Читать книгу It Started with a House.... - Helen R. Myers - Страница 8

Cynthia Kittredge Roark’s death put any thought of a moving day onto the back burner of Marshall’s life. Instead, he escorted his wife’s body back to Northern California, where it was reported she was to be laid to rest in the Kittredge family mausoleum.

It was another two weeks before Genevieve heard from Marshall again. Upon his return, he called from the bed-and-breakfast Oaklea Mansion and Manor House in the nearby piney woods town of Winnsboro where he’d been staying whenever he and Cynthia had driven in from Dallas. He asked Genevieve if her offer still stood to help him get situated. Genevieve didn’t hesitate; she assured him that he only had to give her a day and time and she would arrange to be at the Lake Starling house.

The movers finally appeared four days later. Concerned by the extra time the place had sat empty, Genevieve arranged for—with Marshall’s blessing—a thorough cleaning using the reliable service she employed herself, as did her mother. By the time the massive eighteen-wheeler backed onto the cement driveway on the third Friday in August bearing the Roarks’ furniture and personal belongings, she was able to direct them through a house that sparkled in welcome.

Thank goodness another early morning delivery had been possible. By eight o’clock, the temperatures had already climbed beyond the overnight eighty-three degrees despite the supposed cooling lake breeze. At least the new double-door stainless-steel refrigerator was in place and the electricity was on. The ice machine was up to speed, and Genevieve—using a key that Marshall had left with her—had one shelf stocked since the previous afternoon with bottled water and soft drinks for the crew, which she pointed out to them before they started unloading.

She had dressed partly for a day of labor, determined to make things as easy as possible for Marshall, but wasn’t quite able to give up on her need to be prepared for an office emergency. Her jeans were the ones she saved for attic filter changes and the serious refrigerator cleaning, her sneakers the same ones she used at the gym. But her gauzy caramel-colored top was dressier. She’d brushed her shoulder-length blond hair into a no-nonsense ponytail, yet her gold hoop earrings were unmistakably the real thing. In the Escalade were stylish heels and a white cotton blazer that could get her ready for a sudden business meeting within minutes if the need arrived.

With her clipboard in hand, her BlackBerry clipped to it, and her own bottle of water on the black-speckled quartz breakfast bar, Genevieve was ready for whatever the day would throw at her. What she hoped was that her staff would be able to handle anything that surfaced back at the office, so that she could get Marshall somewhat set up with the bare essentials before too late in the afternoon. That would mean having to work more overtime at the office in order not to fall behind with her other clients, but it was something she wanted as much as felt a need to do.

From the beginning, well before the Carsons had listed this house, it had been a favorite of hers among the luxury lake houses. The design was a mix of modern and contemporary, a gray-speckled brick, the focal point being the family/great room that was enhanced by a partial second story of lead-glass windows and a giant fireplace to provide both light under almost any weather conditions and warmth throughout the house. More lead-glass windows looked out to a wrap-around porch, an open-tiled courtyard in back, and beyond that a covered peninsula that faced the lake, pier and boathouse. The country kitchen was state-of-the-art, the elegant counters echoing the shimmering outside brick, and a copper stove hood added dramatic contrast. The split-bedrooms design featured a huge master suite, and on the other side of the house were three other bedrooms. A formal dining room and sizable office with many built-ins rounded out the main floor plan.

It was a house for professional or active people and perfect for entertaining; nevertheless, it was still a thousand square feet smaller than her mother’s residence located two properties to the right. What concerned Genevieve was that Marshall’s house was undeniably large for one person, particularly someone newly grieving with no one close to help him through the first rough weeks and months.

Although he was on the premises, Marshall had made it clear that he would be grateful to hold to their previous agreement that she handle most of the decisions and issue the directives as to what was put where. His trust was the highest form of flattery; however, Genevieve worried that he’d bestowed her that authority simply because he no longer cared. Was that reflective of the house itself, himself or both?

