He continued to the door of the law office on the other side of the hall.
Thankfully, the lights were still on inside, even though it had to be early evening, judging by the low angle of the sun out the window at the end of the hall.
Nate pushed the door open. No one was at the front desk, but the strains of Rachmaninoff’s “Prelude in C Sharp Minor” drifted from somewhere in the back. Nate gave himself a second to listen to the haunting melody. How many times had he played it growing up? His fingers itched to move across a piano again.
He shoved them into the pocket of his jeans.
“Hello,” he called tentatively.
No response.
He called again, louder.
A few seconds later a youngish man in khakis and a casual shirt jogged to the front. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“No problem.” Nate sized the guy up. He didn’t exactly look like a lawyer. “I’m Nate Benson. I’m taking over the office next door. I was told you had the key.”
“Yeah. Of course. I’m Brandon.” The guy stuck out a hand, and Nate shook it.
“I think Cynthia left it up here somewhere.” Brandon moved a few stacks of papers on the front desk. “No offense, but you have your work cut out for you. You seen that office yet?”
Nate shook his head, careful to keep his expression neutral. “No, why?”
“Oh, man.” The guy let out an exaggerated groan. “Let’s just say Bernie was not what you would call organized.” He looked Nate in the eye. “At all.”
Nate shrugged. How bad could it be?
But five minutes later, after Brandon had finally found the key and Nate had opened the door to his office, he knew.
It was bad bad.
The office was small. Or at least it looked small. It was hard to tell with the dozens of boxes scattered across the space, most of them with papers spilling from their interiors onto the floor. A large desk stood against the back wall of the office. Aside from a small corner that held a computer monitor, the entire surface of the desk was strewn with a carpet of paper at least three inches thick. And that wasn’t to mention the two-foot-high stack of papers on the leather office chair. Two large filing cabinets stood next to the desk. Nate wasn’t sure if he should hope that they held a system for organizing this mess or that they were empty.
He shoved a hand through his hair. Dad hadn’t sent him here to prove himself.
He’d sent him here to fail.
Nate wove his way gingerly across the paper-strewn floor to the desk. The mess would have to wait for another day. Right now, all he wanted was to find out which building had an empty apartment, get a key for it, lie down, and figure out how his life had gotten so off track.
When he reached the desk, he shoved the chair aside, rolling his eyes at himself as half of the precarious tower of papers crashed to the floor. Ignoring it, he powered on the computer. Hopefully Bernie had kept better electronic records than he did paper records.
It took some clicking around, but he finally found a database titled Occupancy. He clicked on it, holding his breath. If this didn’t give him the information he needed, he’d end up having to spend the night here. Not an appealing prospect for his first night of so-called freedom.
Nate scrolled through the master file. There must be a few hundred properties here. Most of them with addresses in towns Nate had never heard of. He vaguely recognized a couple of the names as little blips of towns they’d passed through on the bus ride here. But he had no way to get to any of them. He needed something in Hope Springs.
There. A one-bedroom apartment.
And it looked like this one was just down the road, on Hope Street.
Most of the records looked outdated, but hopefully this apartment really was vacant as Bernie had noted here.
Now he just needed a key.
Nate pulled open the desk drawers but came up empty.
He scanned the room. If the keys to the vacant properties were in one of the boxes, he was sunk. It could be weeks before he found them.
His eyes fell on the filing cabinets again. They had to be in there, didn’t they?
Two giant steps over the piles of papers landed him in front of the cabinets. But when he tugged the first drawer handle, it stuck. He tried another and then another.
Nope.
Both cabinets were locked.
And he hadn’t seen a key for them in the desk. Who knew where it might be in this mess―if it was here at all? Bernie could have easily taken it with him when he left.
Nate laid his forearm across the top of the closest filing cabinet and rested his head on it. It would be nice if something happened easily for once.
He was pretty sure he’d seen some paper clips scattered across the desk. Not that he had any idea how to pick a lock. But it was worth a shot.
He waded back through the papers and rummaged around the desk until he came up with one. He examined it for a second, then unbent it. It looked nothing like a key.
But he made his way back to the filing cabinet and stuck the end of the paper clip into the keyhole. He wiggled it up and down, then side to side. Nothing.
After ten minutes, he had to face the facts: he was a terrible lock pick.
He glanced around the room. Now what?
There.
In the opposite corner, next to one of the boxes, half buried in papers. It looked like a toolbox.
Nate hurried across the room, almost slipping on a loose sheet of paper. He uncovered the toolbox and surveyed its contents.
A screwdriver, four nails, and a hammer.
Not much, but he could probably work with it.
He scooped up the screwdriver and hammer and recrossed the room.
After studying the first cabinet a minute, he stuck the screwdriver in the keyhole, drew the hammer back with his other hand, and smacked the handle of the screwdriver with a solid blow.
Three more blows and the lock released. Nate yanked open the drawers.
More papers.
But no keys.
