by Jane Graves
“Nothing’s going on.”
Tom stared at him a long time. Then a knowing look came over his face. “My God. You like her.”
“Like who?”
“Uh…Alison?”
“Like her? Alison?” He shook his head wildly. “She’s a client. That’s all.”
“No wonder you didn’t like me staring at her when we saw her at McCaffrey’s. You’re hot for her. And you looked pretty cozy together when I showed up a minute ago.”
Brandon frowned. “You are so off base.”
“So you don’t like her?”
“No! I mean, yeah. I like her. What’s not to like? But I don’t like her like that.”
Tom grinned. “Ha! You sound like a teenage kid. ‘I like her, but I don’t know if she likes me, but my friend said she did, but if I like her and she doesn’t like me—’”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Brandon snapped. “Will you shut up?”
Tom smiled, then poked at his phone again. Silence, except for the infernal ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall that Brandon was ready to smash with a baseball bat.
“So why did you agreed to let her use your house?” Tom asked.
Brandon frowned. “It’s for a good cause.”
“Since when do you put philanthropy at the top of your list?”
He didn’t. Not usually, anyway. At the very least, he certainly hadn’t developed a sudden interest in the preservation of the historic buildings of Plano, Texas. And yet here he was doing this when he knew for a fact that it was only going to irritate him. Good God, what was wrong with him?
He didn’t know. There was just something about Alison’s unrelenting good nature and cheerful persuasion that made it almost impossible for him to say no to her. Sometime in the past few weeks, her happiness had become his happiness, and he couldn’t understand why.
“All kidding aside,” Tom said. “Watch getting too tangled up in this stuff when you’re going to be out of here soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t the only one staring at Alison the other night. You can’t start messing around with your clients, or you’ll jeopardize our plan.”
“I have no intention of messing around with Alison. Our relationship is strictly business.”
“Yeah? Every time I turn around, you’re with her for one reason or another. You’re letting her use your house for the tour. And you’re really dragging your feet on finding her another match.”
“I’m not dragging my feet,” Brandon said. “I’m just being careful. After the two I’ve set her up on that went south, I can’t afford to screw up again.”
“Well, set her up with somebody so she becomes off limits.”
Actually, that was a pretty good plan. If he made another match for her that stuck, she’d be taken, and anything happening between them would no longer be a possibility. That way, when it came time for him to leave, there would be no ties to sever.
* * *
“Now, that was a damned fine movie,” Charlie said, sitting in his well-worn recliner, watching the closing credits roll. “Assuming you like zombies. Me, I love zombies. They just keep coming. They don’t give up until you pop them right between the eyes.”
Personally, Alison had always felt sorry for zombies. They had to die, but then they came back to life again looking like hell, only to get killed all over again. Didn’t seem fair to have to go through it twice.
The truth was, though, that for the past couple of hours she hadn’t been thinking about the zombies.
She’d been thinking about Brandon.
When they were playing pool, she’d challenged him to run the table just so she could step back and admire every move he made. He was clearly a man in his element, moving gracefully from one side of the table to another, taking shots with practiced perfection. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. Her imagination had run wild: I wonder what it would be like to make love on a pool table?
And then Tom had shown up and blown a hole right through that particular daydream.
All through the movie, Blondie had stretched out inch by inch beside Alison until she’d shoved her right up against the armrest. Now that the dog had her fair share of the sofa, she was snoozing soundly. It reminded Alison of the time she’d had a window seat on a commuter airplane next to a three‑hundred-pound man.
“Hey, Blondie,” Alison said, poking the dog on the shoulder. “Hope you’re comfortable. I’d hate it if you weren’t.”
Without even bothering to open her eyes, Blondie took a deep breath, then released a sigh of doggy satisfaction.
“Shove her aside,” Charlie said. “She’s a sofa hog.”
“I know. But she looks so comfy.”
“And you say I spoil her.” Charlie tossed the remote aside. “Let’s eat. I’ll order a pizza.”
“You know you shouldn’t be eating pizza.”
“Chinese?”
“You’ll only eat the fried stuff.”
“So you want to tell me who delivers sacks of broccoli?”
“I’ll fix us a salad.”
Charlie frowned. “How about a compromise?”
“What?”
He made a face. “A vegetable pizza?”
From the tone of his voice, he might as well have said and toss a little anthrax on top while you’re at it. Alison still thought there was entirely too much fat in the veggie variety, but she’d take what she could get.
A minute later she had a pizza on the way, and her father was searching the Zs on his cable channels to see if he could score another zombie classic.
“Damn,” he said. “I don’t see any other zombie movies scheduled.”
“Try searching ‘dead.’”
“Nah. All that vampire crap comes up. I hate vampires. But not your mom. She loved them. Said they were sexy. Wrong. Vampires are not sexy.”
Alison’s heart skipped a little, just as it did every time he mentioned her mother.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you thought any more lately about maybe dating a little?”
Charlie frowned. “You know how I feel about that.”
“I think you need some companionship.”
