Dorian. He looked good. Really good.
I have a million questions. Starting with how long has he been here? And—is he seeing anyone?
Where has he been all this time?
My phone rings, breaking through my thoughts.
I glance at the screen, groan, and answer the call. If I don’t, she’ll keep calling, and I don’t want anything to interfere with my time with Dorian.
CHAPTER THREE
LISETTE
“I’m just asking you to meet with him, Lisette. Why do you have to be so difficult? This is why Mom should have left her estate to me. Honestly, I have no idea what she was thinking,” my mother rails.
Maybe she wanted someone who cared about what happened to her belongings? I don’t say that out loud. Arguing with my mother never goes anywhere. Her feelings get hurt, and she either pouts or gets even. “Fine, Mom. I will meet with him. But I’m not sure I want to sell the Victorian.” Grandmama loved that house. So do I.
I hurry toward my car, eager to get off the sidewalk. After the café, it feels like everyone is still staring. Plus, it’s cold out. Colder than I thought it was going to be today.
“You know as well as I do that the house would need extensive repairs to be livable…”
Only if you wanted to live in a brand-new mansion like she and my stepdad. Grandmama Florine’s house is cozy. Modern enough for someone who appreciates the past. Definitely livable. It seems like she kept up with the maintenance, but what do I know about living in a hundred-year-old house?
“Listen, honey,” Mom continues, “I didn’t contest the will because I wanted to respect Mom’s decisions. But it doesn’t mean I can’t advise you in places you clearly need it.”
Grandmama’s will left her five thousand dollars. The rest of the estate—her money, her house, even her car—came to me. However, the will had a clause. If Mom tried to contest it, she wouldn’t receive a dime.
I think she had been counting on the estate passing to her, but I don’t know why. It feels like my stepdad’s influence. Ever since Mom married Richard, everything has become about money. Investments. Property. Appearances. Sometimes I wonder where her opinions end and his begin.
I’m only half-listening by the time I reach my car. I spot something on the windshield and realize there’s a business card under my wiper blade. That’s strange. None of the other cars parked nearby have one.
“Mom, I’ll have to call you back later.” We hang up, and I reach for the card. The back has a picture of the mountains around Hollow Peak. Flipping it over, I see a picture of a man in his early thirties with a way-too-white smile.
Philip Weeks, the realtor my mom wants me to contact.
The card has his number and his slogan:Let Weeks close your house in weeks!
Ugh. That’s terrible.
I look around again but don’t see the man. How did he know this was my car? Did he see me earlier?
Or did Mom tell him what to look for?
I don’t like either possibility.
Climbing behind the wheel, I tuck his business card in with the other papers, drop them on the passenger seat, and start back to the house.
I’ve spent the last week sorting through Grandmama’s important papers and collecting as many family photos andheirlooms as I can. The real work will be deciding what to keep from a woman who lived in the same place for over fifty years.
The house is on two acres with old cedar trees and a beautiful view of the mountains. It’s serene. So different from the hustle of Denver.
I’m lucky that I’m running my own small business and could take some time away to deal with the estate. No one’s in a hurry for old books to be restored.
I turn off Main Street onto a side road that winds around toward the hot springs. Suddenly, there’s a loud flapping sound, and the car swerves with a strangethunk.
I clench the wheel and hit the brakes, edging off to the side of the road into the grass. When I turn off the car, I realize it’s tilting toward the right.
What the heck? Do I have a flat?