As the master bedroom furnishings began to be unloaded, Genevieve saw him sitting on the back patio wall, his BlackBerry in hand. He wasn’t talking or texting, he was simply staring off across the lake. She remembered that pose well from her early days after Adam’s death and knew if Marshall was able to think at all, he was wondering if his mind would ever function reliably again. Only he could resolve his “alone” and “now what?” issues. Thankfully, decisions about the rest of his life didn’t have to be made today. As for the unpacking, Genevieve reasoned that if he decided to put the place back on the market, it would show much better if it was furnished. Secretly, she couldn’t keep from hoping he would give the house—and Oak Point—a chance.

Throughout the morning, she stayed busy with the movers. While she had kitchen boxes stacked on the counters and in the huge pantry, and boxes marked “Marshall—bedroom” and “linens” delivered to the master suite, she had everything with Cynthia’s name delivered to the first bedroom on the west side of the house. In between answering questions from the supervisor named Benny, she found the boxes that would initially allow Marshall to make coffee, and eat off something besides paper plates and drink out of glass and porcelain instead of plastic.

When the workers were done in the master suite, she found a box of linens to make sure Marshall had a bed ready to sleep in and towels for his bathroom. She had to resort to her own “emergency” bag of brought-along supplies to finish things. They included essentials like bathroom tissue, soap, toothpaste and shampoo to keep him well stocked for several days.

Whether it was the heat or guilt, eventually Marshall came inside and attempted to show some interest in how things were coming along. He was astounded at her progress in the master suite, but when he spotted Cynthia’s boxes in the other bedroom, the look he shot her almost broke her heart. Right after that he retreated to the office and closed the door. Genevieve managed not to interrupt him again until the desk and file cabinets were ready to be placed in there.

And then it was done. Once she signed the paperwork and handed Benny the tip Marshall had provided, she made sure he and his men took more refreshments for their return trip to Dallas and waved them off.

The sound of the big diesel engine rumbling back to life brought Marshall from some remote part of the house and he joined her in the kitchen. With an understanding smile, she pointed to the receipts on the counter. “Mission accomplished—and without too much damage. There’s a table scratch, which can probably be rubbed out, but I made them initial for it here—” she pointed to the appropriate page “—and for a chip out of the bed’s headboard.” She pointed to the second initial.

“Those are both my fault, not theirs,” Marshall said.

Genevieve nodded, experience allowing her to read between the lines. She, too, had been grateful for everyone’s kindness and help during her darkest days, but there came a time when she began wishing that she lived in a bigger city that would provide anonymity because she didn’t think she could bear even one more pitying or curious look, or “chin up, life goes on” lecture. At her lowest point, she’d lived to get home and release some of that pressure.

“I broke a clock against our fireplace mantel,” she confessed. She added a sheepish smile. “Frankly, it was the ugliest wedding gift we’d received, and I wasn’t sorry to see it go. I’ll give the company a call immediately and tell them that the notations are nonissues.”

“The headboard happened right after we contracted on this place and I caught Cynthia sneaking a cigarette,” Marshall said with equal chagrin. “I was frustrated and angry. I threw a gift, too. A silver picture frame. I’ll handle the call, Genevieve.”

Wedding photos were often in silver frames, she thought. Hers were. For weeks after Adam’s death, she couldn’t bear to see a photo of him without falling apart and for a while had put them facedown, until seeing them that way would make her feel guilty so she would place them upright again, until she had to hide them behind books and in drawers because it hurt too much to look at his dear face. But she’d never wanted to throw a photo of him. The box containing his flag maybe, because she’d been as angry with the military as she’d been with the radical militants who’d killed him. The thing was that being a soldier had been in his blood and she’d married him knowing that. Wasn’t it the same for Marshall with Cynthia? From what they’d told her, they’d met in college and she’d been a near life-long smoker.

“Okay, then…” Realizing that she had no more reason to stay, Genevieve tucked her pen into her bag and pulled out something from the bottom of the clipboard that she’d worked up for him. “Well, the good news is that you can take your time from here on. Here’s a sheet with service phone numbers.”

