Just One Night. Nancy Warren
he hadn’t been able to say goodbye formally at her funeral, but he could for damn sure make certain that the next people who lived in this house were a family his grandmother would have approved of.
He suddenly realized that was what had brought him back to Seattle.
He needed to hand on the house to the right people. Then maybe he could let his memories go and get back to his regular life.
If he owed anything to Agnes Neeson’s memory it was not to let weenies who were scared of their own shadows live in her place.
He didn’t have much of an idea what he was going to do with himself for the next several weeks, apart from get his strength back, so he called Dr. Greene’s office and wasn’t remotely surprised to get an appointment that very afternoon.
HAILEY BARELY MADE the weekly office meeting at Dalbello and Company, sliding in as the office manager was in the midst of his weekly speech. Normally she worked from home, not interested in renting an overpriced desk. She dropped by to use the photocopy machine and to visit with her mentor and friend, Hal Wilson, who’d been in the business for thirty years.
She saw Hal standing near the water cooler and went over to him. “Did I miss anything?” she whispered.
“Ted says listings are up overall in the city and the house prices are starting to creep up.”
“Good news.” There were about thirty Realtors in the open area where they held the weekly meetings. Rows of desks stretched out behind her all currently empty. Two high-end printers and photocopiers sat to the side underneath a line of windows. A big whiteboard dominated this end of the room.
Ted told a couple of jokes, gave them a weekly sales tip, and then moved on to the reason she had raced to get here.
“Let’s look at the new listings.”
He boomed out the listings like an auctioneer. The standard mix of houses, condos, a couple of commercial properties. “And Bellamy House. Listed by Hailey Fleming. Her biggest listing yet and the biggest listing for our office this week.” He turned to her with a big two-thumbs-up. “Way to go, Hailey!” He started clapping and all the assembled Realtors joined in.
Sure it was cheesy, but the clapping and cheering worked to make her feel more confident.
Naturally she didn’t bother sharing with a group of sharks, all of whom would love to list and sell Bellamy House, that her listing was hanging by a thread.
When the meeting was over, a stylish redhead walked over to Hailey and Hal. “Congratulations again.” Her name was Diane and her congrats were as fake as her smile. She was a successful Realtor with a reputation for ruthlessness. “When’s the agents’ open?”
She shook her head. “The client’s very clear. He doesn’t want any opens. I’ve got photos on my website. Give me a call if you’ve got clients who might be interested. We’ll arrange a private showing.”
“Will do.” Diane asked a couple of questions about the kitchen and made a few notes, then walked off when her cell phone buzzed.
When Diane was out of earshot, Hal said, “I heard she tried to get that listing. She has a contact in the hospital. If a property owner dies, she hears about it before next of kin.”
“No!”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
Good thing the lawyer was a family friend. “Hal, I’ve got a problem. I need some advice.”
“Okay.”
She told Hal about Rob and the tentative agreement they had that she could keep the listing as long as she didn’t disturb him. “I’m sure the MacDonalds would have made an offer if he hadn’t scared them off with stories of his grandmother dying upstairs in the bedroom.”
Hal took his time answering her, finally, saying, “This is a great opportunity for you. I don’t want you to lose it.”
“Me neither.”
“Some clients don’t even know what they want. Sounds like he’s one. You’re going to have to manage him.”
“Manage him? How?”
“Hailey, my dear. Use one of your greatest assets. Your charm.”
DR. GREENE’S OFFICE smelled the same as it had for the thirty years he’d been dragged here, Rob thought, as he sat leafing through an ancient golf magazine. And the decor hadn’t changed since he was a kid either, he realized as he shifted on the cracked vinyl seat in the waiting room. He tossed the magazine aside. He didn’t even like golf. He took out his phone and checked his email. Nothing interesting.
He hated waiting rooms. Hated anything with the word waiting in it. He checked the time on his phone. He’d been here fifteen minutes. It wasn’t even his idea to be under a doctor’s care. Damn Gary and his officious dictates. So his leg hurt. It would heal.
A mom and her kid emerged from the treatment room. The kid hunch-shouldered and coughing. This family doctor was so old-fashioned he only had one room. As soon as the outer door closed behind the cougher and his mom, the receptionist, Carol, who’d been sitting behind that old oak counter since before Rob was born nodded toward him. “You can go on in.”
Horace Greene had to be closing in on seventy. His hair, what was left of it, was salt-and-pepper, his beard was Santa Claus–white and his pale blue eyes focused as keenly as ever from behind bifocal lenses. Doc Greene had been his grandmother’s family doctor longer than he’d been alive, and if he had a family doctor, he supposed it was this one. Doc rose to his feet as Rob limped into his office and held out a hand.
“Rob, how you doing?”
“Been better, Doc.”
The physician gestured to the oak chair in front of his scarred oak desk and took his own seat on the other side. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. How long’s it been?”
“Must be five years.”
He nodded. He might be chitchatting, but Rob wasn’t fooled. Those old eyes didn’t miss a thing. “Sorry about your grandmother passing. It was a big loss for you.”
“Yeah.”
“And what’s this? You’re limping. What happened?”
“I got shot.”
If Doc was surprised by the news he didn’t show it. “Mmm-hmm, so when was this? Who’s looked at it?” He pulled out a notepad and began scribbling.
“About a week ago. On assignment in Libya. My boss pulled some strings and got me in to a military surgeon. He took some X-rays, said there were no remaining fragments. Gave me a few stitches and told me I was good to go.”
Doc glanced at him over his glasses and said, “I bet he or she also told you to use crutches.”
The military surgeon had said that and a few other less complimentary things. He shrugged. “You know what a fast healer I am. You’ve always said I’ve got a head like a rock.”
“But you’re not bullet-proof. I should take a look at the wound.”
“I’m going to need a report from you that says I’m cleared to go back to work.”
Doc Greene rose and headed for his treatment room adjoining the office. “Drop your duds and let’s have a look.”
Rob followed him, trying his hardest not to limp, and soon found himself sitting on the exam table, his pants folded over a chair, his leg bared to the doctor’s prying gaze. And fingers. “Ow.”
“No discharge on the bandage and the wound is healing nicely.” Doc nodded, tossing the old bandage into the trash. “You said it’s been a week since the injury. We’ll redress that for you and it should be okay.”
The older man fussed around in a cabinet, taking