overboard. I should be there—” she checked her watch “—in an hour.”

“If you feel even remotely unable to make the drive,” he replied, “call and I'll come get you.”

The grocery store was only around the corner, so within fifteen minutes Marshall was in her house and unpacking his purchases. In another fifteen, he had onion, celery, carrots and parsley chopped, and a package of chicken thighs braised and now cooking in delicious broth. He'd opted for chicken because of the old adage about the emotional as well as physical attributes that
had been passed down for generations—and because it would be ready fairly soon.

That still left him with a fifteen-minute-or-so wait for Genevieve, so he poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle in the refrigerator and took a stroll to get a feel of her home. He'd liked the outside with its other-generation charm and the landscaping. Potted plants full of vibrant pink-and-red geraniums added lively color to the green-and-white theme. Inside, he discovered she liked Eastern influences amid furniture that was either upholstered in ivory or camel, or was trimmed in rattan. A black lacquered chest was stunning in the entryway adorned with a bonsai tree that got just enough light from the glass door and humidity from a softly trickling fountain to create a mini garden oasis, whose serenity spilled into the living room. There was no formal dining room, and only three bedrooms—one of which was empty; the other was set up as an office. The master bedroom was more classical with a sleigh bed, an equally hefty armoire and two nightstands.

There was no missing the photos of her late husband. Adam had been a handsome young man in an athletic, somber way, his jaw square, his nose and brow bold and straight, his hazel eyes making no mistake who had been holding the camera—or who he'd been thinking of. Marshall went from picture to picture, room to room, to gauge his competition. He didn't want to think of that dedicated soldier as that, but there was no way around it. This was the man Genevieve had loved and had stayed faithful to for all this time despite knowing he would never come back. If Adam had lived, there would be no way Marshall would be standing here. Even now, she
was protecting what had belonged to Adam. Marshall understood if he wanted to pursue these feelings he had for her—and he fully intended to—he had to make a place in her heart for himself.

How old would Adam be now if he'd lived? His own thirty-eight? Marshall guessed within two or three years of that. But in character there was no doubt they'd been as different as night and day. Genevieve had said Adam had been intent on being a career soldier. Unless there had been a draft, that was not for him, although Adam and men like him deserved and had his respect.

The sound of a vehicle had him returning to the kitchen. When Genevieve entered, she gave him an uncertain smile, her eyes darting around, including into the living room, giving Marshall a fair idea of what she was thinking. Not only was she gauging all he'd accomplished, hindsight had her remembering things—like those photos—she might have preferred he didn't see.

“It smells good in here,” she said, closing the door after herself and setting her things on a small desk near the door.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked. “You don't look as pale. Do you think you could handle a sip of wine?”

“Probably not. But that bread looks and smells heavenly.”

He'd stopped by the bakery and picked up a fresh loaf of simple rye. “I'll cut you a slice. The soup needs another thirty or forty minutes. Why don't you change and settle somewhere comfortable?”

She stood like a stranger in her own home, uncertain and almost shy. “Okay. It is good of you to do this.”

“I'll let you in on a little secret—it's a nice change of pace to be the helper instead of being the one in need.”

Watching her retreat to her room, Marshall yearned to follow her and do whatever he could to make her feel better. But he could see she was too unwell to wage a battle of wills at the moment. For the time being, he had to engage in an undeclared truce. Funny considering there was no declared war between them.

When she returned, she wore emerald-green velour sweats and thick white socks. With her hair loose from its casual chignon and brushed straight, makeup worn off and her jewelry gone, she looked about eighteen.