“I told you that you were incredible. The gift that keeps on giving,” he murmured.

His admiring gaze had her feeling as if she was one step away from blushing. Determined to keep to her professional script, she focused on the paper she passed to him. “A simple printout of what I already have in the computer. These are people we hire repeatedly at the office and you can feel free to use my name, although by now everyone knows yours, so you probably won’t have any trouble getting quick service. Also your address is a dead giveaway.”

“Does that mean I should tip them double? Not that I mind if they’re as good as you say,” Marshall added with a shrug, “but I don’t want to immediately become the hated one on the street by the rest of my neighbors.”

Those neighbors included her mother, a fact that he had been informed of back when he and Cynthia first looked at the house. “If I recommend someone, you can pretty much trust that you won’t be dealing with padded invoices, so tip as you see fit.”

Placing the paper on top of the receipt, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “How do I thank you? You’ve gone above and beyond what I intended or imagined.”

“Full disclosure time—fun for me is playing decorator, and I have the best job to feed that because I get to see so many styles and ideas. The muscle boys had the hard work.” Seeing the new potential in the place, she tried to infuse him with a little of her excitement. “Do you like it so far?” What Genevieve really wanted to ask was, “Do you think you could consider staying despite what’s happened?”

“What’s not to like?” Marshall replied. “It’s a fabulous house and you’ve done the most with what you had to work with. In bad weather, I can even jog using the wrap-around patio. With luck, I can crack open my skull slipping on sweating concrete and quit worrying about what I’m supposed to do with myself here alone.”

“Marshall.” His last words shook her almost as much as when he took that awful call weeks ago outside of the title company. Genevieve couldn’t keep from fingering the delicate gold cross her paternal grandmother had given her at her christening. Loss that cut soul-deep opened one to so many dangers.

He held up his hand to entreat her patience. “I’m being a self-pitying jerk. Ignore me, please. I’m used to knowing immediately what to do when and the protocol involved. I could arrange for dinner for a surprise visit by a foreign dignitary or celebrity with barely any notice, but right now just this small talk with you is almost making me break out in a cold sweat.”

She understood completely. “Then I should leave.”

“Don’t. I mean, I wish you wouldn’t.”

Having started to reach for her things, Genevieve hesitated. “But you just said—”

“What I meant was that I was editing myself mute. It’s been a progressive thing…mostly to avoid conflict with Cynthia, because getting upset was the last thing she needed given her prognosis. Increasingly, I’ve found the tendency is bleeding into the other parts of my life.”

The admission that Cynthia was so addicted to nicotine that even when on oxygen she would light up was bad enough; Genevieve couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult it was for Marshall—trying to help her when she would not or could not be helped. “I must admit when we first met, I thought you a bit difficult to read, but I soon concluded that was simply your desire for privacy, combined with your first-rate professionalism.”

Marshall looked away and rubbed his nape. “Bless you. At least now you know how wrong you are.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

When he looked back at her, he shook his head and smiled. Although it was a sad smile, it was the first time she saw something close to a natural reaction from him—other than one of pain—and the tenderness of it almost took her breath away. He had a face that made her think of brooding Irish poets and brave Greek gods, nothing like today’s air-brushed cover-model perfect images, but a face full of character and intelligence earned by some life-altering bumps and blows along the way. Suddenly she saw a new layer of the charisma that he was capable of, and Genevieve was grateful to have the counter to hold on to. Combined with his penetrating eyes, she felt almost as weak-kneed as one of her mother’s fictional heroines.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered and tore his gaze away only to gesture to the refrigerator. “I saw that generous gift of champagne you sneakily tucked in the back of everything. At least stay long enough to join me in a glass?”

“You weren’t supposed to notice it until I left,” Genevieve replied, trying to figure out all that was going on beneath the surface of the man as fast as he hid it. “As a matter of fact, I debated not putting it there at all. It’s a given that you don’t feel like celebrating—”

“Well, if you leave without sharing a glass with me, it’s apt to still be in there when you next put the house on the market.”

