SEAL the Deal (5 page)

Mick laughed at the sight of himself at
eighteen, standing on a picnic table pretending to be swinging from a
low-hanging branch. He looked like an immature idiot. Of course, that’s what he
was back then. Amazing how a war or two can harden someone. “Can I burn this?”

Mrs. B snatched it from him. “Over my dead
body. These are dear to me. You—all the mids we sponsored. When we
learned we couldn’t have children, we were devastated. But sponsoring midshipmen
brought us such fulfillment.” She smiled. “You were always our favorite, of
course.”

“You’re just saying that because I brought
casserole.”

Mrs. B looked at the pan on the coffee
table apprehensively. “Oh, is that what that is?”

“It’s good. At least try it. Aren’t
casseroles customary when someone’s lost a loved one? Thought I heard that
somewhere.”

The old woman laughed. “You’re right,
actually. I have at least three that came from neighbors over the past few
days. Let’s just put this in with the others.” She rose from the sofa.

Mick followed her into the kitchen. He
took his usual seat, a stool pulled up to the counter. Doc had replaced the old
ceramic tile counter with granite as a surprise for his wife. Mick missed the
old tile. He missed the mustard yellow appliances they had when he was at the
Academy. Some kitchens weren’t meant to be renovated.

He saw the trash was full and started to
take it out to the can.

“Garbage is tomorrow morning for you,
isn’t it? Let me take this out,” he called over the creaking of the garage door
as it opened.

From the end of the driveway, he looked at
the house in the glow of dusk. He felt an ache he had come to know too well in
the past several days.

He missed Doc. He missed his deep, throaty
laugh every time Mrs. B said anything even slightly funny. He missed seeing his
weathered hand rub Mrs. B’s back affectionately and the way she’d lean into him
just a little, probably without even knowing it.

He couldn’t imagine how much Mrs. B must
be hurting.

Back in the kitchen, he heard the familiar
sound of her chopping vegetables. Mrs. B could do it fast, like the chefs on
TV.

“Thought I’d make some soup, Mick. Just
not in the mood for more casserole. You’re welcome to stay.”

“How about I take my favorite lady out
instead? Since my casserole’s not a hit, I still owe you a good meal.”

“Oh, honey, I’m not in the mood to go out
just yet. I need time.”

Mick kissed the side of her head with
gusto. “I give you two weeks and that’s it, lady, or I’ll be insulted. I
already got turned down once by a woman this month.”
Damn
. He hadn’t
meant to let that slip out.

Mrs. B stopped chopping. She didn’t even
have to say a word. Mick knew he was required to give an explanation.

“Just that woman at the funeral. The one
who fell. I asked her out to dinner. Shot me down.”

“The real estate agent, right? I think she
gave me her card. What was her name?”

“Lacey. Tracey. Something like that,” Mick
said causally, pretending not to have cared enough to remember.

“Lacey. Yes, that was it.”

Mick threw a raw diced carrot into his
mouth and immediately regretted it, chewing on it with disdain. He always
admired people who could eat raw vegetables as a snack. He was not one of them.
“Well, it’s good to get turned down every once in a while. My ego gets too big
otherwise.”

“Is she married?”

“I didn’t see a ring.”

“Why would she turn you down then?”

Mick shrugged off the question. “How do
you think Doc knew her anyway? He wasn’t planning on selling the house or
something, was he?”

“Lord, no. She probably just gave money to
the hospital at some time. Or maybe she advertises in their newsletter. I
didn’t get the impression she knew him well. Just admired him from afar, like
everyone else. A man who saved lives like my Don brings on a bit of hero
worship, let me tell you.” She laughed, tossing him a glance over her shoulder.
“She was a pretty young woman. But not overly showy like those others you
always seem to date.”

Mick let out an exaggerated sigh.

She barreled on. “And such a sweet girl. Very
thoughtful of her to send those lilies.”

