style="font-size:15px;"> He had come here to relieve himself of the gnawing, uncomfortable sense of personal responsibility Elaine’s case had engendered. He had come here so he could feel less involved after he left. So far, his plan could be considered a failure.
Mitch wasn’t stupid. He knew what people—co-workers, most clients, his ex-wife—thought of him: that he was cold, impenetrable, virtually emotionless. That was fine. Experience told him their estimations were accurate. He’d long since stopped feeling guilty for his own inadequacies. That which had made his personal life a failure had lent strength to his professional life once he’d learned to use rather than deny his personality traits.
He shook his head. Every time he tried to make amends to Elaine—so he could walk away with a clear conscience—he got sucked in further. And yet he felt compelled to go on trying. Why?
Mitch’s sister, the youngest partner on record at the respected law firm of Cowden, Hardy, Hardy, Nash & Ryder, would tell him to snap out of it. “Do what you’re good at—pay someone else to do the other stuff” was M. D. Ryder’s credo. By “other stuff,” M.D. meant anything having to do with emotion. Mitch had lived by the same philosophy and on those rare occasions he hadn’t—his brief marriage, for example—the results had been suitably disastrous.
His sister was the only person he knew who could separate emotion from…well, everything better than he could. Family quirk.
“Do what you’re good at, forget the other stuff,” Mitch muttered, reminding himself that he had a reason for being here, a reason he could handle quickly and then leave.
He was staring at the closed curtains, at nothing, really, when Elaine emerged from the bathroom.
Her bare feet stepped quietly across the wood floor. She continued on to the kitchen without glancing at him. “I’m getting water. Do you want anything?”
Mitch frowned. From the start, he had admired Kevin Lowry’s wife for her innate warmth, for the gentle grace that came as a surprise every time he saw her. Now her tone was formal, brusque and businesslike.
“Water’s fine,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
As she pulled glasses out of a cabinet and a jug of ice water from the refrigerator, Mitch filled the yawning silence by taking his first really good look at the interior of the duplex.
Like the exterior, the interior had aged and was not as well maintained as it should have been, but the big, raw bones of the divided house were good. What he appreciated most, though, was the simple way Elaine had decorated, with dish towels in a bright sunflower pattern, yellow checked curtains on the windows, and several teapots—one that was covered in ridiculous red cherries—on wooden shelves above the cabinets. Late afternoon sun reached soothing streamers of light through the well-placed windows, enhancing the soft glow of butter-yellow walls.
The kitchen in his Mountain Park condominium was white and stainless steel. A twice-weekly housekeeper kept everything sparkling, though he rarely gave her anything to clean. He didn’t cook. Take-out was infrequent. Occasionally he nuked a frozen meal, but by and large he ate in restaurants and used the kitchen primarily as a wine cellar for occasional entertaining. Elaine lived in her kitchen. It was oddly appealing.
Filling both glasses with water, she set one on the counter in front of him and sipped from the other, eyeing him over the top of the rim. Mitch started to drink then noticed his glass was only half-full. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?
Draining the glass, he set it down. She made no move to refill it, and Mitch smiled. Had to. He’d met few people as unintentionally candid as Elaine Lowry. Clearing his throat, he got down to business, presenting his opening gambit as if addressing a court. “You’re wondering why I’m here.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m wondering how you knew my address.”
Right. He’d forgotten that would be a question.
“I assume Maggie gave it to you,” she continued before he could respond. “Which is profoundly unprofessional, but I will take that up with her next time the rent is due.”
Maggie Lewis owned Portland Property, the company that managed this rental. Mitch had handed Elaine his friend’s business card the afternoon he’d followed her into the Heathman. Later he’d phoned Maggie personally and told her to find Elaine someplace clean and safe where the rent was cheap and likely to stay so. This duplex had been absentee-owned for over a decade. The rent had been raised only twice in that time. Unfortunately the owners had decided to sell one month ago, taking advantage of the spike in area home prices. New owners were sure to increase the rent. Maggie had mentioned the fact to Mitch in passing.
“So other than a love of lawn mowing, what brings you here, Mitch?”
He scowled. He could overlook her patent hostility because she hadn’t realized yet that he was on her side. But she would soon. He decided to warm things up a bit before he answered her question. “How’s your nose?”
“It hurts. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
Mitch plowed a hand through his hair and surrendered. Okay. Get to the point. Once he clarified the situation, she would realize he was here to make amends. No doubt she would be surprised by the news, so he’d give her a moment to process it. Because he tended to feel uncomfortable with profuse expressions of gratitude, he would take his cue to leave when the thank-yous began.
“If you recall, Maggie is a former client. I represented her in her second and third divorces.”
Elaine raised a brow. “I hope she got the frequent flyer discount.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a joke.”
“Oh.” She was being wry. Unfortunately, humor was not his forte. He’d been told that on a number of occasions as well. Clearing his throat, he attempted to get back on course. “As I was saying, I know Maggie, and because I referred you to her originally, she thought I would be interested in any changes that occurred in your current living situation.”
“There aren’t any changes occurring in my living situation.” Elaine frowned then stared at him hard. “Are there?”
Mitch hesitated, his assurance beginning to waver. Something told him his news was not going to be quite as graciously received as he’d originally thought.
The furrow between Elaine’s brows—the one she was going to Botox come Monday—deepened. Mitch had tucked Maggie’s card in her hand, and she’d used the referral because she knew she needed the good deal he had said Maggie would provide. She had a nest egg—half the proceeds from the sale of the house she’d owned with Kevin—but that was in savings, and her thirty hours a week at Dr. Gussman’s didn’t stretch very far. She’d been looking for a new job, but the market was slim in Portland. The cheap rent here had turned out to be her saving grace, so— Oh, no.
“The new owner wants to raise the rent,” she deduced. “Maggie told me she was certain he wouldn’t raise it for at least a year.” She made no attempt to check the panic coursing through her. Welcome to the perfect end to her perfect day: special delivery notice of a raise in rent. There wasn’t enough ice cream in all of Portland to make this news go down sweetly. With her lower lip pushing hard against her upper, she went ahead and glared at Mitch even though it wasn’t his fault and she’d been darned grateful
