Perfect Nightmare Page 7

  “I’ll go to Dawn’s after practice and hang out until you get home,” Lindsay said, speaking so quickly that her parents both knew it wasn’t an idea she’d come up with on the spur of the moment.

  Simultaneously, both Steve and Kara sighed in surrender, neither willing to have the argument expand into a full-fledged fight that would ruin the day for all of them. “I guess that works,” Kara finally said.

  “If it’s okay with your mom, it’s okay with me,” Steve agreed, shrugging. “But I still wish—”

  “The open house here is from one to four,” Kara interjected, cutting Steve off before he could rekindle the argument. “We should be back by five—six at the latest.”

  Not if we find a place and decide to write an offer, Steve thought, but refrained from saying it, certain that the idea of buying a place today would only upset Lindsay even more. “If we’re going to be later than that, we’ll call. Okay?”

  Lindsay nodded, feeling better now that she realized she’d won the argument. But then she saw her mother’s eyes cloud.

  “Oh, Lord,” Kara groaned. “I forgot—we’re having dinner with the Bennetts.”

  Steve’s brows arched as he turned to Lindsay, seizing the dinner as one last chance to convince her to change her mind. “C'mon, kitten. We’re having dinner at Café des Artistes. You’ll love it—come with us.”

  For a moment she seemed to waver. “Who else is going to be there?” she asked.

  “Mitch Bennett and his wife.”

  Lindsay’s eyes rolled. “Ooh, that sounds like a lot of fun. A whole evening of watching an old man grope his trophy wife. I think I’ll pass.”

  “Lindsay!” Kara said, even though she didn’t disagree with her daughter. Mitch Bennett had dumped JoAnne—and there was no other word but “dumped”—for a girl scarcely ten years older than Lindsay. And since Mitch Bennett was also third in seniority in Steve’s firm, no one could say a word about it. All any of them could do was pretend that the new wife was faintly interesting, which she wasn’t.

  Steve, thankfully, didn’t argue, either. “Okay, then. You stay at Dawn's,” he said. “Can you spend the night there?”

  “I’ll be fine!” Lindsay insisted. She rose from her chair, picked up the milk and her dirty dishes and took them to the dishwasher.

  “Then we’re going to take off,” Kara said, glancing at her watch. “We’re meeting Rita Goldman at eleven-thirty. Mark will be here soon to go through the house and get himself set up—I told him we’d all be gone by ten. Do you want to stay here until practice?”

  Lindsay’s brow furrowed. “With that real estate guy? No way. How about if you just drop me at Dawn's?”

  “How about if you say ‘please’ and offer me a smile with that request?” Kara countered.

  Lindsay pasted a hugely exaggerated smile onto her face and drawled an equally exaggerated “Puh-leeeeeze?” and suddenly all three of them were laughing.

  Maybe the day was going to work out for all of them after all.

  Fifteen minutes later Steve stood in the kitchen, waiting—as he always did—for the two females in his life to come downstairs and get in the car. It was already ten after ten, and they would have to hurry if they were going to meet Rita Goldman on schedule. He opened his mouth to yell up the stairs, thought better of it, and decided to kill whatever time they took by taking a swipe at the countertop, adjusting the coffeepot and putting the dishcloth into the laundry. As he came back into the kitchen, he realized just how much he was going to miss this house. He and Kara had designed it themselves, and supervised almost every moment of its construction, and now that it had that perfect lived-in look, and the landscaping had matured into the vision they’d only been able to see in their minds for the first fifteen years, they were leaving it.

  For just a moment he was almost tempted to skip the meeting with Rita Goldman, take the house off the market, and figure out some other way to solve their problems. But even as the thought came to mind, he knew there was no other way. The die was cast, and it was time to move on. But if only—

  The doorbell jerked him out of his reverie.

  “Mr. Marshall!” Mark Acton said, coming through the front door as Steve entered the living room. “I didn’t expect you to be home.”

  Steve uttered a hollow chuckle. “We’re trying to get out of here,” he said, offering the other man his hand. “You know women.”

  Mark Acton’s hand felt limp in Steve's. “Don’t I know it!” he said. “Can’t live with ’em, and can’t live without ’em!” As the tired cliché lay quivering between them like a dying fish, Steve understood exactly why Lindsay hadn’t wanted to be here when the agent arrived. Acton seemed not to notice his reaction. “I just thought I’d get things arranged in the house,” he said, “get my signs up and then come back about twelve-thirty.”

  “That’s fine,” Steve said. He turned and called up the stairs. “Ladies? Time to go!”

  Seconds later Kara and Lindsay came downstairs, Kara carrying her purse and the portfolio she’d been keeping of Manhattan real estate, Lindsay with her gym bag slung over her shoulder.

  Steve watched as Acton greeted them. While Kara shook the agent’s hand warmly and gave him a few last minute instructions, Lindsay avoided him completely, walking around behind Steve so she wouldn’t have to touch Mark Acton’s hand or even say hello to him. And he realized he felt more sympathy for his daughter’s open dislike of the man than for his wife’s apparent warmth.

  Not that he didn’t understand what Kara was doing. For years he’d watched her treat people he knew she despised as if they were her closest friends.

