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If she won’t move in with me straight away, there are always other ways and means for me to be closer to her.
I’ve certainly got the means. I just need to find the way.
Fixing Valentine and me some breakfast and watching him tiptoe through the fresh snow before I give him his privacy afterward, I sip coffee until it hits me.
The smile on my face is a strong one, and I can feel my head nodding.
I leave the back door open a little and head back to my office.
If they’re moving, the house or wherever they live must be coming up for lease or sale, surely.
A standard online search reveals Rachel’s dad, David Beckett.
I grimace slightly, feeling a pang in my stomach at the sight of his profile picture.
He hasn’t aged well.
But I don’t care about that, I need to know where he lives.
Nothing.
It’s Friday morning, and probably still too early to start making calls, but I try a few of my close contacts. People who I know will pick up the phone if it’s me.
“Did you try the phone book?” My third attempt asks, sounding more than a little pissed at being woken up in the middle of the night. On speed dial, I forgot he’s in another country.
It’s so simple, and I laugh at myself for being so shortsighted.
I’m so wrapped up in thinking about Rachel I don’t even think to look her dad up in the phone book.
I don’t even remember if I even have a phone book.
Checking the kitchen drawers by the phone, I find one.
I also notice Valentine’s taking his sweet time too and stand by the open door calling out for him, feeling that same sense of dread coming back over me.
Ah Jesus, not again!
Running out into the snow in my bare feet, I get to the end of my limit tolerating frozen ground when I hear his familiar bark behind me.
He’s by the back door, giving me another of his looks before he trots back inside.
Well played, Valentine. Well played.
Cold feet and a cheeky dog aren’t enough to dampen my spirits though, and I rush back to the phone book, snapping at the thin sheets with my fingers until I find the page I think should be the one.
A trembling finger scans down the tiny print, and there it is in black and white.
D. Beckett. 17 Riverside Drive.
It’s the only name that matches, and although the book’s a few years old I tell myself it just has to be the one.
It’s my only way back to Rachel.
The phone’s in my hand in a second, but I stop myself.
I have one piece of the puzzle, now I need to join the dots and see what’s actually available.
The address yields a realtor who does answer their phone early and is more than interested when she hears my idea.
“Basically, I heard the place was gonna be empty starting Monday and I wanna buy it,” I tell her. “So, if you can tell me how much, I can pay you,” I add impatiently.
Even though I know it is, turns out buying a house is a little more complicated than ordering a pizza.
But I set the groundwork in motion, giving the agent a backstory about my motivation.
“It’s the current tenant, Dave Beckett. I went to college with him, we studied architecture together. I heard he was moving and I’m actually trying to think of a way to make him stay. To get him to come work with me again…” I hear myself telling her.
She aww’s a little, and I realize it’s a way better story than telling her it’s all a cleverly designed scheme to keep his daughter in the state long enough so I can not only claim her but keep her all to myself.
But then she takes a deeper breath in, I can hear her over the phone. The kind of air needed when you’re about to brush someone off but in a nice way.
“Mr. Uhhh?” she starts.
“Fox. I’m Conor Fox, architect,” I tell her, figuring dropping my own name should explain enough. It usually does.
“Mmm hmm,” she says softly, and I can hear the tap of a keyboard, probably a search engine.
I reach down for Valentine, but he’s not there. Probably parked by the front door again.
“Mister Fox. I do appreciate your call, but the property in question isn’t scheduled for lease or sale with my agency. I’d love to help you, I really would. But I just can’t right now.”
I feel my face darken and screw up as I pinch the space between my eyes.
Nothing worth fighting for is easy.
Sensing my irritation, the agent continues. “What I can tell you is that I have the contact details of the current owner and I’d be happy to pass on your message of interest to them,” she says politely.
