HAD TAKEN to driving by Anna’s house every few days. No Sold! banner had been tacked onto the For Sale sign planted in her yard.
Twice he saw her.
The first time, she was backing out of the garage, both kids with her. Probably on her way to drop her boy off at school. Nate was glad she didn’t see him even as he fretted about her car, which had to be ten years old, at least. The PI had told him that the Graingers owned a second, much newer vehicle, a Kia crossover, the Sorento. The Kia wasn’t in the garage. With her money tight, she’d been sensible to sell that one, even if it would have been more reliable. He wondered what else she’d had to sell.
The next time he caught a glimpse of her she was setting off on a run, wearing formfitting shorts and a tank top that didn’t hide much of her long-legged slim body. She headed down the sidewalk the opposite way he was going. Unable to tear his eyes from the rearview mirror, Nate almost ran a stop sign at the corner.
He called once more, not surprised when she didn’t answer. After the beep, he said simply, “Let me help, Mrs. Grainger. We can make it a loan, if you’d accept that. Once you’re on your feet again, you can pay me back.”
When that time came, he wouldn’t cash her checks, but he didn’t say that.
She failed to return his call.
What he wanted to do was buy her damn mortgage so she and the kids could stay in the house. He might have done it if he hadn’t felt sure that, given her pride, she’d pack up and move away, leaving him with a modest ranch house he didn’t want and her without whatever pittance she’d get out of the sale. Then he’d have to sell the place himself and track her down to make her accept her equity. If there was any. After some of the sky-high surges in prices in the Seattle area, people found themselves having to sell houses for considerably less than what they’d paid for them only a year or two earlier.
Checking the website of the real estate company listing her house, he saw that she’d had to drop the price a second time.
Worry about Anna Grainger and her two kids might explain the burning in his stomach he had begun to suspect was an ulcer. Or maybe it was worrying about his own daughter that had him taking antacids like a chain-smoker reaching for his next cigarette before the last had burned down. Or was guilt doing the damage?
He’d gotten tough with Sonja, which infuriated her. Without fail, Nate had Molly every other weekend. He also took her out to dinner at least once a week. Spending more time with her, he still couldn’t penetrate her shyness. Once in a while, they’d do okay talking about what kind of dog she wished she had or a movie or her new shoes. Anything touching on the accident, day camp and, especially, her mother shut her up fast.
One positive: at least Molly was no longer in the same school as Josh Grainger. After the divorce, Sonja had chauffeured Molly to Bellevue so she could finish the school year with her friends. This fall, Molly had started in a Seattle elementary school.
Of course, if that damn house ever sold, Josh would no longer go to Molly’s old elementary school, anyway.
Nate called Molly several evenings a week, too, even if all he got were whispered responses. “Uh-uh.” Or “uh-huh.” Nate had to believe his persistence would eventually pay off. In his mind, persistence was an essential quality to achieve success in the business world. Brains helped—charm, too, and the ability to see the real motives of other people. But refusing to quit was number one.
In his darker moments, he had to admit that persuading an investor to trust him might not be analogous to earning a seven-year-old girl’s trust, especially after he’d let her down in such a painful way. Had been letting her down since the divorce, he had come to see.
And then there was the fact that Molly’s mother was undoubtedly bad-mouthing him.
This was one of his off weekends. Nate went into the office for half a day Saturday, but was too restless to concentrate. Finally, he drove down to the waterfront and walked onto the ferry going to Bainbridge Island. It was something he did every few months when he needed to think. This being the first week of October, he was fortunate for such good weather.
Today, he stood outside on the prow and turned his face into the cooling wind. Sunlight glinted off the water, and the Olympic Mountains reared crystal clear on the skyline. Not much snow on them, given the time of year, but they were jagged enough to be impressive, anyway.
When Molly was younger, he’d taken her on ferry rides a few times. If the weather held, maybe they could do that some night this week. The sun was still up in the early evening, and he bet she’d be happy with the food from the café on board.
For once, he tried not to think.
Winslow was as beautiful as ever, with spectacular rocky beaches and cliffs, the picturesque small town tucked in a cove. A couple sailboats were making their way in or out of the marina right by the ferry terminal. Seagulls dove, screeching, and pelicans sat atop pilings. On occasion he’d considered buying a house here, commuting on the ferry instead of in his car. Maybe this would be a good time. He could bring Molly along to look at houses with him so she felt included in his choice.
He actually did feel somewhat more relaxed by the time the ferry docked in Seattle and he walked to his car.
At home he decided not to look at emails. He scanned his missed calls and texts, but didn’t return any of those, either. There was nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday.
He’d have distracted himself by cooking something elaborate for dinner, but lately he hadn’t done well stocking the kitchen. He ended up starting coals in the grill outside, and having a steak and baked potato for dinner. Then he turned on the TV, coasted through fifty channels or so and turned it off.
Mostly he read nonfiction because he never knew what knowledge would turn out to be useful in his job. Tonight he found a thriller he remembered buying and had never gotten to. It was gripping enough to keep his attention as the sun sank and shadows lengthened across the lake.
Dark had fallen when his phone vibrated on the end table. It was later than most people called. He picked up the phone to see Sonja’s number. She might be just drunk enough to want to berate him.
Nate rolled his shoulders and answered, anyway.
“Daddy?” The voice was small and scared sounding.
“Molly? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“I can’t make Mommy wake up.”
Oh, hell.
“Where is she, punkin?”
“She fell off the coach,” Molly whispered.
“Did she hit her head?”
“I don’t think so,” his little girl said uncertainly. “She was sick on the floor.”
“All right. I’m on my way. I’ll call for an ambulance, too.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are,” he said as gently as possible. “But I think your mom will be fine, and I’ll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Okay?”
Her answer was shaky.
He’d never made the