  And as a lawyer, he was even better at it than she was.

  “Well, we’re in your capable hands now,” he said, slapping Acton jovially on the shoulder. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to sell this place today!”

  “I’ve got that feeling, too,” he replied as Steve followed his wife and daughter toward the kitchen and the garage beyond. “I think we’ve got a good chance of doing just that.”

  “Excellent,” Steve said. And if you do, he added silently to himself, I’ll never have to see you again.

  Then he was out the garage door and put Mark Acton—and his open house—out of his mind, focusing instead on finding his family a new home. But as he drove away and glanced at the house in the rearview mirror, he knew that no matter where they went, it wouldn’t be as wonderful as the house they were leaving.

  After all, despite the problems they’d had lately, it was a house that had no bad memories.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mark Acton glanced at the clock on the mantel: 2:45. Only another hour and fifteen minutes and he could close up the house, head over to Fishburn's, and start unwinding over a cold one. But right now he still had a houseful of people, and more were coming—in fact, they’d started arriving early, and continued streaming steadily in since even before the official one o’clock opening.

  Which meant the ad had worked.

  As had putting signs up early.

  And the weather was cooperating, with a low, chilly cloud cover and threats of rain—just bad enough to keep people from going jogging, playing softball, or heading out on the Sound for a day of boating. But not bad enough to keep them at home. Indeed, it was what Mark thought of as “perfect open house weather,” and obviously a lot of people had agreed with him.

  The first couple had knocked on the door, then opened it and called out a “Yoo-hoo” before he even had the brochures laid out on the dining room table.

  That alone had been enough to tell him this was going to be a good open house. Even if he didn’t sell the place today, there would be plenty of opportunities to prospect for new customers. He’d given out a couple of dozen business cards, and almost as many flyers. The worst that could happen would be that he’d pick up a new client or two, and if he couldn’t sell one of them this house, he had half a dozen more houses to show them some other time.

  “Hi!” T
he woman’s cheery greeting jerked Mark out of his thoughts, and he put on his best smile and started toward her. But even before he was close enough to offer her his hand, she held up her own as if to fend him off. “We’re just nosy neighbors.”

  “Hey, that’s fine!” Mark assured them, giving no visible sign that his interest had dropped from high to next to none. “C'mon in and look around.” Then he fished a business card out of his pocket. “You live in a great neighborhood,” he said. “But if you ever decide you’re ready to make a change, give me a call. I’ll bet you have no idea what you could get for your own house.”

  “I think we’re starting to,” the male half of the couple said as they headed off to look at the kitchen.

  As soon as they were gone, another couple came through the front door, but they were very young—maybe newlyweds—and Mark could see at a glance that there was no way they could afford anything like what he was selling today. Still, you never knew what the future held, so he was pleasant enough to them, and by the time he’d given them a quick rundown on the house and turned them loose to poke around on their own, more people were arriving.

  The next couple said they were working with an agent across town, and that was a good sign—whoever it was hadn’t come up with what they wanted, but they were seriously interested in finding something to buy. Mark gave them a personal tour, pointing out every feature of the house and implying that there was enough interest in the place that they’d better run back to their guy within the hour with earnest money ready in their hands.

  Just as he was about to lead them up to the second floor, a single man came through the front door. Mark called out a greeting to him, but knew this wasn’t a house for a single man, and that a married man would never buy a house without his wife seeing it. If this guy was previewing it for her, then he probably knew what he was doing, so Mark saw no point in wasting time on the latest arrival unless he came back with his wife. Then, as he was turning away, another man came in, and for a moment Mark reconsidered his appraisal—perhaps the two men were a couple, which was a whole nother kettle of fish. This could be the perfect house in a perfect neighborhood for two well-heeled, professional men. Most of the kids in the neighborhood were growing up, and soon it would be pretty much an adult community, just right for two men who were getting too old for the city.

  Mark continued talking to the couple on the stairs while keeping an eye on the two men, but as they moved off in different directions, it was clear they weren’t together. His interest in both of them dropped to zero—even lower than was his interest in the neighbors. Refocusing on the couple he was escorting, he deftly moved them toward the bedrooms.

  Then, at four o’clock, everything was suddenly over. The house emptied out quickly. The day had been a success, and he sat down on the couch to enjoy a few minutes of quiet, then opened the guest book and began making notes about as many of the people as he could remember. Already, he’d divided them into those who were prospects for this house, or another house, or just looky-loos to be forgotten, at least until he saw them again at his next open house. Then he began to mentally associate each person in the book with the faces he’d been seeing all day. For the most part it was easy—he’d always had a good memory for names and faces—and today it had mainly been couples, as usual, and only one single man.

  No, that wasn’t right. He remembered two single men.

  So one of them obviously hadn’t signed in.

  The one who had—Rick Mancuso—had introduced himself when they’d run into each other in the master bedroom, and Mark had no trouble recalling what he looked like.

  But what about the other man?

  The one who hadn’t signed the book?

  Apparently he’d merely come and gone, not staying more than a minute or two. Which was okay—it happened all the time.

