Searching For Sarah (The Sarah Series Book 1)

by Julieann Dove

  She looked at me. “Trust me, Sam’s not crazy. He’s a good guy. He just works too much, and doesn’t have time for a social life. That’s why I help with Sophie. And she’s a really good girl.”

  “And he’s looking for someone to live there and help?” Not that I had all that much time to help. I mean, I had a busy schedule at school. Classes every day, and Rob all my other free time.

  “Sam will be looking for someone. He just doesn’t know it yet. Bill wants to move back to Texas to be around his family.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve already begun packing. He’s scheduled a moving truck to come in two weeks.”

  “Oh my gosh! Two weeks? And you don’t want to go?” I asked.

  “It’s fine. It’s not like we’re locked in a lease. I’ve purposely been month-to-month for the past year. And the kids aren’t that old that it will affect them too greatly.” She grabbed the back of her neck. I saw her fingers dig into her skin. A pinkness raised to the surface. “We’re giving his leg time to heal. Then he’ll be stronger. He just wants to be around familiar faces. He still wakes up at night sweating. You know how hard it must be. I’ve only seen it in the movies, but it’s quite real and frightening at times.”

  We all shook our heads in unison. “So then you won’t be here anymore? With us?” Josselyn said.

  “No. I’m afraid this is probably the last session I’ll be here. I should’ve said something earlier. I don’t know. Maybe I thought I could change his mind. Maybe I thought…” Her fingers stopped knitting, and she stared at the table. “It’s all going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.”

  “What a shame. We’ll really miss you.” I put my hand on her arm and she looked up with a forced smile. It was unbelievable how white her teeth were. They contrasted perfectly with her glossed lips.

  “Thanks. But you never know when I’ll be back.”

  It was almost as if she knew when that time would be.

  I figured if I didn’t get out of my car soon, the neighbor out walking his dog would presume I was a stalker. I was certain Gennifer told me to be there at 6:00. I checked my watch and it was 6:10. I slowly got out of my car and smoothed out my pants. I decided to wear linen. Jeans were too informal, shorts were too playful, and a dress was, well, I didn’t want to get too deep in the “just how much do I want to impress you” category. I grabbed the basket of flowers on the passenger seat, almost forgetting the stuffed bunny I bought on a last-minute whim. What little girl didn’t like stuffed animals? And I must say, this bunny with the overalls and wily whiskers was my top choice. It reminded me of the farm where I was raised.

  I looked at the imposing house and took a deep breath. I felt as if I were going on a job interview. It sort of was, I guess. However, this was a little more serious. If Sam Turner didn’t like me well enough to live in his house and pick up his daughter from preschool, I’d be looking for the nearest bridge to live under. Or I’d make nice and live the next two months in Robena’s room with catnip in my pockets.

  I walked up the stairs on the left. There were two sets I could choose from that flanked the front door. A Charleston classic in architecture. I wasn’t sure what profession Mr. Turner was in, but by the looks of his home and location of it, it must be worthwhile. Geraniums, the color of pink cotton candy, sprung up from two ginormous planters by the front door, and the oversized ferns that dangled over the porch railings reminded me of my very bad hair days—wiry and wild. Either he was a green thumb enthusiast or a gardener lurked around the backyard with Miracle-Gro strapped to his back.

  I struck the door with the brass pineapple door knocker, and looked around suspiciously. The sound echoed in the quiet street. I noticed the man with his dog had disappeared. Suddenly, the sprinkler system turned on and the ticking of spurting water began glistening on the blades of grass. What I wouldn’t give to be able to go and lie down in it. The day had been super hot—even the asphalt hissed. I jumped when the door finally opened. He was nothing like I expected. What did I expect?

  “Hello, I’m Sarah.” I offered my hand, realizing too late that it was the one holding the country bunny. “Sorry.” I tucked the animal under my arm and offered my hand again.

  He grabbed hold; his large, warm hand, covered mine almost wholly. I looked into his eyes for a quick reading of his soul. So much can be said in the first fifteen seconds of meeting someone. Was he kindred, average, or empty?

