by Janet Dailey
All the major work had been completed a week ago, and Mara had leisurely begun to furnish the cottage while Harve started advertising for tenants. She had not felt the need to rush to finish her task. Judging by the wide smile on Harve's face as he waited for her at the front door, she thought she might have been wrong.
"Hello, Harve." Her mouth curved in a polite reciprocation of his smile. "You said you had some good news. Is it about the cottage?"
She walked past him and opened the front door. Entering the house, she took it for granted that Harve would follow her—which he did.
"It's about the cottage," he answered. "I had a phone call from a man today who's interested in it."
The wide entry hall split the house in two. At the end, an L-shaped staircase that had once been enclosed led to the second floor. The sliding oak doors to the study, formerly the parlor, were open, hardwood floors glistening from beneath an area rug.
From inside that room on the left, Adam Prentiss called, "Was there any mail for me, Mara?"
"Yes." She paused and separated the envelopes addressed to her father from the others she had in her hand. "I'll only be a moment," she said to Harve and walked into the study. "Here you are." She placed the mail on the desk behind which her father's wheelchair was positioned.
He glanced beyond her to the man standing in the hallway. "Hello, Harve," he greeted him affably. "How's business?"
"We're selling a few houses," was the falsely modest response. "How are you, Mr. Prentiss?"
"Fine, fine," was Adam's dismissing reply, and he began looking through his mail.
As Mara turned to rejoin Harve, she let her gaze inspect his features. Cynically she thought that fresh-scrubbed, faintly freckled face had probably been responsible for selling quite a few houses. Although in his early thirties, Harve Bennett still possessed the wholesome innocence of a boy—a trick of nature, Mara was sure.
"Shall we go into the kitchen?" she suggested smoothly. Whatever Harve had come to discuss, it was no business of her father's. And she didn't want him listening in on their conversation.
"Sounds great. I could use a cup of coffee if you have any made," he said unabashedly.
"I think there's some left from lunch," she admitted, amused rather than irritated by his naturally pushy behavior.
Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, she walked to the coat rack. Harve was there to help her out of the wool jacket. She coolly smiled a thank-you before hanging the jacket on its hook.
"You said you had a phone call from someone interested in the cottage." She reminded him of the reason for his visit as she walked to the counter where the electric coffeepot was plugged in. "Someone local?"
"No, from Baltimore." Harve pulled one of the chairs away from the table and sat down, rocking it back on two legs and clasping his hands behind his head.
"From Baltimore? Why? Is this person moving here?" Mara filled two coffee mugs and carried them to the table. "Cream or sugar?"
"Haven't you remembered by now that I take it straight?" he chided her, and let all four legs of the chair come down on the floor with a resounding thud. "It seems your prospective tenant is looking for a weekend retreat so he can get away from the hassle of the city and the pressure of work."
"I suppose he wants to see it," she concluded logically. Sitting in one of the other chairs, she mentally began to calculate how long it might take her to complete furnishing the cottage if she devoted all of her spare time to it, "I have the bedroom furniture and the kitchen appliances there, as well as a sofa, but—"
"He doesn't want to see it," Harve interrupted.
"You don't mean he's going to rent it sight unseen?" Mara looked at him in frowning surprise.
"I didn't mean exactly that he isn't going to see it," Harve qualified his previous statement. "He can't get away right now and I, er—" he grinned "—gave him the impression that you already had several inquiries about the cottage and wouldn't be inclined to let it sit vacant until he was free to come here to look at it."
"So how is he going to see it?" she persisted.
"When I told him it was out in the country, secluded and quiet, he said it sounded like just what he was looking for. I almost got a commitment from him over the phone," said Harve, the pride in his selling ability surfacing with the claim. "To make sure he wasn't renting a log cabin instead of a cottage, and to speed things up, he wants me to send him some Polaroid pictures of it. I promised I'd send them to him in tomorrow's mail."
"Tomorrow? That's worse than I thought," she muttered. "Why did you do that, Harve? You know it isn't completely furnished yet."
"I told him that. He said he was only interested in the bare necessities." Harve sipped at his coffee, cradling the mug in both his hands.
It was all beginning to sound too good to be true. Mara felt a surge of skepticism that all wasn't as wonderful as Harve seemed to think.
"Who is this man? What do you know about him?" she demanded. "Is he young or old? After all the money I've spent fixing the cottage up, I'm not going to rent it to some wild young kids so they can wreck it partying all weekend."
"It's difficult to judge people over the telephone." he defended himself. "His name is Sinclair Buchanan. He sounded mature and well educated. I bumped the monthly rental a hundred dollars higher and he didn't even hesitate when I told him the price."
"A hundred dollars?" She was stunned.
"I thought that would get your attention." A smug smile curved his mouth.
"But why?" As far as Mara was concerned, the price they had been going to charge would have allowed her an ample profit for the repairs.
"He sounded as if he could afford it," Harve shrugged. "If he squawked at it, I could always say I'd read it wrong. As it is, you stand to make a handsome profit."