  But the funny thing was, he couldn’t remember anything about him.

  Nothing.

  Weird, given how good his memory for people had always been. Still, it had been a great day. Though no one had written an offer on the spot, Mark was sure that Ike North would bring something in tomorrow or the next day, and he had a couple of follow-up calls to make, one of which he was fairly certain would result in an offer. The Marshalls were going to be very happy that they’d given him the listing.

  After a quick walk-through of the house to make certain everything was as it ought to be, he locked it up and headed for Fishburn's.

  And didn’t give the man he couldn’t remember another thought.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lindsay slammed her locker door, liking the sound as it echoed through the halls. She loved being at school when nobody else was there—somehow, it made her feel special. She couldn’t quite describe it even to herself, but that didn’t matter because even if she could, she’d never say anything about it to anybody. They’d just laugh at her for feeling anything but disgust at having to be at school at all.

  But she liked the quiet of the huge, cavernous building that was usually throbbing with noise and activity, and she knew she was going to miss it next year as she walked down the polished floor of the hallway and pushed out through the front doors out into the chilly, overcast afternoon.

  Dawn was waiting for her outside. “What are you doing tonight?” Lindsay asked as they began walking home. For the last hour she’d been trying to figure out how to get Dawn to invite her over for dinner—or even to spend the night—without revealing that she was afraid to go home, at least until her folks were back from the city.

  Dawn groaned. “I have to go to my dad’s for dinner.” Dawn’s father and stepmother lived across town—not far, but not close enough to walk, either. “He’s been on the road for a week, and I haven’t seen him for a while, so he’s picking me up at our house at five.” She checked her watch. “I better hurry—I want to change before he gets there.”

  “My parents are apartment hunting in the city,” Lindsay said, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk. “They won’t be home until late. They’re having dinner.”

  “Cool!” Dawn said, oblivious to the gloom in Lindsay’s voice. “You’ll get the house to yourself. I love it when my mom takes off—I make popcorn for dinner and play my music as loud as I want.”

  “Yeah,” Lindsay said. “Except I don’t feel much like that tonight.” She didn’t quite know how to invite herself to Dawn’s father's, but she didn’t want to go home alone. She glanced at Dawn, then decided to take the plunge directly. “Can I come with you to your dad's?”

  “I wish,” Dawn said. “But it’s ‘quality’ time night.” Her voice took on a mocking singsong note as she said quality. “He’s always wanting more ‘quality’ time. ‘Quality time with my princess,’ is what he always says.”

  “I think that’s nice,” Lindsay said, cocking her head.

  Dawn rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right! If he really wanted ‘quality time,’ maybe he shouldn’t have left us in the first place. Sorry, but I think he and his new wife are total dorks. And she’d pitch a hissy if I brought someone over with less than two weeks’ notice.” At Lindsay’s crestfallen look, Dawn touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Dawn stopped walking and reached for Lindsay’s arm, but Lindsay kept walking to avoid looking her friend in the eye. The problem was, she didn’t want to go home to an empty house, but didn’t want to tell Dawn that she was afraid, given how stupid she felt about the whole thing.

  What happened the other night was only a bad dream—nothing had actually happened.

  But still, she didn’t want to go home alone to a house where people had been roaming and poking around, going through her things all day long.

  And she didn’t want Dawn to ask her what was wrong, because she was afraid she’d start to cry.

  “You okay?” Dawn finally asked, catching up to her.

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” Lindsay answered. “I’m just depressed, I guess.”

  “Depresse
d? You think you're depressed? I have to spend the whole evening with Anthony and Sheeela and their little brat.”

  Lindsay glanced at Dawn, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation away from herself. “Come on—you like Robert. What is he, two? How can you not like a two-year-old?”

  “Yeah, actually, I do. I like having a little brother. He’s the only good thing about going over there. I can relate to him. Sheila is beyond me. And what Dad sees in her . . .”

  Lindsay tuned out Dawn’s rant about her stepmother, wishing she could unburden herself about how scared she was to go home to the empty house, but she couldn’t figure out how to approach it without having Dawn think she was being stupid. She began casting around in her mind for somewhere else she could go.

  As they approached the corner where they would go their separate ways, Dawn caught Lindsay’s arm, stopping her. “Don’t be depressed. Please?”

  “I just don’t want to move.”

  “I know. Just don’t stress, okay? I mean, it hasn’t happened yet, has it?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “And maybe it won’t happen. Maybe we’ll figure out a way for me to stay through next year.”

  “We will,” Dawn assured her. “Call me. You’ve got my dad’s number, right?”

  Lindsay grinned. “Speed dial six.”

  “Aren’t you the efficient one,” Dawn said. Then: “Hey—you did good today.”

  “So did you,” Lindsay replied. “You’re going to be head cheerleader next year.”

  “Unless you are.”

  “Fat chance. Especially if I’m not even here!”

  Dawn shrugged and spread her arms. “Miracles happen.”

  Lindsay regarded her best friend darkly. “Yeah,” she said. “But not to me.” She turned away then, crossed the street, and sped up as she walked down the last two blocks toward the house.

  Walking slowly, after all, was only going to postpone the inevitable.