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  Rachel had found in more than ten years as a realtor that there were two main kinds of sellers. There were the people who couldn’t wait to sell. They were the ones who were having a new house built or were moving up in the world or were moving out of town. They were generally happy and gave Rachel free rein, listening to her suggestions raptly and carrying them out without question. Then there were the people who didn’t want to sell. They were being forced to because of finances or they’d been through a breakup or divorce and didn’t want the memories. Courtney was hard to pinpoint and Rachel found that intriguing, deciding she must fall somewhere in between. She rarely asked for details, though they were often offered up anyway. She preferred to use the clues given to her to figure out the situation on her own. Sort of a solo brain teaser, a challenge she issued herself.

  Twenty minutes later, she’d wandered the house unescorted—she always chose to make her first trip alone, without the narration of her client to cloud her judgment—and returned to the living room with her notes. Courtney sat at one end of the leather couch looking decidedly more nervous than she had earlier, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Rachel took the other end of the couch and sat at an angle so her knees pointed toward her. She placed her business card on the table and then consulted the scribbles she’d made during her perusal.

  “Okay, here’s what I’ve got.” She looked up from her notes to be sure Courtney was paying attention. The expression on her face was hard to read, but Rachel pushed forward, launching into her usual introductory spiel. “You’ve got a beautiful place here. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble at all selling it. A couple suggestions: Do whatever you can to get rid of the clutter. Clutter makes things look smaller, and you want everything to appear as large and roomy as possible. The closets are a little crowded. See if you can thin stuff out a bit. The guest bedroom has a bunch of boxes labeled ‘Clothes to Salvation Army.’ Get those out of here. They look messy. The upstairs office? You need to thin some of that out, too. That shelf of trophies needs to go, the certificates on the wall. Maybe replace them with one simple painting. And here.” She gestured to the entertainment center with her chin. “You need to get rid of some of the pictures. I always suggest that my clients depersonalize as much as possible. People want to walk through the place and be able to picture themselves in here. With all your stuff lying around, they’ll end up picturing themselves in your house instead of theirs, and I’ve found that doesn’t guarantee a sale as well.”

  Courtney blinked at her, the look on her face clouding over with…something Rachel couldn’t put her finger on. Anger? Pain? Rachel studied her. “Ms. McAllister? Are you okay?”

  Courtney stood abruptly and Rachel followed suit. “You know what? I think I’ve changed my mind.”

  Rachel felt her head spin from the unexpected change in direction. “I beg your pardon?” She barely registered Courtney’s hand on her elbow, almost pulling her through the living room and steering her toward the door.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Courtney said again, almost breathless as she opened the front door. “I don’t think I’m ready to sell. I’m really sorry to have wasted your time, Ms. Hart. Please forgive me.”

  Before Rachel knew what was happening, the front door closed and she was left standing on the front stoop of number thirty-seven, blinking in confusion. She stood there for several long minutes, trying in vain to figure out exactly where things had gone so terribly wrong and wondering how on earth she’d misread Courtney McAllister so badly.

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. In a gesture of frustration, she lifted her arms out and dropped them to her sides, the portfolio banging against her thigh. She finally conceded defeat and got back into her BMW, still feeling somewhat dizzy from the weird turn of events, though now annoyance had begun to creep in. She started the engine and stared at the dashboard, not really seeing anything but Courtney McAllister’s anxiety-ridden face.

  As she backed out of the driveway, she growled with irritation, “Well. That was a first.”

  Chapter Two

  “You did what?”

  Amelia’s voice was so shrill, Courtney had to hold the phone away from her ear, certain her friend had reached frequencies only dogs could hear. “I couldn’t help it,” she said, sounding like a whining six-year-old. “I panicked.”

  “Panicked? Girl, you freaked out. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  Courtney sighed and rubbed her forehead. She could picture Amelia, her dearest friend since college, sitting at her own kitchen table, her dark brown eyes sizzling with fire, her black hair glossy and brushed back from her face, which was probably etched with disapproval. Courtney fought to explain what she’d felt the previous evening. “I don’t know, Meel. I don’t know. I just…she was so…detached, you know?”

  “Detached? How do you mean?”

  “She wanted me to get rid of stuff…pictures and things. You know?” Courtney didn’t like the memory or the idea of what Rachel Hart, Million Dollar Producer, suggested she do. “She told me to get rid of my pictures of Theresa and me, her trophies and certificates in the office…” She trailed off.

  “She said that?” It was more of a statement than a question. “She said, ‘get rid of these pictures of your dead girlfriend, as well as her awards and stuff’?”

  “She said I needed to depersonalize,” Courtney said, knowing she wasn’t really answering the question.

  There was a pause and she knew Amelia was nodding, processing. “Let me ask you something. And tell me the truth.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did she know Theresa had passed away?”

  Courtney scratched at an invisible spot on her chest and nibbled on the inside of her cheek. “Um…”

  Amelia sighed. “Damn it, C. What the hell am I going to do with you, hmm?” Her tone was quiet, which in many ways was worse than when it was shrill. Courtney knew it meant Amelia was frustrated and disappointed with her, so she sighed, too.

