“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Ashley asked. “And sort of poetic, too—one hero from your story buying the house of another hero.”
“I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right,” Phoebe replied. “I was too shaken up by seeing him again to realize how great that would be. I wish I had any say in it—sadly, that all comes down to the bank, not to me.”
“Banks are dumb,” Tasha said, and Phoebe had to agree.
The three of them sat quietly for a minute. Phoebe was so shaken up by relating her story again after all this time that she needed that minute to pull herself back together. Once upon a time, she’d believed that she’d never have to talk about it again, but that hadn’t proven to be the case. It was part of her past, and therefore, part of her—something she couldn’t deny or ignore. All she could do was choose to find the best way to move forward and refuse to let it take over. Memories could do that, if allowed. They could swallow you up and keep you locked away in the dark.
She would not let that happen to her.
“Pizza night?” Ashley suggested, breaking the silence that was on the verge of getting uncomfortable now.
“I’m in,” Phoebe said. “I just need to get this uploaded so I can sell a house.”
“I’ll order the pizza while you upload,” Ashley said, standing up. “Tasha, there’s some cookie dough in the fridge—wanna throw it in the oven?”
“Sure.”
Forty-five minutes later, Phoebe had the house listing posted, Josh had come home from work and had joined them, and Vi had gotten up from her nap. The pizza was on the table and the cookies were on the counter. This right here—this was the good life. Only moving forward, only concentrating on friends and love. The past only had the power she gave it, and she refused to give it any power whatsoever.
Chapter Five
Bryce closed his laptop and stood up, frustrated by the whole thing. Every job he’d seen listed online involved heavy lifting. He’d been offered a position as a commentator for televised rodeos and he’d taken it, but he wasn’t needed for a month and he had to get a job now. He had a feeling that if he didn’t get a bid put in on the Weikers’ house, someone in a much better position would come along and take it out from under him. Of course, it wasn’t really under him yet. He wasn’t even to that point.
Okay … think. Think. He glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. It was too late to call Phoebe to ask about seller financing—he really should have done that as soon as he got back to the hotel, but he’d gotten sucked into the Internet and hadn’t emerged for two hours. He couldn’t do much of anything that night—Burnt River wasn’t the liveliest place after dark. He liked that, though—he liked the quiet compared to larger towns. That was part of why he’d come back here.
He grabbed a granola bar off the table and sat down again. He’d exhausted all the possibilities in Burnt River—maybe it was time to look at jobs he could do from home. No, he was not going to sell Avon, but he could write articles or something. He’d discovered a talent for things like that somewhere along the way. He liked to write on nights when he couldn’t sleep, and those kinds of nights had been coming a lot more frequently lately.
A couple of hours later, he’d found a few online jobs he thought might work, and he wrote up a resume and got it sent off. Then he eased himself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, making a plan for the next day. He’d call Phoebe first thing, and then he’d drive around just one more time. Maybe there was a help wanted sign he’d missed, a company that hadn’t bothered to post an ad.
With a plan in place, he was able to close his eyes and drift off. He liked having a plan.
***
It was nine o’clock. Most businesses were open at nine, weren’t they? Bryce flexed his fingers a couple of times before picking up the telephone. He was being silly, and he knew it—he was just asking a question, but it was a question that had direct bearing on the rest of his life. He cleared his throat. Why was he so nervous? He’d faced thousand-pound bulls in the arena without a single qualm. This shouldn’t be weirding him out so much.
But it was.
Finally, he picked up and dialed before he could talk himself out of it again.
“Burnt River Realty,” came a chipper voice on the other end.
“Is Phoebe Glenn in?”
“She is. One moment, please.”
Bryce held the phone away from his ear as the receiver filled with some of the most annoying on-hold music he’d ever heard. He was saved thirty seconds later when Phoebe picked up. “This is Phoebe. How can I help you?”