  “I’m Sam. Nice to meet you. Won’t you come in?” His grip eased, and his hand slid from mine as he moved aside and ushered me in, looking at my basket of flowers.

  I stepped over the threshold, feeling as though I’d just walked into a life-sized refrigerator. Cooler air filled the large room, up to the expansive ceilings and ornate crown molding. They must’ve been twelve feet high. I only remarked this in my brain because the guy I dated before Rob was into architecture. We spent weekends driving and touring old homes of the South. Let me see, why did that relationship end?

  “Would you like a drink?” Sam walked toward a small bar in the room to the right of the foyer. He turned to hear my answer, fumbling with the top button of his dress shirt. “Are the flowers for me?”

  Oh crap. I should’ve seen the misinterpretation. But if I’d left them in my car, they would’ve all wilted by the time I came out. “No thanks, and I’m sorry to say no, the flowers aren’t for you. You see, I’m on my way to…” He was halfway in the other room as I was still trying to explain why it might seem that I insist on carrying bushels of flowers wherever I go.

  “I’m kidding. I sort of gathered they weren’t for me.” He stood at the small bar, and set his glass down.

  “They could be. It’s not entirely impossible. Today, however, they are for someone else.” I looked down at them. It was an array of sunflowers, carnations, white daisies, and lilies. “I didn’t want them to wilt in the car.” I looked around at the high ceilings and heavy drapery. “Wow.”

  He smiled. “And the drink? Are you sure you wouldn’t like one?” He set down the bottle of bourbon he’d just poured into his glass. The silver cuff link he wore caught my eye. Never had I been around someone who actually wore cuff links. My crowd usually shopped at the Gap.

  “I had a Pepsi not too long ago.” I rubbed my stomach. It felt bloated from the carbonation. “I went to that sandwich shop by the flower shop, and anyway, they have that machine with like a hundred different flavors. So I tried the Pepsi Lime and Orange Crush. I will never do that again. I felt like gears were inside me, grinding and making unfamiliar noises. It must’ve been the lime. I never get the lime.”

  He chuckled. “I see.”

  How stupid did that sound? And yet it reminded me why Taylor and I broke up—the architect. He claimed I wasn’t refined enough—talked too much during wine tastings, and there was that historical tour of the sea captain’s house. Could I help it if I needed to use the bathroom? Why did they have bathrooms, if you couldn’t use them? I had a Pepsi on the way to the house as I recall, too. The 3 Musketeers bar I had tucked in my bag didn’t fare well with all the extra sugar and caffeine. It didn’t do me any favors that the house that cost fifteen dollars to meander through didn’t have any floral spray tucked underneath the sink. Who didn’t have Renuzit? I don’t care what century the house was built—this was the twentieth century! Seriously.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” I rolled my eyes.

  “That you had a drink already, or that you tried an incredibly crazy drink combination and now regret it?”

  “It wasn’t all that bad going down.” I just should’ve politely taken the drink, and completely left out the breakdown of my Pepsi intake. That’s all. Just kept my mouth shut. I shuffled my feet and looked around. “I have a habit of blurting things out, providing completely too much information, and as my dad puts it, over-dramatizing things.”

  “I see.”

  “Not that I plan to do these things if you should find me suitable for your situation. In that case, I will
keep things to a low hum, and provide only useful, pertinent information. You might even wonder if I’m even in the house.”

  His eyes squinted and seemed to look down at my shoes. For a second, I couldn’t remember which ones I was wearing. Or why I was still here. The man wore cuff links, and sipped bourbon from crystal-clean glasses. I was more used to red Solo cups and orange juice cartons. I could see myself in the reflection of his shoes, for crying out loud. Nope, this was clearly never going to work out. He was probably planning on ways to tell me ever since I walked through the front door—me and my dorky bunny, weird basket of flowers, and nervous babbling about lime Pepsi.

  “Would you like to go in and have a look?” He plunked some ice cubes into a tumbler. He must’ve seen my neck crane, trying to see the room past the one we were standing in.