He dropped his head but moved to the next filing cabinet. They had to be in here.
He lined up the screwdriver and was about to strike it with the hammer when the door to the office burst open.
“What are you doing?”
Nate spun toward the door. Brandon stood there, looking half startled, half amused.
“I need to get into this to find the keys.” Nate turned back to the cabinet.
“Does that actually work?”
“Yep.” Nate lined the hammer up again and hit the screwdriver square in the middle of the head.
He didn’t stop until the lock released four blows later.
“Nice.”
Nate glanced over his shoulder. Brandon was still there, looking mildly impressed.
Nate grunted. The dude might as well learn sooner rather than later that he wasn’t here to make friends.
He yanked the drawers open. The top two were more papers.
But the middle drawer held several panels with hooks to hang keys. About a quarter of them were full. Nate squatted alongside the cabinet and scanned the address labels above each key.
But there wasn’t one for any property on Hope Street.
His shoulders dropped.
That would have been too easy.
He wrenched open the next drawer, even though it was pretty clear fate or God or whoever was not smiling on him today.
The first key he saw was labeled 612 Hope Street.
“Thank you.” He grabbed it and stood, not really sure who he was thanking.
“What is it?” Brandon looked like he was about to take a step into the room but then thought better of navigating the mess and stayed put.
“The key to my new apartment.” Nate crunched through the papers to get to the door. He grabbed his suitcase and flipped off the light switch.
Brandon stepped backwards into the hallway, and Nate followed, locking the door behind himself, though it migh
t do him a favor if someone broke in and took everything.
He’d probably be better off starting from scratch. Just like with his life.
Chapter 4
Violet straightened and massaged a kink in her lower back.
She gave the Regency style dresser she’d been polishing a final once over. The finish had been dull and scratched when she’d bought it, with a watermark right in the middle of the top, but the stain was barely visible anymore.
She pulled off the old t-shirt of Cade’s she’d worn to protect her clothes and moved to the workshop’s sink to wash her hands. Although it was the middle of tourist season, it’d been a slow day. She’d only had a handful of customers. And most had browsed the store without buying anything. The others had made only small purchases―some postcards, an old washboard, and a vintage camera. She needed to make a big sale soon if she was going to pay the bills this month.
She stepped through the double doors leading to the sales floor. After such a slow day, she was thankful it was time to flip the sign to closed. But on her way to the front door, she got sidetracked by the stack of mail she’d never opened. A postcard with a picture of a sunrise over the ocean sat on top of the pile. She smiled as she picked it up and flipped it over to read Sophie’s neat handwriting. I think I may be the most blessed woman in the world.
Violet sighed as she hung the card on the bulletin board behind her desk. Sophie was definitely blessed. She’d finally found her way back to the man she’d loved for years. And now they were married and off on their honeymoon.
Images of her own honeymoon sprang to mind. Cade’s expression of wonder as they swam with dolphins, his insistence that they get ice cream every day, the way he’d looked at her like he’d treasure her forever. Out of habit, Violet rubbed at her wedding ring. But her thumb only met bare skin, and her heart jumped. Her ring was upstairs in her jewelry box, where she’d placed it this morning. Her eyes traveled to the bare white patch of skin in its place.
She forced herself to move on to the rest of the mail. A second notice from the electric company. A water bill. And two credit card bills.
She dropped the stack onto the desk. It was too hard. She was never going to catch up. Sales had been slow the last couple years, but she’d managed to survive on Cade’s small life insurance policy. But that was gone now.
Maybe it was time to admit she couldn’t keep the store going without Cade. But this place was filled with his presence. The shelves he’d made to display the porcelain dolls. The platforms he’d built in the windows to display items that wouldn’t fade in the sunlight.
The music box.
She popped onto her toes to take it down from the shelf above her desk. Settling into her chair, she wound the key under the box, then cradled it in her hands as the couple on top spun in circles. This had been the first piece she and Cade had bought together. The piece that had sparked Cade’s plan to open an antique shop. Violet had been unsure, but Cade had convinced her that with his business background and her art education, they could make it work.
And they had―for a while. Violet snapped the music box shut. She refused to let her memories go to their argument that day. How she had suggested it was time to close the shop. How they had fought. How she had refused to go with him to pick up a new piece. How he’d never made it home.
It didn’t matter if she had once wanted to close the store. She owed it to Cade to keep it going now, whatever it took.
“What am I going to do now, Cade?” she asked the empty shop.
She knew his answer as clearly as if he were standing right there: “Pray and leave it in God’s hands.”
But she wasn’t sure she had the strength to do that this time.
She dragged herself toward the door, feeling a decade older than she had when she woke up this morning. All she wanted now was a cup of tea, a bath, and her bed.
As she reached for the lock, her eyes fell on a man grabbing the door handle outside.
She jumped and pressed a hand to her heart.
Couldn’t the guy read the hours posted on the door? The store had closed twenty minutes ago. That’s what she got for letting herself get distracted instead of locking up on time.