His reasoning was logical even if Mara found his ethics questionable. She lifted the coffee mug to her mouth, refusing to be stampeded into something because of some dollar signs. She sipped at the coffee and set the mug down.
"Still, Harve, I'm not going to rent it to just anybody, regardless of how much money is involved."
"Don't worry, Mara. If, after he's seen the pictures of the cottage, he wants to sign a lease, I'm entitled to ask him for personal and credit references. I'll check Mr. Sinclair Buchanan out thoroughly," he promised.
"See that you do, because I'll want to see the results." Mara informed him, the tone of her voice carrying an underlying warning.
"We have to take first things first." Harve wasn't concerned by her lack of total confidence in him; he had an extraordinary amount of confidence in himself. "And the first thing I have to do is take those pictures I have to send to him. To do that, I need the key to the cottage."
"I'll get it for you." Mara rose from her chair.
Harve was instantly on his feet. His hand was on her arm when she started to walk past him. "Better yet, why don't you come with me while I take those photos?" He was standing slightly behind her, his low, coaxing voice coming from the general vicinity near her ear.
"I'm busy. Maybe another time." She coolly brushed aside his invitation and would have walked out of his light hold, but he tightened it at the last minute.
"You're always telling me 'another time,'" he protested.
Mara felt the warmth of his breath against the bare skin of her neck, exposed by the short, smooth style of her sable black hair. There was a fleeting irritation that if Harve was aware of the number of times she'd put him off, why hadn't he got the message?
"It simply isn't possible today." Her response was firm and unmoved by his veiled criticism.
There was an instant of silence, and Mara sensed that Harve was debating whether this was the moment to press the issue. Finally his grip on her arm loosened and he stepped away, chuckling softly.
"I don't know what there is about you, Mara," he commented. "With most girls, after the second refusal, I'd stop asking. But with you, I keep leaving myself open for rejection."
> "I'll get the key to the cottage," she said.
"Is that all you have to say?" His exasperation was tinged with amusement. "Doesn't anything ruffle that cool composure of yours?"
Her lips curved in a semblance of a smile, but she didn't respond to his question. She doubted that Harve had really expected a reply. Leaving the kitchen, she walked to the study where she kept the key to the cottage in the desk drawer.
"Are you going to the cottage?" her father asked when she removed the key.
"I'm not. Harve has to go over to take some pictures for an out-of-town party who's interested in it." She took secret delight in relating the news to her father, considering his skepticism about the project.
"I thought it wasn't finished yet."
"All the repairs are done. It just isn't all furnished yet, but this person doesn't seem to mind," Mara explained. But she didn't mention the possibly higher rental income from the cottage. That was something she would keep to herself until a lease agreement was actually signed.
"Just make sure you know what type of person you're renting to," her father cautioned. "There's more to being a landlord than just collecting rent. There are those who tend to be destructive or careless with other people's property."
"I really don't need your advice, Adam," she retorted stiffly. "I've been handling my own affairs all by myself for quite some time. Virtually from the day you walked out."
He sighed. "I'm not trying to—"
"I know what you're trying to do," Mara interrupted with freezing contempt. "You may live in this house, but you won't control my life the way you controlled mother's."
She turned on her heel and swept out of the room. Harve waited in the kitchen. His gaze moved over her as she entered. Mara's arctic indifference to his caressive look made him take a deep breath of confused frustration.
"Here's the key." She handed it to him.
He looked at it for a second before his fingers closed around it. "I'll bring it back when I'm finished. It shouldn't take too long."
"All right," said Mara, since some kind of answer seemed to be expected of her.
"Are you sure you won't change your mind and come with me?" Harve tipped his head to one side, half expecting the answer he received.
"No."
"That's what I thought." A wry smile crooked his mouth. "See you later."
"Yes. Goodbye, Harve."
"And don't worry about the cottage or Sinclair Buchanan. I'll make sure it's a clean, sweet deal," he assured her with a wink. "Or we'll pass on it."
When Harve had gone, Mara lingered in the kitchen. The decision would be hers. She was not going to be influenced by Harve or money, and especially not by her father.
Chapter Two
A WEEK LATER Harve telephoned to let Mara know that Sinclair Buchanan was definitely interested in leasing the cottage. A few days after that Harve came to the farmhouse with the references supplied by Buchanan.
"You see, he checks out," Harve declared triumphantly as Mara went over the information. "He's not only a solid citizen with impeccable personal references, but I'm almost embarrassed that I questioned his credit."
Mara studied the papers for a moment longer, almost wishing she could find something to fault. There was nothing, but she couldn't shake off the feeling of unease.
"It appears you're right," she agreed, however reluctantly.
"You could be a bit more enthusiastic," he grumbled. "This is a great deal, Mara. You're unbelievably lucky to get an offer like this for the cottage. It wouldn't hurt you to show a little excitement."
"I'm aware of my good fortune," Mara insisted, and stacked the pieces of paler neatly to return them to the folder. "I simply think it's wiser to wait until I see his signature on a lease agreement before I begin celebrating."
"His signature and a check for the first and last months' lease payment. Don't forget that," Harve reminded her.