“That’s what a dog’s for. I have a dog. Case closed.”
“What would be wrong with going out with a woman now and again?”
“Because most of the women out there have no balls.”
“Anatomically speaking, they really can’t help that.”
“You know what I mean. If I was on a date with a woman and I said her perfume made her smell like a French whore, she’d probably cry or something.”
“Yeah? You think?”
“But your mother wouldn’t have. She’d have told me my cologne smelled like monkey sweat, so we were even. I’m too old to tiptoe around anyone.” He turned to the dog. “Hey, Blondie!”
She lifted her head, coming to attention.
“You’re having a bad hair day. And you run like a girl.”
Blondie panted with excitement, her mouth turning up in a doggy smile.
“There. Do you see her crying over that? No. Which is why I’m good with a dog.”
Alison sighed. If he compared every woman he met to her mother, not one of them would ever have a chance.
When she’d come into her father’s den that evening, she’d glanced at the bookcase where their wedding album was. Her father wasn’t exactly fastidious about dusting, so she could usually tell if it had been moved. About once a month, it had, which meant that even though he’d carried on with his life for the past fifteen years as if he’d put his wife’s death behind him, Alison knew just how often he looked at that album and how much he missed her.
“I almost forgot,” Alison said. “I need your help.”
“Doing what?”
“Getting a house ready for the home tour.”
“Which house?”
“A friend’s. He’s agreed to let us use it, but
it needs a little work.”
“Where’s the house?”
Alison gave him the address.
“What day?”
“Saturday after next.”
“What tools do I need to bring?”
“We need to do some painting, some cleaning, and a little general repair stuff.”
“Okay. I’ll bring the big toolbox just in case. Will I need to stop by the Home Depot for anything else?”
“No. I’ll make sure we have any supplies we need.”
“So what’s wrong with this guy’s house that it’s such a mess he needs a repair crew?”
“He just inherited it from his grandmother and hasn’t had time to renovate it. I told him we’d help get the house ready if he’ll let us use it for the tour.”
“Don’t tell me he’s one of those guys who doesn’t know what the business end of a screwdriver looks like. I hate those guys.”
“No. Actually, he’s done a lot of real estate investing, so he knows home repair pretty well. He just needs some extra hands to get the place ready in time.”
“Then it looks like we’ll get along just fine.”
Alison smiled. For some reason she couldn’t figure out, she really liked the sound of that.
Chapter 15
The next day at work, Alison waited until most of her co-workers were on their lunch breaks. Then she grabbed the unmarked sack and moved stealthily to Lois’s desk.
“Hey, Lois. I need a business card design.”
“Yeah?” Lois said, still typing. “What’s in it for me?”
Alison held up the bag. “The usual.”
Lois’s eyes flicked back and forth with interest. “Same client?”
“Yep.”
“Standard size cards?”
“Yep.”
“Two-sided?”
“One will do. I already e-mailed you the info.”
“What kind of design are you looking for?”
“Incorporate the logo. Consistent branding. Other than that, it’s up to you. Oh—I do want the owner’s photo on the card.”
“Photo? That’s so hokey. I mean, this woman is a matchmaker, right? Photos on business cards are for cheesy insurance salesmen and real estate agents.”
“The matchmaker isn’t a woman. It’s a man.”
Lois screwed up her face. “Huh?”
Alison grabbed her phone and brought up Brandon’s photo. Lois looked at it and froze.
“He’s the matchmaker?”
“Yep.”
“A guy?”
“That’s right.”
She leaned away, clearly struck by the force of Brandon’s universal good looks. “Oh. Well, then. A photo it is.”
Alison smiled to herself. A picture was indeed worth a thousand words.
“I’ll run the final by you, then send it to the printer,” Lois said. Then she turned around and opened her lower desk drawer, and Alison dropped the sack inside. As she walked away, Lois nonchalantly shut the drawer and kept on working. But five minutes later, history repeated itself. She took the sack and disappeared into the bathroom.
Alison didn’t know when the Godiva people had started adding heroin to their product, but for that she thanked them.
“When you bought this monstrosity,” Heather said, “did you think about having to get it up these stairs?”
Alison looked at the massive Victorian armchair she’d scored from a seller on craigslist, then looked up at the stairs leading to her second-floor condo. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly going to be a piece of cake to haul it up there. She’d picked it up after work, and Heather had offered to help her move it upstairs. Of course, that was before she found out the sheer depth, breadth, and width of it.
Yeah, it was huge, but the moment Alison saw it, she had to have it. It had a carved rosewood crest with flowers, leaves, and nuts. Cabriole legs. Gold damask upholstery with diamond tufting. Just sitting in it made Alison feel as if she’d come home.
“We’re powerful women,” she told Heather. “We can do this.”
“A powerful man could do it better. Tony will be home in a few hours. Why don’t we wait until then?”
“So what am I supposed to do with it in the meantime? Have a seat in it out here and wait for him?”
“We could put it back in your car.”
