All Through The House (10 page)

After she'd paid for her purchases, Nate walked her out to
her car.

"Old friends?" she asked.

"Bud's kid and I played football together. I was the
quarterback. My offensive line was so bad, I hardly ever got a pass off.
Plastered every time. Took it like a man, though. I remember Bud slapping me on
the back and telling me so."

Abigail had to laugh, too. How did he disarm her so easily?
She could see him as a teenager, so youthfully masculine every girl in the high
school was in love with him, but probably sullen, too. She pictured him lanky
under the oversize pads, the streaks of paint on his cheekbones. Dirty,
bruised, furious as he dragged himself from the mud, but swaggering into the
huddle every time, taking the snap, dancing back…. Wham. Did he ever throw
temper tantrums? Had he been flattered by Bud's pronouncement?

"The first time I went into the hardware store,"
she said, "Bud came over to help 'the little lady.' Asked why I let my
husband send me on errands."

Nate opened her car door for her. "Bud means
well."

Do you? She wanted so desperately to ask, the question
almost slipped out.

Nate didn't seem to notice how strained her silence was.
"I was going to call you this evening," he said, his voice lowering.
"Can I talk you into dinner again this weekend?"

By this weekend she would have showed the house one more
time. The die would be cast. They might not be speaking. But she didn't want to
think about that possibility.

"Why don't you let me make you dinner?" Abigail
offered on impulse. "Of course, Kate'll be there…" But then, he might
as well be reminded now that she and her daughter came as a package deal.
Romance and four-year-olds didn't go well together. That scared most men off.
Nate had seemed comfortable enough with Kate on the hike, but that'd been a
special occasion. Seeing mother and daughter at home, real life, would send a
stronger message.

"Hey, I like Kate," he said. "Friday
night?"

"Any time after five." She climbed in behind the
wheel, but Nate still didn't close the car door.

"You getting any interest in the Irving House?" He
sounded oh so casual.

A spark of anger lit in Abigail's chest, allowing her to
meet his eyes and lie through her teeth. "Well, somebody from Realty World
showed it the other day. Looks like the woman might make an offer."

His mouth tightened. "The one allergic to cats?"

"Yes. I understand one of yours had slipped in, but
she'd seen most of the place by then, anyway. The fact that you have cats might
have been a problem if the place was carpeted, but since it's not, she figures
a thorough cleaning would do the job. The agent commented particularly on how
nicely you keep the house up. That's a big help, Nate. Thank you."

Had she laid it on too thick? No, his face was stone hard
now, and he almost growled, "No problem. I'll see you Friday,
Abigail."

"I'm glad I ran into you," she said brightly, just
before he slammed the car door.

Driving home, she almost felt guilty. No, she did feel guilty.
If he was innocent.... Dear Lord, please let him be innocent. If he was, she'd
done him a terrible injustice.

But then, he would never know, would he?

*****

Abigail parked her red Accord well out of the way, beside
the carriage house. She'd arrived before Natasha Waldstein, who had insisted on
meeting her here. Abigail didn't want her car, a modern intrusion, to spoil her
client's first, all-important glimpse of the house. Her experience was that
sales were most often made or lost then, before the front door was even
unlocked.

And what a first impression it would be today! Summer was at
its height, which meant that the old roses were in bloom. A formal garden to
one side of the house must once have been magnificent. Abigail could see that
Nate had begun to tackle it, because the surrounding boxwood hedges had been
recently trimmed. Inside, the roses sprawled and climbed and massed with weeds
and lavender, the scent intoxicating even from this distance. The house could
be dour in gray weather, but in sunlight it gained a grace that entranced
Abigail. She wanted to see it restored, the weeds banished and the gardens as
elegant as they must have been the day William Irving had brought his English
bride to live here.

She heard the sound of an approaching car and hurried to
glance through the just-opened door of the carriage house. In the shadowy
depths stood Nate's pickup. So much for her prayer that she not meet him today.

A white BMW stopped where the driveway curved in front of
the wide steps to the porch. Natasha Waldstein had come alone.

A stout, well-groomed woman who had adroitly fended off the
years with the magic of makeup, plastic surgery, and beautiful clothes, she
gave Abigail's hand a firm shake.