But she pasted on a smile and tugged the door open. Her store wasn’t known for its hospitality for nothing.
“Hi there. I’m sorry, but I’m closed for the day. I reopen at ten tomorrow morning, though.” She winced at the artificial cheerfulness in her voice.
The man took half a step back with a scowl. “I’m not here to shop.”
“Oh.” Violet closed the door a fraction. She’d had enough salesmen drop by unexpectedly to know the signs. The twitchy movements. The look like he expected her to throw him out at any moment. “I’m sorry, I don’t need any―”
“I’m here to move into my new apartment.”
Violet studied the man. There was an empty apartment upstairs, right across from hers. But she didn’t know anything about anyone new moving in.
“I’m sorry, I think you must be mistaken. This is an antique shop.”
The man craned his neck toward the second story and pointed up. “Yes, and those are apartments up there, correct?”
She nodded. There was no point in denying that.
“And one of them is empty?”
Again she had to nod. “Yes, but the building’s manager didn’t say anything about a new tenant.”
He stared at her, and she shifted, glancing past him down the nearly empty street. What would she do if he tried to force his way in?
She moved to close the door again, but the man pressed a hand against the glass. “That’s because I’m the new manager.”
For a few seconds, it looked like the woman was going to shut the door in his face. Or call the police. With the hand that wasn’t holding the door open, Nate reached into his pocket. He handed her the business card Dad had given him.
She looked from the card to him and back again. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
Apparently she wasn’t the trusting type.
He fished for the key he’d gone to so much trouble to procure. He held it out to her. “Does this?”
She tugged on one of the dark curls framing her face. “Do you have some ID?”
Nate stared at her. Was she serious?
But he let go of the door, relieved when she didn’t immediately slam and lock it, and slid his wallet out of his pocket. He turned it so she could read his ID.
“See. Nate Benson. As in Benson Property Management.” He brandished the business card again.
“Why didn’t I get a notice that the building was under new management?”
Nate let out a pfft. “You will. I just got here today. I have a few, ah― papers to sort through.”
And the award for best understatement of the year goes to Nate Benson.
“Well, what does this mean? Is this going to affect my lease? I haven’t―”
Nate held up a hand. “I’m sure it won’t. But like I said, I have a lot of paperwork to go through yet. Right now, all I know is that I’m looking for apartment three at six twelve Hope Street. Is that here?”
With one last long look, the woman nodded and let her lips relax into the tiniest smile. It made her look . . . sweet.
Nate shoved the thought back. He had no business thinking anyone looked sweet. Or pretty.
“For future reference, the apartment entrance is at the back of the building. But you can come through here this time.” She stepped aside and opened the door all the way.
Nice of her to let him cross through his own building.
He tried to smile as he stepped inside, although he was pretty sure his face got stuck at grimace.
The store was bigger than it looked from the outside, with space for several large dining tables set with fancy china, half a dozen or so dressers, a large desk, and more. Smaller displays held porcelain dolls, old tools, and various knickknacks. Off to the right was a doorway that looked like it led to another,
smaller room. Nate supposed the store was cute, if you liked that sort of thing.
Which he most decidedly did not. He didn’t understand why people didn’t throw all this junk away. All these reminders of pasts they couldn’t outrun.
The woman locked the front door, then led him through a set of double doors to a large workshop area filled with what appeared to be projects in various stages of completion. The sharp tang of mineral spirits hung in the air, coating Nate’s tongue. He followed the woman around several large pieces to a wooden door that led to a hallway. A narrow staircase ran along the far wall.
She waved toward the steel door at the bottom of the staircase. “The residential entrance.” She pointed to the strip of mailboxes. “You’ll have to put a new label on this one.”
He shrugged. He wasn’t exactly expecting a heap of fan mail.
The woman’s curls bounced as she started up the steps. He watched his feet as he followed. Halfway up, the smell of mineral spirits faded, replaced by what could only be apple pie. Nate’s mouth watered. Someone in the building must bake.
The floor widened out into a large landing at the top of the staircase. There were two apartments to the right, one to the left.
“That’s apartment three.” The woman pointed to the apartment on the left. A mat that had probably once said welcome lay in front of the door, its letters long since faded into a black smudge.
The woman moved to apartment two, across from his, and stuck her key in the lock. She gave him one last look over her shoulder, then disappeared inside.
Well.
At least he wouldn’t have to worry about putting on a friendly act with the new neighbor.
Nate faced his own door. But before he could unlock it, the sound of a door opening behind him made him turn again. Now what did she want? But the apartment door across from his was still closed. A tiny white-haired woman stood on the doorstep of the apartment at the front of the building.
“I thought I heard voices out here.” She walked slowly toward him, her back stooped, and her right leg dragging slightly.
Nate wasn’t really in the mood to meet anyone else. But watching her walk was painful. He stepped toward her, so she wouldn’t have to come as far.
Not Until You (Hope Springs Book 3) Page 2