“We almost didn’t get it out of my car,” Alison said. “Now, come on. You pull from the top, and I’ll hoist from the bottom.”
With a roll of her eyes, Heather lifted her end, and Alison lifted hers. They started up the stairs. The trouble was that neither one of them could see where they were going—Alison because the chair was between her line of sight and the stairs, and Heather because she was walking backward. And that made for slow going.
“Okay, wait,” Alison said when they were halfway up. “I have to rest a minute.”
She set the chair down on one of the steps and took a deep breath.
“I suppose it is kind of pretty,” Heather said. “If you’re into old stuff.”
“It’s more than just pretty,” Alison said. “It’s all original and in almost perfect condition. You don’t find them like this one every day.”
“But don’t you already have a chair like it?”
“I’m thinking ahead. One of these days I’m going to have a house with lots of rooms to furnish. If I see something I like at a good price, I’m going to buy it.”
“Ready to go again?” Heather said.
“Yep. Let’s do it.”
Alison started to lift her end of the chair, but Heather wasn’t joining her in the effort. Instead she was looking over Alison’s shoulder toward the parking lot.
“What?” Alison said.
“The Wicked Witch of the West just rode up on her broom.”
Alison looked over her shoulder. “The Wicked Witch of the West?”
“Oh, did I say that? I meant Judith just drove up in her Volvo.”
“Well, crap. Wonder what she wants?”
Judith got out of her car and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Alison, I have to talk to you.”
“We’re kinda in the middle of something here,” Alison said, “so it’s going to be a minute. But if you’d like to help us get this chair up the stairs, we can talk that much sooner.”
“No. I’m not in a big hurry. I’ll wait.”
Thanks a bunch, Judith.
Heather and Alison managed to maneuver the chair the rest of the way up the stairs and into Alison’s living room. Judith climbed the stairs behind them.
“Okay, Judith,” Alison said, brushing her hands together. “What do you need to talk to me about?”
“I got your e-mail that the owner of 614 State Street agreed to let us use his house. You said the owner’s name was Brandon Scott. But it wasn’t until I drove by that I realized you were talking about Rochelle Scott’s house.” She frowned. “He’s her grandson.”
“Yes, I know,” Alison said.
“He’s not a good person.”
Alison came to attention. “What are you talking about?”
“Rochelle and I were acquainted through the First Baptist Church,” Judith went on. “It’s a big congregation, so I didn’t know her well, but I do remember her grandson when he was a teenager.” Judith leaned in, her mouth set in a grim line of disapproval. “He was a juvenile delinquent.”
Alison almost laughed out loud. Judith taught at a private Christian school, where chewing gum or being late to class was considered delinquent behavior.
“Exactly what are you calling delinquent?” Alison asked.
“Well, every time Rochelle brought him to church, he just sat there with an insolent look on his face. She tried to introduce him to people, but he barely spoke. And a few times I saw him in the parking lot smoking a cigarette.”
Heather gasped. “Oh, good heavens! Tell me it isn’t so! A teenage boy with an attitude smoking a cigarette? That never happens!”
“It was more than that,” Judith s
aid. “He came to live with Rochelle when he was sixteen years old, and there was never a more angry or disrespectful boy. He used to sass his grandmother. And stay out late. She had such a hard time with him.”
“Brandon?” Alison said. “No. I think you’re mistaken. He and his grandmother got along very well.”
“Not from what I saw.”
Suddenly Alison had the funniest feeling inside. Even if Brandon had changed, Judith’s account of his teenage years didn’t exactly fit in with the warm, loving relationship he’d led Alison to believe he’d had with his grandmother.
“I didn’t know he actually lived with her,” she said. “I just assumed his family lived near his grandmother’s house and he visited her.”
“I don’t know where his family was, only that he stayed with Rochelle for a couple of years.” Judith huffed with disgust. “And he wasn’t a very nice boy.”
“He was a kid back then,” Heather said. “Cut him some slack.”
“Rumor has it he once went to jail,” Judith said.
“Jail?” Alison said, that sick feeling in her stomach intensifying. “What for?”
“They say he and another boy vandalized the school.”
Alison drew a breath of relief. “Come on, Judith. Vandalism isn’t exactly capital murder.”
“It’s still a crime. And there’s something more.”
“What’s that, Judith?” Heather said on a sigh.
“He doesn’t actually own the house.”
“Don’t be silly,” Alison said. “His grandmother willed it to him. Of course he owns it.”
“Wrong. I talked to some of the elders at the church. It seems Brandon can live there as long as he wants to, but if he chooses to leave, the house reverts to the First Baptist Church. They’re the ones who actually hold title to it.”
Alison had a funny feeling in her stomach, as if somebody wasn’t telling the truth here, and it wasn’t Judith. Then again, he’d never actually said he held title to the property, and if he never intended to leave, what was the difference whether he held title or not?
“From our point of view, that doesn’t matter,” Heather said. “Brandon has possession right now, so it’s up to him if we use the house or not. And he’s said we can.”