“For a janitor, perhaps? Or do you run a day care down in some alcove in the garage? Well, probably not that, since you’d be depositing your own daughter in it, wouldn’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but she didn’t pause.
“What is it you think I can do, Mr. Kendrick? I have a teaching certificate, but my only classroom experience is student teaching. I’m not a whiz on a computer. Corporate finance? Well, no.” She abandoned sarcasm. “I don’t need your pity or charity. I don’t want anything from you. Is that clear?”
“You’re entitled to compensation for your loss.”
Anna Grainger snorted and stormed out of his office.
* * *
HER REAL ESTATE agent cleared his throat. “The house has only been on the market for six weeks, Mrs. Grainger. That’s not a long time.”
Usually, Alan Lang glowed with energy and enthusiasm. However, he had the kind of mobile face that he could rearrange at will. Right now, he was projecting encouragement and understanding.
Unfortunately, he probably understood her situation all too well. In his business, he’d know desperation when he saw it.
They sat in her living room, freshly painted, decluttered and as clean as she could make it. She’d become a tyrant about making both kids put everything away the second they were done with it. With kids the ages of hers, it took constant vigilance to be sure the house was ready to show at any time of the day or night. Not a dirty cup was left in the sink, a toothpaste smear on a bathroom countertop, a bed unmade or the lawn a quarter of an inch too long.
She’d been astonished to discover how often the doorbell rang during the dinner hour. Invariably, she’d find an apologetic agent on the doorstep asking if she’d mind if potential buyers just took a quick look.
“Of course not,” she’d say with a gracious smile. Like she could afford to say no.
She and her children were currently living an unreal life. A model family living in a model house, except she and the house both were unacceptably shabby.
This afternoon, Alan had stopped by ostensibly to pick up the business cards left by all the agents who’d showed the house. Anna knew he always followed up with a call to find out what the clients had thought. When he’d suggested they sit down and talk, a chill of apprehension had made her wish she had a sweater or sweatshirt at hand.
“When we bought this place, most houses were snapped up within twenty-four hours of being listed.” We. The very word gave Anna a pang that she had to shake off. “To buy one, you had to be in the right place at the right time.”
“With even a slight downturn in prices, the market favors buyers. I’m sorry to say that’s what we’re facing right now.”
“Okay,” she said cautiously. “But people are looking.”
“They are. Which I found encouraging at first.” He cleared his throat. “But now... We haven’t had so much as a nibble. The message I’m hearing from other agents is that the property is overpriced given the need for updates.”
Anna’s heart sank. He had set the price for her house higher than he’d liked in the first place at her insistence. She’d wanted to give herself room to negotiate. “You think we need to lower what we’re asking.”
“I suggest a twenty-thousand-dollar drop.”
She closed her eyes. Twenty thousand dollars—and offers would likely come in ten to twenty thousand dollars lower yet.
A couple calming breaths later, Anna met his eyes. As with so much else these days, she had no choice. She had to get out from under the mortgage, even if she walked away with nothing.
“Go for it,” she agreed, and saw his relief. He probably hadn’t expected her to be sensible.
A minute later, as she was showing him out, he commented, “You’ve kept the place looking good despite, er...” His cheeks reddened.
“Having a four-year-old and a seven-year-old living here?” She knew he wasn’t married and had no children yet. Even though he was probably close to her age, twenty-nine, Anna felt like a stodgy matron in comparison, their life experiences so vastly different. “You have no idea,” she said ruefully.
“Well.” He hovered briefly on the porch. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed this week.”
“Let’s,” she said, if somewhat drily.
After closing the door behind him, she stayed facing it as she battled panic. What if this drop in price wasn’t enough? What if...?
“Mo-om!” Jenna called from the bedroom.
Anna squared her shoulders, turned and put her game face on. She hoped the kids attributed to grief most of the stress they had to sense in her. Whatever else she did, she had to protect Kyle in their eyes. That’s what they needed—and what he’d earned with his sacrifice.
* * *
“CAN I STAY HOME?” Molly begged, sounding subdued. “I don’t feel very good.”
The minute Nate had seen who was calling, he’d known she or her mother would be making an excuse to keep her from spending the weekend with him. “Upset stomach?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
Two weeks ago, a friend whose name he didn’t recognize had asked her to a birthday party. Last minute, of course. He’d insisted on taking her out to dinner that Monday. She’d hardly met his gaze, nibbled at her pizza and mumbled a few words in response to his questions or remarks.
Phone conversations with her were useless. He kept having to say, “What?” or “I didn’t hear what you said.”
He’d learned that she hadn’t gone back to day camp. She didn’t know what teacher she’d have this year yet. When he asked if she was excited about school starting in less than two weeks, he got the verbal equivalent of a shrug.
The breakthrough he thought they’d made, talking honestly about the tragedy, had been a one-off. Molly didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to see him.
“You can be sick just as well here,” he told her now. “I’ll make you chicken-noodle soup, if you can keep it down, and rent some videos. I can give you hugs, too.”
Silence.
Grimly determined, Nate said, “Go get your mom, Molly. I’d like to talk to her.”
More silence. Waiting, he presumed she was doing as he asked.
“What?” his ex-wife snapped.
“What’s up with Molly?”
“She doesn’t want to go. What a surprise. Thash what happens when you let your daughter down nuff...e-nough times.” If she thought the careful correction helped, she was wrong.
“You’re drunk,” he said flatly.
“I’ve