He didn’t seem to say that as a threat, just a fact of life, but the fact that it was a possibility triggered a sinking feeling inside her. Against her better judgment, she found herself reaching for her BlackBerry. “Let me take this outside and check my messages and see how things are at the office. One glass,” she added as she backed toward the French doors leading to the patio. “I haven’t eaten enough today to risk more and can’t afford to be seen driving off the culvert at the end of your driveway. Juice glasses in the upper cabinet to the right of the sink.” She pointed. “That and the ice tea size are all that’s unpacked so far.”

Genevieve always enjoyed the view of the lake and this early-afternoon image was of smooth-glass perfection. It helped to soothe the nerves playing havoc with her body and psyche. She should have left as soon as Marshall had thanked her. The fact that he hadn’t needed to try hard to make her linger told her that she was behaving way out of her norm and needed a reality check. Fast.

Unless she was beyond clueless, Marshall Roark was attracted to her. But he was apparently as troubled by that as she was startled by her own attraction to him. She reminded herself that sexual awareness so soon following such a loss was common. She’d experienced it herself, only the men who’d made passes hadn’t been anyone she could be remotely attracted to. She’d yearned only for Adam. However, that didn’t stop the sleepless nights, and days of compromised focus due to her libido, so how could she be offended or judge Marshall, even though Cynthia wasn’t gone a full month yet?

On the other hand, she’d been alone four years now and thought she’d perfected keeping an invisible barrier between herself and unwanted male attention. That just proved how good Marshall was at undermining her resolve. She would have to be extracareful—not only when she got back inside, but in the future.

Inwardly shaking her head at this potential emotional maelstrom, Genevieve called the office. Her senior agent Avery Pageant answered. “How are things going?” she asked.

“Ina and I are holding the fort,” the forty-two-year-old divorcée replied. “She’s in the kitchen getting our lunches ready. We’re both eating late today to avoid dinner. Raenne is off showing the Cook farm.”

“Did she have her boots and gun with her when she left?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

The friendly taunt didn’t offend Genevieve. They were a close group and although she was the youngest in the office—with Raenne thirty-five, and Ina thirty-three—they all understood that, as the broker, Genevieve was key to the reputation and soundness of the business. They also knew there was a huge difference between showing lakefront property and a good-size farm with creeks and wildlife. Often that wildlife was of the deadly variety. Then there was the matter of who was asking to see such property. Raenne was married, but you couldn’t tell it by her redneck husband, who would travel three or five states for a bass tournament yet wouldn’t act as backup to his wife when she showed large tracts of land. It was left to Genevieve to remind her staff to be cautious; only last year a female agent a few towns away had been murdered showing property—and that had occurred in a development!

“What about your afternoon appointment?” she asked Avery. “Is that still on?”

“No, the couple found out they won’t get the financing for that much house. At least they didn’t waste my time. I’ll hunt them something more in their price range and get back to them.”

“Good for you. All right, I’m planning on being back there within the hour.”

Genevieve had just disconnected when she heard the French doors open behind her. Listening to Marshall’s footsteps as he approached, she pointed across the cove at the cedar two-story partially hidden by seventy-year-old pines. “It looks like one of your on-the-road-again neighbors is back in town.”

“Beau Stanton the singer, right?” Marshall stopped beside her and handed her one of the glasses. “Based out of Nashville, I believe you said.”

As the small caravan consisting of a sparkling top-of-the-line pickup truck, a cargo van and two SUVs of equal quality parked on the driveway, Genevieve nodded. “That’s the one. Those pricey black vehicles almost resemble a presidential entourage, don’t they?”

“They don’t look quite as bulletproof.”

“Of course. There’s that.” And Marshall would know better than she would given his background of hobnobbing with the rich and famous. Worried that she might have sounded as if she was showing off, Genevieve grew silent.