  I readjusted my posture, and smiled like a cat who’d just eaten the bird, wiping a feather from my mouth. “That’s okay. If you’ve seen one home from Architectural Digest, you’ve seen them all.”

  “You’re too kind. No, please allow me to give you a tour.”

  “Well, okay.” I shrugged.

  I could stare at him better when he wasn’t looking at me—you know, in case I had to do a police sketch later. The headline would say something like “Unsuspected Rich Killer Strikes Again.” I’m just not sure how I’d explain that I didn’t see anything wrong with a complete stranger taking me in to live in his lavish house and drive his child to preschool. And exactly where was the child? Perhaps with the wet nurse, or the nutritionist, or I know, the chauffeur hasn’t dropped her off from her playdate with the ambassador’s little Timothy the Fourth. The more I saw of this house, the more I knew I had to ditch the bunny. Why didn’t I pick the one with the tiara on its head? Or wear that dress I had picked out, and maybe a tiara of my own?

  I took Sam Turner to be probably nearing the fifty mark in age. His tailored pants and starched shirt combination could’ve been adding a couple years, though. It was always tough to tell someone’s age when they were dressed up. Of course, you could look forty while you’re in the fourth grade. What did I know about fashion?

  Sam had thinning sandy-blond hair that had begun to gray at the temples. Earlier, when I told the debacle Pepsi story, I noticed his square jawline and perfect set eyes. His nose was a little thin, and he didn’t seem all that imposing. He was only a couple inches taller than me, medium build, and with the suit jacket, I couldn’t check to see whether there were biceps involved.

  “So, Gennifer tells me you’re a law student.” He stood outside the first room we came to and pushed open the door for me to peer inside.

  I peeked into what seemed to be his study. It was massive in size and must’ve held a hundred or more books on the heavy wood shelves. Important books. Hard-backed—not at all like the flimsy paperback ones that I finally gave up toting around the world, and now kept at my childhood home in Colorado.

  “Yep, I go to law school.” God only knows why—I certainly didn’t.

  He grunted a little and smiled even less, still nursing his drink. “This is one of the spare rooms.”

  It was down from his study, toward the end of the hall. I craned my head to look inside. It wasn’t that large. Small, in fact, in relation to the other rooms on the first floor. It backed up to the laundry room; that could’ve given up some of its room for a larger bed to fit inside this one.

  “It’s nice.” I lied. I didn’t think it was all that nice. The gardener’s shed out back was probably larger. Then again, it could’ve been the same size of the room I grew up in. But you would think in a house this size, there would be enough room for a dresser and a bed to fit inside it. The only things in this room were one ivy-green rug, a small bed with a plain white bedspread, and the shade on the one window was pulled closed. Not cozy at all. But if that’s what he was offering, I could throw up a curtain, pull out my fluffy plaid comforter, and pump in some sunlight. I wasn’t picky. Time wasn’t on my side before homelessness set in.

  “Would you like to set down your flowers? They seem cumbersome.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I smiled.

  “Are you in your final year of law?” He swished the cubes of ice in his tumbler before he took a drink.

  “Okay, so I think I know what you’re getting at.” I just put it out there. Enough dancing around. I’d seen him staring at me when I was pretending to be studying the pictures in the living room. “I’m a little old to be in college, I know. I mean, sometimes some of the students confuse me for the professor. But I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do when I grew up. Sometimes I still don’t. I just knew I wanted to do something great. I’ve gone to cosmetology school, culinary school—I’ve even earned a degree in psychology and business.” I pulled at my fingers, counting as I listed my many accomplishments. Or fickleness—whichever way you looked at it. “I guess I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  “Hmm…” He studied me, rubbing his lips with one hand. “What are you hoping to do with a law degree?”

  “I’m not sure.” I rolled my eyes and let out a long sigh. “I’m not even sure I like law school. It’s just something to do to see if it catches on, I suppose. And seriously, who doesn’t need a lawyer once or twice in their life? I could always fall back on the degree if I finish it, I guess.”