Mick’s expression warmed, remembering how
Lacey had made Mrs. B smile at a time when he had worried she would never smile
again. “I thought so, too,” he said, gazing with a hint of longing at the
wedding photo of Doc and Mrs. B across the room. Their smiling faces reached
across the decades and spoke of a love that is uncommon, but might be worth
looking for.

His eyes drifted back to Mrs. B, noticing
a curious expression on her face as she looked at him. “What?”

She quickly looked away. “Oh, nothing,”
she said innocently, tossing a handful of chopped carrots into a pot.

***

 There was nothing like the smell of
fresh paint, Lacey was reminded as she guided Carolyn Miron through her
beautifully staged home. The open house was set for Sunday, and Lacey was
brimming with pride as she showed off the transformation to the owner who had
already moved into a nearby retirement village.

It was Lacey’s first waterfront listing,
and she had put more work into it than she had ever imagined would be
necessary. Listings gained by crashing someone’s funeral were a lot more
difficult than the average house sale, she had learned. Now, she had contact
information for everyone from grief counselors to assisted living homes to the
Social Security Administration.

Emerging from the foyer, Lacey pointed to
the new window treatments that framed the view of the Severn River sparkling in
the morning sun. “They look like Dupioni silk, don’t they? But they’re really
crushed voile. Much more economical.”

Carolyn gave a slight nod, reaching out to
touch the shimmering fabric that flowed from the new brushed nickel rod. Hung
close to the ceiling, the draperies gave the illusion of height to the windows,
and the creamy fabric Maeve had suggested added a hint of luxury without the
sizable cost of silk.

Guiding her client into the kitchen, Lacey
showed off the wood floors gleaming under their glossy finish. Steel hardware
modernized the old kitchen cabinets since new ones were not in Carolyn’s tight
budget.

Under-cabinet lighting highlighted the
granite countertops that replaced the old laminate. The counters were darker
than Lacey would have preferred, but the stone manufacturer had offered her a
great price on the Ubatuba stone because it had been rejected last-minute by
another purchaser. “There’s this tiny chip right here. It doesn’t affect the
stone strength, and I can barely notice it myself. But the other homeowner
didn’t want it, so we got lucky.”

Carolyn’s back was to Lacey as she traced
her hand along the luminous stone. “It’s beautiful.”

Leading Carolyn through the crisply
painted bedrooms upstairs, Lacey felt a surge of excitement at the idea of showing
off her work at the open house. She had even gone so far as to imagine herself
announcing to her parents when she visited them Thanksgiving that she had just
sold a million-dollar-plus property, if it sold in time. It would be nice to
have something to boast about for a change.

When this waterfront house sold, she’d
have the money to print up some marketing materials like fliers and postcards
for mailings. She might even be able to give up crashing funerals for business.

Lacey ended Carolyn’s tour in the living
room, so caught up in her own excitement that she barely remembered to look at her
client to see her reaction. She was shocked to see sadness in the older woman’s
eyes.

Her heart sinking, Lacey couldn’t stop the
words before they slipped out. “Are you really sure you want to list the place?
You don’t look happy about it.” She could envision her profit-monger sister
smacking her on the back of the head right now.

Carolyn sighed as she gazed at the view of
the Severn. “I really don’t have a choice. It’s too much house for me. And my
son thinks I should be in an assisted living home at this stage in my life.”

Lacey scowled. She had met Carolyn’s son once,
and it was one time too many. “I’d hate to see you sell it and then have
regrets.”

“But my son says—”

“It’s your decision, not his.” Lacey
cringed at her tone. “I’m sorry. It’s not my business. I just want to see you
happy.”

Carolyn’s hand gently swept over the
rented sofa that faced the view of the backyard. Lacey had found movers to take
some of the furniture to Carolyn’s small duplex in the assisted living
community. The rest was sold at auction.