  “Love me forever?” Courtney said, feeling small.

  “That’s already a given, you bonehead.” There was a beat of silence. “You’re going to call her back, right?”

  Courtney grimaced. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you absolutely have to. You need to get her back there—if she’s willing to even give you the time of day, which I have to admit, I wouldn’t be—and you need to apologize to her.”

  Courtney groaned.

  “And you need to tell her the truth. The poor girl deserves to have all the facts before she’s judged on her behavior, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. But she’s so…cool.”

  “That’s bad how? I’ve seen her picture. Remember?”

  “No, no. Cold. Cool as in cold. As in not friendly. She was beautiful, that’s for sure.” Courtney thought back to the strikingly tall figure that had stepped into her house like she owned the place. The perfect hair, the impeccable suit, not a wrinkle or a piece of lint to be found. “Beautiful and cold.”

  “Are you trying to sleep with her or do you want her to sell your house?”

  “Amelia!”

  “I’m just trying to understand you, that’s all. She’s a realtor, Courtney. Have you met many of them in your life? Because I have and I’m sorry to say, the majority of them are cold, conceited, and bitchy. But I’m also thinking cold, conceited, and bitchy is probably going to get me more money for my house, am I right?”

  Courtney grinned in spite of herself. “Are you ever not right?”

  “It’s rare, sweetie. It’s rare.”

  “Can’t I just call a different realtor?” Courtney winced at the fact that she was still droning on like a toddler.

  “Sure you can. After you call and apologize to Ms. Icy Cool.”

  They debated for several more minutes, but Courtney’s arguments became less and less vehement because she knew Amelia was right. She owed Rachel Hart an explanation and an apology at the very least. They hung up w
ith Amelia claiming victory.

  Courtney sat for long moments at the kitchen table, staring at the business card Rachel had left. She held it up and ran her thumb over the small photograph, a duplicate of the one in the paper, but this one in full color. The realtor stared confidently into the camera lens, as if she was certain the picture would be perfect. Only the barest hint of a smile touched her full, pink lips, and Courtney found herself wondering what Rachel Hart, Million Dollar Producer, would look like if she actually laughed outright. She imagined possible lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes; she imagined the almost-dimples that dented her cheeks deepening just a bit. Shaking her head, Courtney took in a big breath and blew it out.

  “Time to eat crow,” she said with a sigh and dialed the phone, thankful when Rachel’s voice-mail message came on. She listened until the beep, then took a deep breath and dove in.

  “Um…Ms. Hart. Hi. This is, um, Courtney McAllister. You remember me, I’m sure. I’m the one who wigged out on you yesterday and practically tossed you out of my house? Yeah. Well. Um, I wanted to apologize. I was very rude and I’m really, really sorry. It’s just…” She had no idea how detailed she should get, but couldn’t seem to stop herself once she got started. “It’s just that my, um, my partner was killed in a car accident not quite three years ago, so…the whole ‘take the pictures and stuff down’ aspect of your visit…I took that a little too personally, I’m afraid. I’m really sorry.” She exhaled, feeling relieved to have gotten it out. “Anyway. If you’re still interested in selling my house, I’d love to start over. If not, I understand completely and maybe you can direct me to another realtor.” She left her phone number and signed off, feeling a weird sense of pride and accomplishment.

  *

  “God, I want to take a nap.”

  Rachel looked across the room at her officemate, Danny Boyle, and grinned. “I told you to lay off the chardonnay during lunch, didn’t I?”

  Danny laughed, taking the chastisement in stride. “You did. I can’t help it. James doesn’t understand the idea of a quick lunch. He likes to eat at nice places.”

  “And nice places mean a glass of wine.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Just like a couple of gay men.” She winked playfully at him as she dialed the voice-mail retrieval number on her cell and listened. Closing her eyes as she absorbed the words, she muttered, “Oh, Christ.” The sound of her snapping the phone shut cracked through the air like a whip.

  Rachel could feel Danny’s curious gaze on her, knew her face was flushing, and she was more irritated at the shame she felt than she was about the overall situation. Not an emotion she was familiar with, embarrassment flooded her like some internal dam had just broken. The cell phone landed on the desk with a thunk. She dropped her head into her hands and groaned loudly.

  Cocking a perfectly manscaped eyebrow at Rachel, Danny asked, “Everything okay?”

  Rachel picked her head up from her hands and focused on him as she processed what she’d just heard. “That was my insane client from last night.”

  “The cute one who changed her mind at the last minute and tossed you out on your shapely behind?”

  Rachel managed a smirk. “The very same one.”

  “And?”

  “Remember when I told you that she started to get weird when I went through my depersonalization lecture?” Danny had taught that method to Rachel. Not all realtors used it because clients could be put off or become insulted, but more often than not, clients understood that the realtor just wanted to help create the best circumstances for selling the house. Before now, neither of them had ever run into an issue.

  “She had a lot of stuff out. A lot of personal things,” Rachel continued. Even though she’d already told him all this earlier, she felt like saying it again would maybe help her feel better now that she knew the root of the problem. She thought back to Courtney’s upstairs office in particular. There were photos and volleyball trophies and some MVP award on a wooden shelf, and several certificates and awards mounted on the wall. She hadn’t really looked all that closely, but she’d bet her entire savings account now that the name inscribed on each item was not that of Courtney McAllister.