"I haven't forgotten," she assured him.
"In the meantime—" he removed a folded document from the inner pocket of his suit jacket "—let's get your signature on the agreement so I can forward it to Buchanan for his."
He spread the printed form on the kitchen table and handed Mara a pen. She read it through before placing her signature of "M. Prentiss" on the line Harve indicated. When it was done Mara felt better, as if she had made some important decision. It was really quite ridiculous to feel that way. She had signed a simple lease agreement, hardly likely to change her life.
"Why look so worried?" he chided. "From this point on it's merely a formality."
"I'm not worried," she denied.
As Harve had predicted, the final phases of the agreement proved to be a mere formality. The lease had been mailed to Sinclair Buchanan. By return mail Harve received Mara's copy with the lessee's signature affixed to it and a check. When he brought the document to the house, Mara guessed the reason for his visit by the expression on his face.
"Here it is." He produced the envelope with an air of self-satisfaction. "All signed, sealed and delivered."
On the last word, he handed it to her with a slight flourish. Mara took it, removing the papers from the envelope and glancing at the signature scribbled across the line to be sure it was there. A cashier's check was clipped to the agreement. Mara glanced at the amount and raised a questioning eyebrow at Harve.
"This isn't the right amount. It's too much," she said.
"Yes, I know," he admitted, and gestured toward the papers she held. "There's a letter with it. Mr. Buchanan is driving up Friday evening. He sent a list of supplies he'd like stocked. That's why he sent the extra money—for supplies and any inconvenience his request has caused."
Mara found the letter and skimmed the list. It consisted of mainly staple food items with a few basic supplies. Her first impression was that his request was arrogantly presumptuous, but she conceded that he appeared willing to pay for this extra service.
"Mr. Buchanan is very generous," she observed, unable to keep the hint of asperity out of her voice.
"I thought it might be easier if you took care of the list," said Harve. "I could arrange for one of the girls at the office to handle it if you're too busy."
"I'll take care of it when I do my own shopping," she stated.
"That's what I thought, too," he smiled. "Another thing—I've made arrangements for him to come here to the house to pick up the key to the cottage in his letter, he doesn't mention when he'll be arriving. Our office closes at five o'clock, so it seemed the most sensible thing to have him pick it up here."
"That's fine," Mara agreed, and folded the papers to return them to their envelope. "Mr. Buchanan and I will have to meet sometime. It might as well be when he moves in."
There was a nervous trembling in the region of her stomach. She blamed it on the fact that she had never been a landlady before. It was a new experience for her.
"I almost wish I'd rented the cottage so I could have you for a landlady. The problem is I couldn't afford the price," Harve grinned lazily.
"I doubt very seriously that you're poorly paid," Mara retorted.
His grin widened with boyish charm. "As a matter of fact, I didn't do too badly this month. With that check, neither have you." He pointed to the papers she held in her hand. "Why don't we celebrate? Have dinner with me Saturday night?"
Mara shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't, Harve. M—"
"If you say 'maybe another time,' so help me, I'll strangle you, Mara," Harve threatened insincerely. "This time I'm not going to let you turn me down without offering a legitimate reason."
"Harve…" She took a deep breath, determined to keep her patience.
"No, I mean it, Mara. Why can't you go out with me on Saturday night?" he demanded, the amusement leaving his expression.
"I can't leave Adam alone for that length of time," she stated.
"Your father is perfectly capable of looking after himself for one evening. I asked you to have dinner with me, not the entire night," Harve
pointed out.
"I don't agree with you. Adam shouldn't be left alone," Mara maintained stubbornly.
"I won't accept that." He caught her by the shoulders and kept her facing him when she would have turned away. "I can't make it much more obvious how I feel about you. I've been asking you out for months. I can't get you out of my head."
"Oh, please, Harve—" her look was cool in its amusement "—spare me those awful lines! You can't really expect me to believe them."
"It's the truth," he declared, anger surfacing that she should doubt him.
"And I suppose you were thinking of me while you've been dating all those other girls I've heard about. Let's see—there's that nurse at the hospital, the schoolteacher, a legal secretary." She began taunting him with the list of his most recent conquests.
"For God's sake, Mara, What do you expect from me?" He let her go and turned away, running a manicured hand through his carefully groomed dark brown hair.
"I don't expect anything from you." Which was the truth in many ways.
"I've been seeing other women," Harve admitted with an unconscious air of defensiveness. "Why shouldn't I? Whenever I'm around you, all I get is the cold shoulder. I happen to be human—even if you're not."
"If you have that opinion of me, then I don't understand why you keep hanging around," Mara challenged.
"Do you know something?" Harve glared at her, his usually smiling mouth thinned into a grim line. "I don't know why I'm hanging around here, either. It's been a waste of time and effort for what would have probably turned out to be sour grapes anyway."
Mara felt no emotion as he stalked away. The slamming door seemed such a childish gesture that it drew a faintly contemptuous smile to her mouth. But the whir of the wheelchair wiped it from her face. She turned to meet the approach of her father.