“No, I really am ready.” Carolyn took an
audible breath and then smiled, as though making peace with her decision. “The
new furniture you rented does look a lot better than what I had here. You were
right. I never realized how dated it all was. It’s funny. You sometimes get
used to things over time, never knowing how bad they are until they’re gone.”

Why did Lacey think Carolyn was talking
more about her marriage than her furniture?

“And I never thought to face the sofa this
way. Lou always wanted it facing the TV. This looks beautiful.”

“It’s the view that’s going to sell the
house.”

“I’ve taken it for granted all these
years.”

“You were busy raising children. You
didn’t have the time to stop and smell the roses. You could now, you know. Just
give yourself a few months to think it over.”

The old woman smiled. “You’re a terrible
businesswoman.”

Lacey knew Carolyn hadn’t intended to hurt
her, but the words stung. She could hear her parents saying the same thing.

“I’m ready for a change, Lacey. This house
is beautiful now. But it holds memories I’ll be glad to shed.” Carolyn’s hand
toyed with the fixtures on the new French doors. “Besides, do you know how
close I’m living to the mall now? What old lady could resist that?”

Lacey’s cell phone rang. “I’m sorry. I
thought I turned it off,” she said, intending to ignore it.

“No, no. Take the call. I think I’ll just
sit here and enjoy the view a bit.”

“If you’re sure.” Lacey glanced down at
the number. She didn’t recognize it. “Lacey Owens.”

“Lacey, this is Edith Baker. I met you at
my husband’s funeral.”

Lacey’s heart rate sped up, the image of
the breathtaking Baker property dancing in her mind. “Of course, Mrs. Baker. How
are you?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. It’s
been a difficult week.”

“I can’t begin to imagine. Is there
anything I can do to help?”

“Well, actually, there may be. You had
mentioned you might be interested in doing some volunteer work for the
hospital, and I’m chairing a fundraising event there this fall. With all that
has happened, I’m too tired to do some of the planning. I could use some help.”

Lacey swallowed a sigh. She needed an
income. She didn’t have time to volunteer. But she had offered and it would put
her in a good position if Mrs. Baker ever did decide to sell her house. “I’m
not certain I know much about throwing a fundraiser, but I can help if you’ll
guide me, Mrs. Baker.”

“Perfect, Lacey. And please call me Edith.
Would you be available to come by Thursday evening to talk things over?”

“Absolutely.”

***

The house was empty when Lacey came home. She
was alone, except for a shirtless young man with washboard abs mowing the lawn.
She laughed quietly. When Maeve had told her that she had hired a neighborhood
kid to mow the grass, Lacey had pictured some wiry fourteen-year-old. But
considering who was doing the hiring, Lacey should have known better.

The “neighborhood kid” looked to be about
twenty-two by Lacey’s estimate, as she peered through the blinds at his
perfectly cut body.

Lacey waited as her coffee slowly brewed,
impatiently tapping her toe on the imported Italian kitchen tile Maeve had
installed last week. Her mind drifted to the phone conversation she had just
had with her father back at the office. “A volunteer opportunity?” he had
chided when she mentioned working on a hospital fundraiser. “That’s a
contradiction in terms. If you’re wasting your time without getting paid,
there’s no ‘opportunity’ there, Lacey.”

Maybe he was right, but it was too late
now.

She shrugged it off. Serves her right for
taking a personal call during work hours, she supposed. Lesson learned.

Reaching for a mug in the cabinet, Lacey’s
eyes wandered again to the man mowing the lawn. She noticed the sheen of sweat that
glistened over his ripped chest and bulging arms, seeming to accentuate each
sharp curve. How could she
not
notice, especially in the midst of her
self-imposed dating drought?

Inevitably, the image of the man she had
met at Dr. Baker’s funeral popped into her mind. She cracked a smile,
remembering the feel of his strong arms sweeping her off the floor with such
ease. Lightly tracing the rim of her coffee mug, her fingers tingled recalling the
feel of his hard pecs through his shirt.