Hot on his heels, Abigail thought she saw Nate shudder. She almost shuddered herself.
"I'm not at all a traditionalist," Mrs. Waldstein said, when Nate and Abigail caught up with her in the parlor. "The molding is pretty..." she waved a hand at the plaster garlands that gave the room the grace of the English Regency, "but I don't think we'd need antiques to go with it, do you? I love leather couches and chairs. So sensual." She paused in front of the marble fireplace. "Is that a draft I feel? On such a warm day?"
"Old houses are drafty," Nate said. "With these high ceilings…." He shook his head. "The heating bills are really something."
"Oh, bills." Mrs. Waldstein turned away in obvious disinterest. "Pete pays those."
Nate gave Abigail a wild glance. She smiled sweetly and followed her client.
She had to give him credit. He stood it for several more rooms, all of which were to be decorated in ultramodern style, if Mrs. Waldstein was to be believed.
"The effect would certainly be dramatic," Abigail agreed, glad she didn't have to lie again, except by omission. The California businessmen's condominiums were looking better and better. At least the corporation had wanted to maintain an illusion of historical authenticity.
In the kitchen Mrs. Waldstein began talking about restaurant ovens and huge stainless steel refrigerators. "Not that I cook," she admitted. "But on the scale we entertain, a normal kitchen just doesn't cut it. If you'll excuse the pun."
"Please excuse me, too," Nate said, rather grimly, Abigail thought. "I'd better get back to work."
"Oh, of course," Mrs. Waldstein said gaily. "We certainly don't need an escort. Unless you'd care to dance? Abigail tells me there's a ballroom."
"I'll put your name down on my card," Nate said without noticeable humor, and retreated yet again. In defeat? Abigail wondered. Or was this a strategic withdrawal to plan the remainder of his campaign?
Not two minutes later, Abigail turned her head at the sound of scratching. Where had it come from? Mrs. Waldstein was peeking in the downstairs bathroom and gave no sign she'd heard. Dear Lord, what now?
In the utility room, she found out. At her side, Mrs. Waldstein glanced around the spacious, enclosed back porch, complete with a pull-down ironing board, a walnut hall tree for hanging clothes, and a butcher-block table for folding laundry. The room was wrapped with small-paned windows, and today was flooded with sunlight. The Californians, Abigail remembered, had intended to turn it into kitchen number three, complete with dining nook.
"Well, this is pleasant enough," Mrs. Waldstein said.
Smiling noncommittally, Abigail thought about her washer and dryer, ten years old, shoved in the garage of her rental. Then she heard another soft scritch-scratch. "Oh, dear, what...?"
Two huge brown rats darted from behind the dryer and bolted past their feet. Mrs. Waldstein screamed, and with remarkable athletic ability, leaped atop the dryer. Abigail almost joined her.
"Oh, my God, I can't stand rats!" her client shrieked. "Get me out of here!"
"They're gone now," Abigail reassured her. She took a couple of steps. "There seems to be a hole."
"Oh, God, I've got goosebumps all over. What if they'd run over my feet?" Mrs. Waldstein hugged herself and shivered. "Can we go out this door?"
It was the second time she'd had to retire in disarray through the back door. Abigail was steaming.
She managed a weak smile, however, and said, "I'm sure an exterminator...."
"I'd never be able to sleep in this house!" Mrs. Waldstein inched off the dryer, took a deep breath, then hurried for the back door. Abigail followed with more decorum.
"I'm so sorry...."
"Oh, it's not your fault." Safely on the brick path that encircled the mansion, Mrs. Waldstein seemed to be recovering her composure. Her face was still pale beneath her makeup, however, and her lipstick cracked as she compressed her lips. "I apologize for making a scene. I just have such an aversion..."
"Don't we all," Abigail said. And he knew it. "I'll certainly tell the owner to get an exterminator out here. I'd hate to subject anyone else to...." Rats. She swallowed the word, though the silence was speaking enough.