Suddenly, asking such a loaded question over the phone seemed too impersonal. “Hi, Phoebe. This is Bryce. Bryce Davidson.” As if she would have forgotten . . . He cleared his throat. “Um, I have a question about the house, and I wondered if I could meet you for coffee or something. My treat. Or lunch. Also my treat.”
She didn’t answer for a second, and he wondered if he’d suggested something inappropriate. Didn’t people have business lunches all the time? Finally, she said, “Coffee would be good. Ten thirty? At Evie’s?”
Relief filled him. Hopefully he hadn’t ruined all his chances at this. “Sounds great. I’ll see you then.”
He hung up and then stared at the phone. He wasn’t sure if he was more nervous about asking the funding question or about sitting down face-to-face with Phoebe Glenn. It was probably a combination of both.
He ran both hands through his hair. There were other houses. There was other property. He could ask Phoebe for a list of possibilities, ones that would work better with his budget. But the Weikers’ house . . .
He remembered that night like it was yesterday. That’s what happened when you relive something over and over again. He’d taken Phoebe home, hardly saying a word to her—not knowing what to say. She had crumpled up against the passenger door as though trying to stay as far away from him as possible, keeping her face turned, not making a sound except for one small whimper when they were about three blocks from her house. He had been so angry at his friend, so shocked and stunned—how could he? How could he? Even now, remembering, Bryce clenched his fists, rage coursing through him. He’d punched that kid harder than he’d ever hit anything in his life. And then he’d turned and helped a trembling, terrified girl off the ground, taken her home, and driven for hours, sick and furious and bewildered.
He'd pulled over finally and rested his head on the steering wheel. He hadn’t known where he was or even how he’d gotten there. He just remembered a light tap on his window and looking up into the face of Mr. Weiker, one of his teachers at the high school.
“You’re out and about awfully early for a weekend,” he’d said when Bryce rolled down the window. Sure enough, dawn light was streaking the sky, and he hadn’t even seen it.
“I was just driving around,” Bryce said, wondering how to explain without betraying confidences. Phoebe’s confidence. Not that jerk he used to call a friend.
“I noticed. I might have been following you for the last half hour.”
“What? Why?”
Mr. Weiker chuckled. “I was letting Gertie, my dog, out—she’s always been an early riser—and I saw you go by. You pounded the steering wheel and it looked like you were talking to someone, but I couldn’t see anyone else in the car. So I figured you were upset, and you were driving in the opposite direction of your house. I wanted to make sure you’d be okay.”
“So you got in your car and followed me?”
Mr. Weiker nodded. “Yeah, I did. Sorry if that’s nosey, but my students are like my kids. I need to know they’re tucked in all right.” He paused. “Why don’t you come back to the house? Eileen’s making her usual giant Sunday morning breakfast, and you look like you could use it.”
Bryce had wanted to say no, but a larger part of him wanted to say yes, so he turned his car around and followed Mr. Weiker home. Mrs. Weiker set a plate in front of him piled higher than any plate he’d ever seen and then she disappea
red into the other room, giving them space to talk. Somewhere between the waffles and the sausage, the story tumbled out, and Mr. Weiker just sat and listened with compassion on his face.
Bryce couldn’t remember any actual advice Mr. Weiker gave him. He just remembered the caring and the welcome he’d felt in that home, and he remembered walking out of there feeling as though everything would be all right. When Phoebe pressed charges and he was able to give a statement to support her, he was proud of himself in that moment, something he’d only experienced a small handful of times before. The good guys won, and he’d helped. He was able to do it because of the strength the Weikers had given him through their unconditional compassion. He wanted to be that kind of person. And maybe, just maybe, they would leave a tiny bit of that atmosphere in their home and he could build on it.
He sniffed, wiping his eyes, surprised to see that he’d teared up. He didn’t do that often, but he wasn’t ashamed. He pulled out some clean clothes and headed for the shower. Now he was looking forward to seeing Phoebe. That little trip down memory lane had been good for him—it was inspirational to see how strong she was now, how much she’d overcome. He’d been astonished at how good she looked when he walked into her office, like she’d been brought back to life. She was an incredible woman and he wanted to tell her so, but he understood why she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Maybe someday.
