The Complete Christmas Collection. Rebecca WintersЧитать онлайн книгу.
said—had been built by his dad. The beautiful, lacquered banister beside them had been lathed by his grandfather.
He’d casually mentioned those things in passing. With his big hand splayed over the grapefruit-size mahogany ball atop the newel post, his thumb absently rubbing its shiny finish, she realized this place mattered to him, too.
Her only concern now was that he trust her with it.
She took a step closer, lowering her voice so Tyler couldn’t overhear.
“It’s not that I’ve never had a job,” she informed him quietly. “I was a file clerk while I worked on an associate’s degree. After that, I spent four years as a legal secretary before Tyler came along. I went back to work transcribing documents at another law firm ten months ago. I’d still be doing that if they hadn’t let me go because the firm merged and they cut my job.”
Skipping over the five-year gap in her résumé, she aimed for the heart of his concern. “I’ve just never owned a business. Or sold anything other than whatever the PTA was selling to raise money for school projects.
“I’ll admit that when I got here,” she hurried on, hoping he’d overlook that last part, “the last thing I expected was a store. But you said it’s a good, solid business. If your grandparents didn’t usually open it until April, that would give me four months to figure out what needs to be done and how to do it.” All she had to do was get past the daunting little fact that she had no idea where to start.
“Look,” she murmured, too tired after too many sleepless nights to care how much of herself she exposed. “I’ll admit I don’t know a...a...”
“A bivy sack from a bobber?” he suggested.
“Exactly. And until now,” she said, muscling on, “I’d honestly never thought about owning anything like this. The only sports I know anything about are tennis and golf.” And that was only because her husband had wanted her to fit in at the club. She was so not the rugged, outdoors type. “But I’ll do whatever I have to do to provide for my son.
“This could be a good place to raise him. He could help me in the store. I think he’d love that. He’d even have his own park,” she pointed out, thinking of how badly she wanted them gone from the exclusive community that had come to feel like a prison. She’d hoped for a normal neighborhood, but breathing room would be a good thing, too.
“I’ll never be able to replace the security he had before his dad died, but it’s up to me to give him as much stability as I can.” Her voice fell with her final admission. “I think I can do that here.”
Her last words were as soft as the utter conviction in her eyes. Erik saw a plea there, too. Quiet. A little raw. And a lot uncomfortable for him to witness in the moments before he glanced to where her son seemed to be counting something at the window.
He’d been about that age—five or so, if he had to guess—when his grandfather had put him to work stacking canned goods on shelves. After that, he’d practically begged to come over so he could help.
He’d once thought this would be a good place to raise a child, too.
“There’s one other thing,” she admitted, her voice still quiet. “Tyler has never lived anywhere other than in the house we’re leaving. We have to be out in three days. Until the job thing happened, I’d thought we’d be settled in our new house well before Christmas. He didn’t have a very good one last year and it would be really nice to find a place that I don’t have to move him from again.” Practicality, or maybe it was weariness, kept her tone utterly matter-of-fact. “So how much is it?” she asked. “And how do I make this happen?”
He didn’t know which struck him more just then: her absolute determination to do whatever she had to do to care for her child or the naked vulnerability lurking in the depths of her eyes.
As if she knew what he saw, her glance hit the floor.
Her determination to hide that vulnerability pulled at something unfamiliar deep in his chest, even as he steeled himself against it.
He hadn’t been told how she’d been widowed. Or how long she and her child had been on their own. He had no idea if her marriage had been as good as his parents’, as much a failure as his own had been or some form of tolerable in-between. He knew only from what she’d said about her child’s loss that it was entirely possible she still grieved the man she’d lost, too.
He wasn’t a particularly sensitive or sympathetic man. Or so he’d been informed by his ex-wife and certain of the arm candy who trolled the circles he moved in. But he wasn’t at all comfortable being privy to something so personal. It disturbed him even more to find himself wondering what it would be like to mean that much to a woman.
Equally unsettling was the fact that an hour ago, she hadn’t even known the store existed. “I can’t give you the terms.”
She hadn’t a clue what she was getting into.
He knew for a fact that he was no longer comfortable with what he’d agreed to do himself.
“My agreement with Cornelia...Mrs. Hunt,” he corrected, “is that she or her assistant will discuss those details with you.”
Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he extracted one of the same pearlescent cards Phil had given her yesterday. “Did you take the ferry or do the loop through Tacoma?”
“Ferry.”
“Which one?”
“Southworth. It lands at Fauntleroy.”
By land or water, either way it would take her a while to get back to Seattle.
“Then I’ll give you directions to their office from the dock. I have another meeting in Seattle at noon.” Card in hand, he pulled his cell phone from another pocket and keyed in a number.
With the instrument to his ear, he turned away, started to pace.
Rory glanced at her watch. It was already after eleven o’clock.
She was about to mention that when she remembered his mode of transport was infinitely faster than hers. He was already into his conversation with Phil, anyway. She couldn’t hear what he said, though. She knew only that he looked oddly resigned when he turned a minute later to inform her that Phil wanted to talk to her.
By the time the woman who had appeared out of nowhere yesterday told her everything was ready to proceed with the sale and confirmed their meeting that afternoon, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing could possibly be as simple as Phil had made it sound—and that Erik Sullivan had more of a role in the sale than anyone was letting on.
The directions Rory had been given led her to the Ballard neighborhood in northwestern Seattle and a weathered, two-story redbrick building much like the others along an old business section of the waterfront. What distinguished the structure was the trail of plaster dust and debris leading from the open front door to the Wolf Construction Dumpster at the curb.
Inside, sheets of milky construction plastic masked two stories of interior scaffolding and what appeared to be something grand under construction. The filmy barriers did little to deaden the occasional clatter and boom of interior demolition. The noise was muffled considerably, however, behind the closed door of the only completed space—an unexpectedly feminine and elegant ground floor corner conference room in shades of ivory and pale taupe with a view of a marina, Shilsole Bay and snowcapped Hurricane Ridge beyond.
The long banks of ivory-draped windows caught Tyler’s attention the moment they’d walked in. Rory had thought the boats in the inlet had drawn him. Until she noticed Erik.
A walkway ran behind the buildings. She could see him outside, pacing past the rows of windows, bare-masted sailboats