As far as she was concerned, the exterminator could add the renter to his piles of rodent corpses. In fact, maybe he should just forget these two rats, undoubtedly imported for one spectacular performance, and just spray the biggest rat of all. Nate Taggart.
*****
What the hell? Nate looked up from his slanted draftsman's table. Was that a scream?
He snorted. Yeah, in his dreams. Unfortunately, that broad was too tough to scream if an Uzi were pointed at her. Abigail was probably the one who had finally snapped. What had done it? Would aluminum windows have pushed her over the edge? Concrete gnomes on the lawn? No, those were cheap, tacky. This lady would go for expensive. Outdoor lighting. Rusted iron sculpture. Painting the house a nice bright color to cheer it up.
He swore again under his breath. Abigail sure knew how to pick 'em. No, that wasn't fair. The first couple - whatever their names were - they might have been okay. He hadn't given them a chance.
Nate frowned. Had he heard a door slam? Must be examining the back of the house, trying to decide where to put the six-car garage. Old Pete, who didn't care about houses or what they cost, probably liked garages. And those ancient boxwood hedges out there made the yard so dark.
He groaned and closed his eyes. What if the damn woman bought the place? Could he deal with it? Was he crazy to throw away a house that meant everything to him for a pair of long legs and mysterious eyes?
Then he heard the sound of a car door slamming. A few long strides took him to the French doors overlooking the circular drive. Mrs. Whatever was in her tasteful little BMW and Abigail was saying a few last words through the open window.
Triumph rose in him, hot and sweet. They hadn't even come upstairs! She didn't like his house.
"Yes!" He balled his hand into a fist. For the first time he noticed Abigail's car off to the side. She'd driven herself. Maybe she had time to celebrate. A cup of coffee, a kiss or two....
He took the stairs, a couple at a time. Just as the front door opened, Nate sat on the banister and slid down the last flight, landing agilely on his feet right in front of Abigail. There he saw her expression and his smile died, fear grabbing him by the throat.
"She made an offer?"
Those eyes, usually as cool and deep and soft as moss, glittered with unshed tears. "How could you do this to me?" she asked quietly. "How could you?"
"What are you talking about?" But he knew. She knew.
"I wanted to believe you couldn't do it." Abigail shoved curls back from her face, her stark gaze locked with his. "Not once you knew me, anyway. I wanted to think...you couldn't kiss me and...."
"And what?" he almost yelled.
She yelled right back. "Chase every buyer out of here! What else?"
They stared at each other for too long. Finally, he swung around, showing her a rigid back. "I didn't do it." He made himself finish. "Not today."
There was another silence as empty as the cavernous ballroom above.
"So you admit it." He heard the incredulity in her voice and knew that she still hadn't—quite—believed her own accusation.
"Yeah." He turned to face her. "Yeah, I made damn sure this house didn't sell. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"No." She shook her head blindly. "No, that's not what I wanted to hear."
CHAPTER 6
"It was a pretty stupid idea, wasn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Abigail said bitterly. "It worked, didn't it?"
The eyes that met hers were bleak. "The atomic bomb worked, too."
"Let's not exaggerate." She struggled for a cool tone, though her chest hurt and her eyes burned. "You realize I'll have to tell Ed Phillips."
Nate took a step forward. "Damn it, I don't care about Ed! Abigail, will you let me explain?"
"Explain?" She clutched her purse. "You've got to b
e kidding! I can't think of anything that would justify...." Her voice was rising, but he cut her off.
"Please." He reached out as though to touch her, but his hand dropped back to his side. "Abigail, I didn't do this for fun. Give me a chance. Listen to me."
She searched his face and saw...what? Sincerity? Fear? Hurt? She saw the man who had kissed her with tenderness and triumph, who had wooed her daughter with gentle humor. The man who had made her feel safe, hopeful. At last she nodded jerkily.
"This had better be good."
"Will you sit down?"
Was this the preamble to more bad news? "Why do I need to be sitting?" she asked.
Quietly he said, "It's a long story, that's all."
She nodded again, stiffly. "All right."
