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I nod and get into Dad's Mercedes. Selling that place is the last thing I need to do before I can start my new life.
It sure would be nice to know what I'm going to do once I’m free.
As I put the key into the ignition, I stare out the windshield through the carport, beyond the flower garden, and out onto the Lake.
I’m so close to freedom. So why am I not excited?
Chapter 26
Have A Good Life
Ryan
AsIslowlydrivedown the tree-lined road, the robotic female voice from my phone says, “Your destination is on the right.”
I zero in on a home with a For Sale sign in the front, and several cars parked near the grass. There’s another sign with balloons floating above it that says, OPEN HOUSE on it.
The house looks like an old warehouse was gutted and then rebuilt into a home. Several rows of windows line the exterior in three levels of the dark gray and brown exterior. I squint at the small square of grass in front, and modern, minimalistic landscaping. Hmm. I never would’ve pegged her for living in a contemporary design like this.Maybe it isn't. She's living with her Dad, isn't she?
Pulling Babs’s car into an empty spot in front of her house, I get out and close the door, worry twisting my insides. Maybe I should’ve called ahead of time to let her know I was coming. This doesn’t look like the best time to meet up.
If I call ahead of time, she might run again. It has to be a surprise.
Apparently, this surprise isn’t very well thought out though.
Sighing, I straighten my shoulders and stride toward the open door. It’s too late now. I’m not going to drive her car back to Walla Walla. At the very least, I need to leave her the keys.
A woman in a hot pink silk shirt, a sleek black skirt, and way too much make-up, waits for me at the front door with a grin plastered to her face.
She gives me a once-over and tilts her head. “Are you here for the open house?”
“Is the owner here?” I ask.
The woman shakes her head and holds out her hand. “We don’t want the owners hovering when you view their home. We find it makes the clients uncomfortable. My name is Nancy. Let me show you around.”
My brows shoot up and I try to pull away, but she wraps her arm around mine and pulls me close so that we’re walking arm-in-arm through the home.
“This is the living area,” she says, guiding me along marble-tiled floors into an open living space. A chef’s kitchen, complete with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, and a marble-topped island sits on one side. A living room area faces a wall of windows overlooking the lake. A fireplace radiates heat off to the side, with a dark wooden table surrounded by matching chairs. Beyond the wall of windows, a small, manicured lawn filled with lilac trees and bright flowers leads to a dock with a boat attached to it.
“The waterfront property sits on nearly half an acre, has twenty-five hundred square feet, an updated chef’s kitchen, four bedrooms, three baths…”
I tune out Nancy’s words and allow her to tug me from room to perfectly staged room, through the garage that houses this year’s model of the Porsche 911. She continues to ramble as she takes me to the deck, and through the tiny garden until we circle back to the kitchen where a small stack of brochures sits on top of the marble island.
A couple walks through the front door, drawing Nancy’s attention and she loosens her vice grip from my arm. “Please, take a brochure. The home is listed for three million, but we’ve been known to have bidding wars in this economy and with a location as highly desired as this one.” She pulls a business card from her pocket and hands it to me with a smile. “Here’s my number. Call me if you have any questions…or needanythingat all.”
The tone of her voice draws my attention, and she licks her lips, smiling at me through her lashes before she turns and saunters away, swinging her hips as she goes.
I fight the urge to cringe. The last thing I want is a woman like that.
The brochure draws my eye, and I take a sheet of paper from the island, staring at the grid of professional photos showcasing the highlights of the home’s features. This is Babs's home?
She never let on that she was rich. Or that she lived in a three-million-dollar home.
My stomach sinks. What did she think about my home above the garage, or taking her camping? Was she graciously slumming it until her car was fixed? Did she go home and laugh at me as she fell asleep? Or was it pity? Is this why she left? She knew I couldn’t provide her the same quality of life as she get here, but she's too polite to say anything?
Shame washes over me. How could I be so stupid as to think she’d magically jump into my arms and we’d live forever in bliss?
I pull my phone from my pocket and arrange for a ride to a car rental agency. Then I turn the brochure over, grab one of the nearby pens, and write a note for Babs. When Nancy and her new victims approach, I hand Nancy the note and Babs’s key fob.
