Twelve
Chapter One
Kristi Callahan rang the doorbell of her dream home. A sprawling 1960s rancher with two fireplaces, a breezeway separating the house from the two-car garage, and enough West Coast flair to appeal to potential buyers searching for their own dream home in one of Seattle’s family-friendliest neighborhoods. And it was just her luck to be on the wrong side of the door.
This house was well beyond the reach of a single mom raising a teenage daughter on a single mom’s income, but that didn’t stop her imagination from playing with the idea of actually living in a house like this someday. And since she’d been hired to get this one staged for the real estate market, she would at least get to put her personal stamp on the place before returning to reality. Her modest two-bedroom town house was no dream home, but it was hers. Or it would be hers in twenty-three and a half years.
The other reality was that by the time she and her team at Ready Set Sold were finished here, this client would get top dollar, even in today’s less-than-stellar market, putting this house even further out of her reach.
Speaking of clients, she had an appointment and she was only five minutes late. Okay, eight, but surely Mr. and Mrs. McTavish hadn’t given up on her and gone out. There was a big silver-colored SUV and two pink plastic tricycles parked in the driveway but that didn’t necessarily mean anyone was home.
She dug her phone out of the side pocket of her bag. No messages, no missed calls. Taking care not to get tripped up by a tattered teddy bear missing half its stuffing and three small yellow rubber boots strewn across the wide front step, she rang the bell again, and waited. A moment later her patience was rewarded with footsteps, lots of them. Two identical faces with earnest blue eyes and blond Cindy Brady pigtails appeared in the glass sidelight next to the door. One had her thumb in her mouth; the other’s pigtails were oddly askew. No doubt these were the tricycle riders. And then they were dwarfed by a huge dog whose head appeared above theirs, a panting, drooling Saint Bernard.
“Is your mommy home?” Kristi asked, loud enough so they could hear.
Their pigtails shook from side to side.
The dog pressed its moist nose against the glass.
Hmm. The children stared at her but made no attempt to summon a grown-up. Surely they hadn’t been left here on their own with only a dog to look out for them. A dog that let loose a strand of drool that now slithered down one of the blond pigtails.
Gross. Kristi quickly looked away and reached for the doorbell yet again, pulling her hand back when another set of footsteps, heavier ones, approached from the other side of the door.
The man who opened it was wearing faded blue jeans, a gray T-shirt with what appeared to be a complicated chemical equation in green lettering stretching across his chest, and the annoyed expression of someone who wasn’t expecting anyone.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Darn. Did she have the wrong day? No. She had checked her calendar and this appointment had definitely been scheduled for Wednesday. And it was Wednesday, wasn’t it?
The man at the door gave her a wary look and held up his hands, both clad in dirt-caked gardening gloves. “If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”
“No.” She shook her head emphatically, trying to ignore his mucky gloves and struggling not to be distracted by the intensity of his eyes. Cool blue eyes that a girl could practically swim in. “I’m not selling anything.”
“Who’s she, Daddy?” the girl with the crooked pigtails asked before Kristi could continue.
“My name’s Kristi.” She smiled down at the adorable little girls, then extended her hand to their father. “Kristi Callahan. I have a two o’clock appointment to meet with the owners. The McTavishes?” Maybe she had the wrong address. “I’m the interior decorator with Ready Set Sold. You hired my company to stage your home and set up the real estate listing.”
His expression went from accusatory to apologetic and he slapped a hand to his forehead—apparently forgetting about the gloves as he remembered the appointment—and applied a grimy streak to his brow.
She stared at it, contemplated the protocol with strangers who had spinach in their teeth, toilet paper stuck to a shoe, dirt on their faces, and decided there wasn’t one.
He must have realized what she was looking at because he gave his forehead a hasty swipe with his forearm. The streak blurred to a smudge.
Kristi fought off a smile and lowered her gaze to the two little girls, who now flanked the man, each with an arm wound around a kneecap. The one was still sucking her thumb.
“Right. I’m Nate McTavish.” He held out his hand, jerked it back and pulled off the glove. His handshake was confident, firm but not too firm. His skin was warm and, given the state of his gardening gloves, surprisingly dirt-free. “Your company was recommended by a colleague of mine. I plan to sell but the house needs some work and I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“I see.” She noted that he said “I” rather than “we,” and the little girls had already indicated their mother wasn’t here. The hand that might give a clue to his marital status was still inside a gardening glove. Not that it’s any of your business, she reminded herself, and tried to ease her hand out of his.
He quickly let go.
She dug a business card out of her bag and handed it to him, wishing her partner Claire had come instead. She always knew how to handle awkward situations.
“If this is a bad time—”
“No, not at all. I’ve been working in my greenhouse this afternoon and I lost track of the time.”
In a way it was good that he hadn’t been expecting her. She didn’t have to apologize for being late.
“As I said, I’m the company’s interior decorator. I help our clients get organized prior to listing their homes, assist with any decluttering or downsizing that might be needed. We’ll work together to create a design plan to suit your home and your budget. Samantha Elliott, one of my partners, is a carpenter and she’ll take care of any repairs or remodeling that has to be done. My other partner, Claire DeAngelo, is a real estate agent,” she added, striving to sound polished and professional. “She handles the appraisal, the listing, arranges the open house, that sort of thing.”
“This sounds like exactly what I need. I don’t have much time for these kinds of things.”
Kristi’s initial uncertainty faded, but she forced herself to take a breath and slow the flow of information. “We take care of everything. I’m here today to take a look around and get an idea of what needs to be done and we’ll