In the library, Abigail sat straight-backed on a Chippendale sofa covered in gold-and-green striped satin. Nate sat, too, in a matching chair facing the sofa, but almost immediately he stood again, as though he was too restless to stay in one spot.
Abigail looked straight ahead, trying not to watch him pace. His physical presence could too easily distract her from her righteous anger.
"You have to remember," he began abruptly, "that I didn't know you when all this started. If I had...."
"You wouldn't have done it?" Her tone was coolly skeptical.
"I didn't do it today. Whatever it was."
"What about the leak in the roof? You knew then how much this sale meant to me! You'd already…." She stopped.
"Kissed you?" He faced her, his hands braced on the back of the chair. Tension radiated between them. "Haven't you ever had mixed emotions? Wanted two things at once?"
Yes! her heart cried. She had wanted both her independence and Nate Taggart, even though she'd known better. But Abigail didn't answer, just waited stonily.
"Did Ed ever tell you about Josiah Irving, the man who left him the house?"
"Only that he was Ed's great-uncle, and very elderly when he died."
"Well, for all practical purposes, Josiah was my father." Nate began to pace again. He talked quickly, intensely. "My real father was a drunk. I guess I told you that. He was a bastard who beat Mom whenever he felt like it. After she left—I was maybe six years old—he beat us instead. Nothing the neighbors complained about. Old-fashioned discipline, he called it. I called it hell."
Abigail's breath caught painfully in her throat. Nate's tricks were momentarily forgotten in her pain for the little boy whose mother had deserted him, leaving him to the mercy of a violent, drunken man. How could a woman do that? Abigail wanted to demand.
"We lived in a little dump about a mile from here. Logging is seasonal, but we were never short of food or clothes. My sister kept the place clean, fed us. She was, oh, about twelve when Mom left. My brothers and sister are all older than I am. They adjusted better." He grimaced. "I wanted more. Josiah Irving gave it to me.”
Abigail listened in silence, not knowing what to say. She watched as Nate prowled from one end of the library to the other. He ran his fingers along the marble fireplace mantel, traced a carved rose in the door molding, touched the satin of the chair. It was as though the textures reaffirmed his love of the house. As he talked he stayed in constant motion, not looking at her.
"I used to walk over here just to see the house. Everybody in town was proud of the Irving House. Pilchuck wouldn't be here if it weren't for the Irvings. Josiah wasn't as rich as his father had been, but he still owned the lumber mill out on the south end of town. He was a decent man who tried to protect his employees. Layoffs were a last resort. When people around here needed help, they got it.
"Anyway, Josiah caught me one time trying to peek in the window. Scared the hell out of me, I can tell you that." Nate paused, a faraway look in his eyes. "If he'd told my father.... But he didn't. Instead, he invited me in. Gave me a tour. Talked about William Irving and what architectural traditions he was influenced by. Josiah was interrupted before he finished, so I came again. And again. The Greek Revival. Adams. Georgian decorative details. Did you know that the ceiling rose," he gestured upward, at an elaborate, carved plaster medallion from which the light fixture hung, "got bigger and more complex depending on how important the room was? That the fireplace in the drawing room was imported from France? That the glazing bars on the windows are mitered?"
She shook her head, but he didn't even seem to notice.
He was talking faster and faster, gesturing. "I learned every board of this place. How it was made. Why. Josiah loved this house, and he taught me to love it, too. He taught me that I could do something with my life, that I didn't have to be like my father. He made me believe that somebody gave a damn about me.”
"Nate...." What had she meant to say?
But she didn't have a chance, anyway. Nate stopped pacing to face her, but he went on talking without pause, seemingly afraid to let her speak. His eyes were dark with passion, and the air fairly crackled with his intensity. With words he painted a picture of the stark contrast between his home and this one, of the man who had encouraged him to read, to study and travel.
"He lent me books, some of them valuable. He helped me decide where to go to college, was always there to listen when I had troubles. Josiah never had children. Some old-fashioned sense of family made him feel he had to leave the house to Ed, but he really wanted me to have it. That's why he put a clause in his will giving me the first right to buy the Irving House."