  He set his glass down and took off his jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the dining chairs. We were now where the matching plates on the humongous table were.

  “Interesting. So you don’t really have a five- or ten-year plan outlined for your life.”

  Dad alert. Although my dad never took to talking to me like this. He’d basically groan when I told him I signed up for classes and then buy me a bracelet that Aunt Heidi shopped for online when I graduated. He was a man of little words when it came to my college career.

  “Not in a specific sense.” I tapped my fingers on my lips. “Is this hurting my chances for living here the next couple months? Because I can set some goals if that would help my chances. It wouldn’t take long. If you have some paper lying around, I could jot some down.” I set down the basket of flowers and hung on to the bunny.

  “No.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Of course it’s not hurting your chances. It’s just that if you had some clear goals set, you might feel more driven in a specific direction.”

  “What specific direction were you driven? What do you do for a living?”

  “I run my own consulting firm. Before that, I was an officer in the navy. Retirement somehow wasn’t what I imagined. I have to stay busy.”

  We were interrupted by the noise of an alarm beeping. It was the same noise I heard when he opened the door to let me inside. Seconds later, I heard talking. Someone was in the house. I looked up to see a little girl coming right at us. She was thigh-high, wore her hair in braids, and had on a teal dress that I would’ve loved in my size.

  “Hey, Sophie, my princess.” Sam scooped her up and hugged her tight.

  “I’m sorry we’re late. I had to fill out some paperwork about Sarah.” Gennifer sauntered in, smoothing her stray hair back into the velvet headband, looking at me when she said it. “I see you’ve gotten the tour.”

  Gennifer’s daughters stood by her side, like tiny protégées. Hard to mistake them belonging to her. Same little turned-up noses, milky complexion, and acted as if they were smelling a certain food cooking, although unable to put their finger on what it was. The smaller of the two seemed to be around ten years old and the other was approaching her teenage years. She rolled her eyes a lot and wore earbuds like a fashion statement.

  “I did. Mr. Turner has a beautiful home.”

  Sophie, the one I assumed was his daughter, sat perched on his hip and stared at me. I gave her a quick smile. “Hey, cutie, I got this for you.”

  She slowly took the bunny from my hand, looking at me all the while as if I had possibly implanted a bomb inside the fluff.

  “Do you like bunnies?”

  Sam
drew his head back and looked at her. She traded glances to make sure she could talk. “Go ahead. Tell her if you like stuffed animals,” he urged.

  “Yes,” she said, with lowered head and low voice.

  “Did she see her room?” Gennifer blurted out.

  Sam swung around and looked at her. I was trying to read the unspoken language their eyes were saying.

  “I was going to put her upstairs, next to Sophie. Since she will be waking her up every morning, it might be easier.”

  “Oh.” Her head cocked to the side, and she quickly turned and pushed her daughter’s hair back. “Didn’t Brenda use the one on the first level?”

  I swallowed. Not the best in the house, I was sure, but it was free. Beggars, you know.

  “That room back there?” His head motioned toward the back hall, due to the fact his arms secured the little girl from falling. “I don’t think she was ever happy there. It’s so small. She had to keep most of her belongings upstairs in the spare room. I figured this was easier.”

  “Fine. I have to go. Bill is waiting for me.”

  “No, Daddy. I want a sleepover. Gennifer!” Sophie leaned over, reaching for the woman, who stood as if there was a pole strapped to her back.

  “Princess, they have to go home. They have things to do.” He stroked the little girl’s hair and he held her tight in his arms.

  “But Daddy.” Sophie began to cry. “I want them to sleep at our house. Tiffy,” she yelled, reaching for the smaller girl, who stared at her.

  Gennifer pulled the little girl from her daddy’s arms. “Honey, remember what I said? Bridgett and Tiffany will come later for a sleepover. We’ve got to go now.” She looked at Sam and handed over the little girl, who stuck to her like jam.

  “Let’s go get Daddy, Mommy!” shouted one of the brown-haired girls. She clapped her hands and smiled rays of sunshine. “We’re going to be late.”