Chapter Six
Phoebe’s phone rang just as she was about to leave for coffee with Bryce. For a second, she had a wild hope that he was calling to cancel and she wouldn’t have to go through with it after all, but the voice on the other end was brusque, fast, and female.
“This is June Simpson of Haskell and Simpson Realty, calling on behalf of Mr. Roger Knight, who requests to know if the house posted yesterday is still available.” She rattled off the MLS number. Phoebe didn’t have to look to know she was referring to the Weiker house.
Phoebe had met June a couple of times before. “Yes, it’s available. Would you like to schedule a showing?”
“Yes. Do you have some time late this afternoon? Mr. Knight will be passing through town on his way home from a business trip, and that would be the most convenient time for him.”
Phoebe was glad the other agent couldn’t see her roll her eyes. That was such short notice, but she supposed she could work with that. “I’ll check with the homeowner and let you know.”
“I’ll be on the road myself for a bit—why don’t you send a text instead of calling when you find out.”
Phoebe took down the number, solidified a time, then hung up and called Eileen.
“Someone wants to see the house today?” Eileen asked, sounding a little tremulous.
“They do, but you don’t have to let them if it’s a bad time,” Phoebe said. “And I can come help you get ready.”
“No, that’s fine. Everything’s ready. I just didn’t expect it to start so soon. I mean . . . this makes it real, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it does,” Phoebe replied, feeling the same pangs in her heart that she heard in Eileen’s voice.
“Well, we’ll do what needs to be done.” Phoebe could almost see Eileen squaring her shoulders. “I’ve heard that I should bake some cookies or bread or something to make the house seem more inviting. Is that true?”
“Only if you want to eat them. Your house is plenty inviting as it is.”
“All right. Thank you, Phoebe. I’ll be ready.”
Phoebe texted the other agent with an acceptance, squared her own shoulders, and went off to meet Bryce. It was just coffee. That’s all it was. This didn’t have to be a big thing.
When she walked into Evie’s, she saw that he was already there, and he stood as she approached the table. He was dressed a little nicer today, in slacks instead of jeans, and a ripple of fear went through her that he was considering this a date. Then she chided herself. Men should be able to wear whatever they wanted without people assuming things. Maybe it was laundry day and all his jeans were dirty.
“Thanks for coming down,” he said as she slid into the booth across from him. “I hope I’m not pulling you away from work.”
“The office can forward my calls to my cell if anything comes up,” she replied.
They each ordered a coffee, made stupid small talk until it came, and then Bryce cleared his throat.
“I went in and spoke with the bank yesterday,” he said. “A woman named Mrs. Griggs helped me.”
“Yes, I know her well,” Phoebe replied. “If anyone can help you get a loan, she can.”
“Well, that’s just the thing. She’s not sure she can—at least, until I get a job, and I won’t have one for a month. I’d hoped to hire on somewhere sooner, but that’s not looking likely.”
Phoebe nodded. “Banks usually like an employment history before they’ll consider a loan of that size.”
“I was hoping that a sizeable down payment would grease the wheels a little, but it doesn’t work that way, apparently.” Bryce picked up a creamer, dumped it into his coffee, and stirred it. “Because of that, I wondered if you thought Mrs. Weiker would be willing to do seller financing.”
Phoebe blinked, startled. That was a fairly gutsy thing to ask, but she had to give him props—he wouldn’t know unless he gave it a try. She took a sip of her coffee to buy herself time before answering.