"Why didn't you buy it?"
Nate laughed without humor. "I can't afford it. Yet."
Yet. They had finally come to the crux of this monologue.
"It's not as simple as it all sounds." Nate sat down at last, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Josiah died three years ago. Ed knew this place was a white elephant and that he'd have a hell of a time selling it. He and I reached an agreement, a lease-to-buy deal. Informal, no problem. I worked for him at the time."
Abigail remembered Ed's distraction whenever the subject of the renter came up. She had wondered then what lay between the two men, and she wondered more now.
"So what happened?"
Nate's gray eyes were steady. "You won't want to hear this. Not if you intend to sell his houses."
He was right. She didn't want to hear it. But she repeated, "What?"
"He cuts corners. Nothing illegal, but he buys the cheapest materials he can find. If they warp...." Nate shrugged. "Water under the house.... Hey, try to get him back to fix the problem."
"Is he worse than any other builder?"
"I think so." Nate's gaze held hers. "I didn't want my name on his houses."
Abigail felt dizzy. Her dreams had become centered on Ed Phillips. If she could sell the Irving House, if he gave her more commissions... If, if, if. She had at last seen security within reach, maybe even a house of her own. And now Nate was trying to tell her that she would have to compromise her principles for that security.
"I don't know what to think," she said.
His expression didn't change. "That's something you'll have to decide. What I did was to quit. I didn't have as much at stake as you do; maybe that made it easier. I don't know. The point is, he didn't like my jumping ship. He liked even less having me open shop in competition with him. Our handshake about the Irving House...." Nate shook his head. "Gone. Next thing I knew, he was putting a new roof on, replacing the plumbing and wiring. A few months after that, the For Sale sign went up by the road."
"But he's still letting you rent?"
"He may not like me, but I write him a big check every month. Letting me stay is no skin off his nose. He intends to get his the day the house sells."
"So you decided to keep that from happening," Abigail said.
"You got it."
"How long did you think you could fend buyers off?"
"Long enough. Abigail...." He leaned forward, his gaze hypnotic. "If we win the contract to build the elementary school, I can buy the house. I'll pay a fair price, I'll buy it through you. You won't be hurt.
I promise."
Now it was she who jumped up. She twined her fingers together and looked down at the man who had made her feel things that scared her. "You lied to me," she said. "I was humiliated in front of clients. I've had to explain leaks and cats and now rats to the owner. You're telling me I shouldn't agree to sell the houses of the biggest developer in our area. But I won't be hurt? Bull! You're lying again, Nate. Don't kid yourself.''
He stood, too, with a lithe grace that infuriated her because she was so aware of it. "Abigail, I don't even know what went wrong today."
"Rats," she said. Damn it, her eyes were damp. She refused to cry in front of him. "Big fat brown rats."
"I had nothing to do with them," he said quietly. "I did not try to scare that lady off."
"So?"
"Abigail, I didn't want to make a choice, but I did. I couldn't do it to you again."
"What about the mouse trap?"
"The house has mice. And rats. I've only had the cats for a few days."
Oh, God. She'd almost forgotten the cats. "Do you know you sent that woman to the hospital?"
There was silence. Nate seemed to sag as he let out a long breath and closed his eyes. "No. I didn't know. I thought she was probably just scared of them."
"She's all right," Abigail admitted unwillingly. "No thanks to you."
He stiffened and opened his eyes. "Damn it, Abigail...."
"Damn it, Abigail, what?" Her tone was fierce. "Do you expect me to tell you it's okay? No problem, Nate, I understand?"
They glared at each other. "Is understanding so damn hard?"
"Yes!" she cried. "It's a house, Nate! A bunch of old boards nailed together. It's not yours. Maybe when you were twelve years old you wanted to be an Irving. Well, you're not, and you're all grown up now. Face it."
He retreated, as though she'd struck him, taking refuge behind the chair. His hands gripped its back so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Is the past so unimportant to you?" he asked. "Is there something wrong with wanting to hold on to your roots?"
All Through The House Page 8