"Oh, this is going to be fun. I love to look at
houses." Abigail's hopes sank, then immediately rose again when Mrs.
Waldstein added, "Who am I kidding? I love buying houses! Redoing them is
so challenging, don't you think? Fortunately Pete's indulgent, even though we
could live in a concrete bunker and I don't think he'd notice. Men." She
shook her head. "Well, shall we?"

Abigail led the way up onto the wide porch. "Did I
mention that there's a renter in it? I wasn't able to reach him, so let me
knock...." The heavy brass knocker fell with a hollow thud. It somberly
echoed Abigail's mood.  Ridiculous! she told herself. Mrs. Waldstein was a hot
prospect; the mansion was gorgeous. Nate didn't know they were coming. Even if
her suspicions were correct, what could he do on such short notice?

Plenty, if he was prepared. She knew, bone deep, that
something would go wrong.

The carved front door swung open and guilt almost choked
Abigail. Nate's hair was rumpled, his gray eyes inquiring. In jeans and a blue
cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up, he was overpoweringly masculine.

"What a luscious man!" Mrs. Waldstein exclaimed.
"My, oh, my. Do you come with the house?"

No, he's mine, Abigail almost said. On the other hand, did
she want him if he'd lied repeatedly to her? Even in her present mood, however,
she almost laughed at the expression on Nate's face.

He recovered quickly. "Shouldn't the question be, Does
the house come with me?" he drawled.

She batted her eyes. "Oh, but I have a man."

"Don't you have a house?"

Mrs. Waldstein chuckled and advanced. Nate, retreated and
she swept into the entry hall. Sunlight lay across the floor, making the colors
on the Oriental rug as brilliant as stained glass.

"Lovely," the older woman announced. "I'd
prefer carpet, though. Wood floors are such a pain, don't you think? So
cold."

Abigail hesitated on the threshold. "I'm sorry I wasn't
able to reach you, Nate."

He didn't even look at her. He was too busy watching
Abigail's buyer as she continued into the library, her high heels clicking.

"Did I miss the phone ringing?"

Abigail moistened dry lips. "This was on rather short
notice. I'm sorry."

She was a lousy liar. Thank heavens he wasn't looking at
her. He just…shrugged, as though she was a minor annoyance, and then followed
Mrs. Waldstein, whose voice echoed through the high-ceilinged rooms. "My,
it's dark in here. Victorians were so gloomy. Maybe if these bookcases were
painted white.... And white plush carpet...."

Hot on his heels, Abigail thought she saw Nate shudder. She
almost shuddered herself.

"I'm not at all a traditionalist," Mrs. Waldstein
said, when Nate and Abigail caught up with her in the parlor. "The molding
is pretty..." she waved a hand at the plaster garlands that gave the room
the grace of the English Regency, "but I don't think we'd need antiques to
go with it, do you? I love leather couches and chairs. So sensual." She
paused in front of the marble fireplace. "Is that a draft I feel? On such
a warm day?"

"Old houses are drafty," Nate said. "With
these high ceilings…." He shook his head. "The heating bills are
really something."

"Oh, bills." Mrs. Waldstein turned away in obvious
disinterest. "Pete pays those."

Nate gave Abigail a wild glance. She smiled sweetly and
followed her client.

She had to give him credit. He stood it for several more
rooms, all of which were to be decorated in ultramodern style, if Mrs.
Waldstein was to be believed.

"The effect would certainly be dramatic," Abigail
agreed, glad she didn't have to lie again, except by omission. The California
businessmen's condominiums were looking better and better. At least the corporation
had wanted to maintain an illusion of historical authenticity.

In the kitchen Mrs. Waldstein began talking about restaurant
ovens and huge stainless steel refrigerators. "Not that I cook," she
admitted. "But on the scale we entertain, a normal kitchen just doesn't
cut it. If you'll excuse the pun."

"Please excuse me, too," Nate said, rather grimly,
Abigail thought. "I'd better get back to work."

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Waldstein said gaily.
"We certainly don't need an escort. Unless you'd care to dance? Abigail
tells me there's a ballroom."

"I'll put your name down on my card," Nate said
without noticeable humor, and retreated yet again. In defeat? Abigail wondered.
Or was this a strategic withdrawal to plan the remainder of his campaign?