“Very few homeowners are in a position to agree to that,” she replied at last, choosing to use generalities. “Most are still paying off their mortgages, and accepting a monthly payment from you would just mean turning around and forwarding it to the mortgage company. It wouldn’t allow for additional debt relief or anything else.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even asked. I just . . . never mind.” He gave a bright smile. “Do you have any listings that are about a hundred thousand cheaper? I don’t need such a large house and I could sacrifice a little bit of land. I just want enough for Rocky to be comfortable.”
“Where is Rocky now?” she asked, curious.
“I’m boarding him out at Wilcott’s. Are you familiar with their place?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone around here knows them. They’re Burnt River’s horseracing royalty.”
“Yeah, I was pretty impressed with their setup. I’m going out there in a little bit to check on Rocky and make sure he’s behaving himself.” Bryce paused. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Um . . .” Did she look like she wanted to go traipsing through horse barns and get manure on her heels? “No, but thanks for the offer. I have a lot to do.” She pulled out her phone and opened a browser to her agency’s website. “Here’s a listing that might work for you,” she said, passing the phone across the table. “The house is eighteen hundred square feet and has six acres.”
He took the phone and angled it, probably to get the glare off the screen. “It looks nice,” he said, scrolling through the pictures.
“Would you like me to schedule a showing?”
“Sure, we could do that.” His tone was so flat, she knew his heart wasn’t in it.
“But it’s not your favorite,” she supplied.
He smiled. “I had really hoped for the Weikers’, but we don’t always get what we want. Yes, please set up the showing. I’m sure I can be happy anywhere once I get Rocky settled and a few pictures on the walls.”
“I’ll make the call. If it’s any consolation, I know what you mean—I wanted to buy that house myself, but it’s not meant to be.”
“You wanted it?”
“Yeah. Lots of good memories there.” She shook her head. “Let’s not get all melancholy, all right? Things will work out.”
“Has there been any other interest in the Weiker’s home? Probably not, since it was just listed, right?”
“There’s a showing on it this afternoon.” She was allowed to say that much without betraying any trusts. “When are you free to go look at the other one?”
“Oh, about any time. Except for Monday morning. I have an appoint
ment then.” He paused. “Why don’t you call them right now while I’m sitting here? Help me move on from the house that’s getting away.”
Phoebe laughed. “All right. Here goes.” She dialed the number for the representing real estate agent. “Hey, Jim. This is Phoebe over at Burnt River Realty.” Bryce gave her a thumbs-up when she repeated the time aloud, and she thanked Jim for his time before hanging up. “There you go—all set.”
“So, how does this work?” Bryce asked.
“I’ll meet you out there, and the keys will be in a drop box,” she said. “The seller won’t be there—it’s a little less awkward that way. We can talk freely, and I’ll relay any questions you have back through the agent.”
“Almost sounds like a matchmaking service,” he said with a chuckle.
She laughed too. “It’s not too different.”
He finished the rest of his coffee. The waitress showed up immediately with the pot, but he waved her off with a smile. “So, I know you get a commission, but you’re on my side, right? If you see a dead body in the attic, you’ll point it out to me?”
“I would not let you buy a house with a dead body in the attic unless you knew it was there,” she promised. “Now, just a second. I need to point something out for clarification—when we’re talking about the Weikers’ house, I’m Eileen’s agent, not yours. When we go look at this other house, then I can act as your agent. Does that make sense? If you manage to get this loan and you want to put an offer on the Weikers’, I can’t help you with that. I can answer general questions, but your own agent should be getting down to the nitty-gritty with you.”
He nodded. “And you could refer me to an agent?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then it sounds like we’re in business.”
“Speaking of business . . .” She glanced at her watch. “I need to go. Thanks for the coffee, Bryce, and I’ll see you out at the house at three o’clock tomorrow.”
Again, he stood when she did, and she left feeling as though something good might come out of this after all. The other property wasn’t quite the same, but it was extremely nice and had been updated in ways the Weikers had never even considered for their own house. She could see Bryce—and Rocky—being very happy there.
Phoebe's Fate (Burnt River Contemporary Western Romance Book 9) Page 3