  “So you said,” Danny prodded, willing her along with a hurry-up gesture of his hand.

  “So her partner? The one I was sure must have moved out?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, she’s dead.”

  Danny blinked at her in shock. “Wait, wait, wait.” He held up a finger, keeping her from continuing. “So…let me get this straight. No pun intended. You told her to take down and pack away all the pictures and personal items belonging to her dead girlfriend?”

  “That’s exactly what I did.” Rachel nodded with a grimace.

  “Oh, my God. Holy shit.” Danny cackled with glee. “This is better than a soap opera.”

  “It’s not funny, Danny. I didn’t know,” Rachel said in her own defense. Her stomach churned and she felt sick.

  “She didn’t think that might be a good thing to tell you?”

  “Apparently not.” She dropped her head back into her hands, mortified. “God, I’m so embarrassed. Was I just supposed to figure that out on my own? Do I look psychic to you?”

  “Wow.” Danny continued to chuckle, shaking his head. “I can honestly say in all my years in this business, that has never happened to me.”

  “Lucky you. Jesus.”

  “So…” He gestured to the abandoned cell phone with his chin. “Was that all she said?”

  Rachel looked up at him. They weren’t what she’d considered close, but in all honesty, she wasn’t really all that close to anybody. He was a decent guy; she liked him and his partner. They’d shared an office for nearly five years and they helped each other out with clients; he generally sent the lesbians to her and she directed the gay men to him. It was a relationship that seemed to work well for both of them. “She wanted to apologize.”

  Danny made a face of approval. “Okay. She gets points for that. A little late, but still a nice gesture.”

  “And she wants to know if we can try again.”

  Danny studied her as she chewed at her bottom lip.

  “I don’t know,” she pronounced after several seconds of silence, as if he’d asked her a question. “I just don’t know. Mostly because she’s made me feel like an idiot and I hate that. I don’t know if I can face her. I don’t know if I want to.” She looked at Danny. “What do you think?”

  “Well,” Danny said matter-of-factly. “Let’s look at the most important aspect, shall we? Would you make any money on the house?”

  Rachel pursed her lips before she spoke. “It’s a nice, fairly new place out in Mendon. Yeah, I could definitely get a good price for it.”

  He shrugged. “Then go sell the son of a bitch.”

  *

  The more Courtney had replayed her conversation with Amelia, the guiltier she felt about how she’d treated Rachel Hart, Million Dollar Producer, earlier in the week. Unable to believe Rachel had actually agreed to meet with her again, Courtney had spent the last three days rehearsing what she would say to the realtor when she finally saw her. She knew she had a lot of ground to make up and she was determined to do so. She delivered her apologies directly into the bathroom mirror over and over again until the wording was just right—sincere, but not too corny. She practiced her friendly smile, her open and approachable expression, hoping to invite any questions or suggestions Rachel might offer. She made a few small hors d’oeuvres of a good, sharp cheddar cheese and some crackers, and had a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge. As she glanced down at her outfit and smoothed a wrinkle out of her shorts, she chuckled not for the first time because she felt more like she was waiting for her date to arrive than her realtor.

  “God, what does that say about me?” she asked aloud, not really wanting to deal with the answer.

  She practiced her apology one more time, feeling confident that it was just right.
When the doorbell rang at exactly seven o’clock, all the words flew right out of her head and left her feeling blank and empty. She wanted to scream.

  Patting a hand over her hair one last time and wishing she’d pulled it back off her face instead of leaving it down, she took a deep breath and pulled the front door open. She felt the heat from the outside hit her like a wall, and all sound stuck in her throat.

  Rachel Hart stood on the front stoop looking like she’d just stepped out of an upscale catalog for ladies’ business attire and totally unaffected by the heat. Her suit was sage green and lightweight, a smart choice given the high temperature of late July. Rather than a pantsuit like the last time, this ensemble had a short skirt on the bottom and Courtney blinked, absorbing that Rachel’s legs seemed to go on for days. Courtney took in the imposing figure, from the strappy sandals on up, admiring the shapely cut of the matching green jacket and how it accentuated a trim waist, filing away the wink of cleavage that peeked out from beneath the cream-colored silk camisole, and stopping on the icy blue eyes that stared right back at her. Courtney nearly choked on her own breath.

  “Um.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed that she’d been staring so openly. She thrust out her hand. “Ms. Hart. Thanks so much for coming back.”

  Rachel took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

  “Please.” Courtney stood aside. “Come in.”

  Rachel entered the foyer, briefcase in hand, heels clicking on the tile floor.

  “Before we get started,” Courtney began, her voice quivering just a touch, “I just wanted to apologize once more. Face-to-face.” She looked directly at Rachel, wanting to be sure the realtor believed she was sincere. “I’m really sorry for the other day. I was rude and there’s no excuse for the way I treated you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  A beat of silence passed before Rachel responded. “It’s fine. No big deal.” She waved her hand dismissively and wandered off to the right, into the living room.