Not two minutes later, Abigail turned her head at the sound
of scratching. Where had it come from? Mrs. Waldstein was peeking in the
downstairs bathroom and gave no sign she'd heard. Dear Lord, what now?

In the utility room, she found out. At her side, Mrs.
Waldstein glanced around the spacious, enclosed back porch, complete with a
pull-down ironing board, a walnut hall tree for hanging clothes, and a
butcher-block table for folding laundry. The room was wrapped with small-paned
windows, and today was flooded with sunlight. The Californians, Abigail
remembered, had intended to turn it into kitchen number three, complete with
dining nook.

"Well, this is pleasant enough," Mrs. Waldstein
said.

Smiling noncommittally, Abigail thought about her washer and
dryer, ten years old, shoved in the garage of her rental. Then she heard
another soft scritch-scratch. "Oh, dear, what...?"

Two huge brown rats darted from behind the dryer and bolted
past their feet. Mrs. Waldstein screamed, and with remarkable athletic ability,
leaped atop the dryer. Abigail almost joined her.

"Oh, my God, I can't stand rats!" her client
shrieked. "Get me out of here!"

"They're gone now," Abigail reassured her. She
took a couple of steps. "There seems to be a hole."

"Oh, God, I've got goosebumps all over. What if they'd
run over my feet?" Mrs. Waldstein hugged herself and shivered. "Can
we go out this door?"

It was the second time she'd had to retire in disarray
through the back door. Abigail was steaming.

She managed a weak smile, however, and said, "I'm sure
an exterminator...."

"I'd never be able to sleep in this house!" Mrs.
Waldstein inched off the dryer, took a deep breath, then hurried for the back
door. Abigail followed with more decorum.

"I'm so sorry...."

"Oh, it's not your fault." Safely on the brick
path that encircled the mansion, Mrs. Waldstein seemed to be recovering her
composure. Her face was still pale beneath her makeup, however, and her
lipstick cracked as she compressed her lips. "I apologize for making a
scene. I just have such an aversion..."

"Don't we all," Abigail said. And he knew it.
"I'll certainly tell the owner to get an exterminator out here. I'd hate
to subject anyone else to...." Rats. She swallowed the word, though the
silence was speaking enough.

As far as she was concerned, the exterminator could add the
renter to his piles of rodent corpses. In fact, maybe he should just forget
these two rats, undoubtedly imported for one spectacular performance, and just
spray the biggest rat of all. Nate Taggart.

*****

What the hell? Nate looked up from his slanted draftsman's
table. Was that a scream?

He snorted. Yeah, in his dreams. Unfortunately, that broad
was too tough to scream if an Uzi were pointed at her. Abigail was probably the
one who had finally snapped. What had done it? Would aluminum windows have
pushed her over the edge? Concrete gnomes on the lawn? No, those were cheap,
tacky. This lady would go for expensive. Outdoor lighting. Rusted iron
sculpture. Painting the house a nice bright color to cheer it up.

He swore again under his breath. Abigail sure knew how to
pick 'em. No, that wasn't fair. The first couple - whatever their names were -
they might have been okay. He hadn't given them a chance.

Nate frowned. Had he heard a door slam? Must be examining
the back of the house, trying to decide where to put the six-car garage. Old
Pete, who didn't care about houses or what they cost, probably liked garages.
And those ancient boxwood hedges out there made the yard so dark.

He groaned and closed his eyes. What if the damn woman
bought the place? Could he deal with it? Was he crazy to throw away a house
that meant everything to him for a pair of long legs and mysterious eyes?

Then he heard the sound of a car door slamming. A few long
strides took him to the French doors overlooking the circular drive. Mrs.
Whatever was in her tasteful little BMW and Abigail was saying a few last words
through the open window.

Triumph rose in him, hot and sweet. They hadn't even come
upstairs! She didn't like his house.

"Yes!" He balled his hand into a fist. For the
first time he noticed Abigail's car off to the side. She'd driven herself. Maybe
she had time to celebrate. A cup of coffee, a kiss or two....

He took the stairs, a couple at a time. Just as the front
door opened, Nate sat on the banister and slid down the last flight, landing
agilely on his feet right in front of Abigail. There he saw her expression and
his smile died, fear grabbing him by the throat.