“Didn’t you tell me that he had the walls of his house built with extra insulation and the windows specially designed so that he won’t irritate neighbors during rehearsals and jam sessions? Considerate of him,” Marshall said, “although I wouldn’t mind hearing a tune or two now and again.”

“Not at three or four in the morning you wouldn’t. When musicians jam, they’re not aware of the time. He loves it here,” Genevieve said, finally turning. She knew what Marshall had done to make her feel comfortable, and thought him all the more a gentleman for it. “The lake has become a creative inspiration to him, so, like you, he’s determined not to create any bad blood with his neighbors.” She nodded with simple admiration. “You’re kind to overlook my ignorance and you paid excellent attention when I first showed you the place.”

He touched his glass to hers. “In the end, it’s all in the details, isn’t it?”

“I can’t argue with that,” she murmured, once again wondering what else he was implying. After taking a necessary sip of the delicious vintage, Genevieve dove, perhaps too eagerly, into a reminder of who else he shared the deep cove with—bankers, retired sports stars, a world-renowned surgeon and her mother in the Mediterranean-style those two properties over. On their first tour of this home, with her typical full disclosure style, she’d made him and Cynthia fully aware of the familial connection. Cynthia had suffered a frightening coughing-choking fit at the news.

“You’re kidding me? I love her work!” she’d declared. “If she could write faster, she might get me to give up cigarettes.”

Marshall hadn’t been amused at his wife’s dark humor, considering her already fragile health, but Genevieve had eased the moment by promising that she would let her mother know and would get any books she wanted autographed. Sadly, that had remained a commitment unfulfilled.

Genevieve glanced toward the Texas version of a villa and hoped her mother wasn’t watching with her military-power binoculars from her second-story office. A tight publishing deadline was the only safe time Genevieve could be showing in the area and not be spotted without getting an immediate text message demanding, “Who is that?” When she’d first spotted Marshall Roark, Sydney had texted, “Who is that?”

“I’ve lost you,” Marshall said. “Is something wrong?”

“Can we go back inside?” Genevieve asked and began leading the way. “I’m afraid that if my mother catches sight of us standing here, she’ll invite herself over.”

“Ah, yes. I seem to remember you referring to her as ‘part bloodhound and part shark.’”

“She’s as environmentally efficient as the latter, too. Just about everything she sniffs out information-wise will end up in one of her novels. For someone who values his privacy, you’ll want to remember that.”

“You sound like you’ve been nipped a time or two.” Marshall’s long strides helped him beat her to the door and open it for her.

“Let’s just say you won’t find many Genevieves in East Texas. My namesake happened to be a character that she became so enthralled with, she couldn’t resist naming me that, as well. It helped being born forty-eight hours after she finished that manuscript.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” he replied. “So the Genevieve-based character was someone your mother had met before?”

“Who had enough tragedy in her life to become a book. Don’t bother asking me for the title,” Genevieve replied.

“You tempt me, but I’ll resist for now.” Marshall tilted his head as they paused at the bar. “You can’t see that the name suits you?”

“No more than Gigi does. That’s G.G., my married initials. Mother thought a character called Gabrielle Gallant was enough disguise to turn the most recent and painful chapters of my life into fiction, as well. The rest is another bit of New York Times–list history.”

“Ah. Ouch. Now I’m beginning to understand,” Marshall replied thoughtfully. His look was sympathetic. “So you two aren’t speaking? Excuse me—now I’m trespassing on your privacy.”

With a fatalistic shrug, Genevieve took a last sip of champagne and made herself set the half-full glass on the counter. “We speak. I’ve resigned myself to the reality that she’s incorrigible and, when she blithely shares her latest tromp into my life or the lives of others that I know and care about, she accepts that I need to avoid her calls for a day or a week, depending on the offense.”

“You’ve opened my eyes to a different perspective. It’s one thing to see print page opinions or the headlines from the news portrayed on TV dramas a month after the fact, but I’m realizing it’s not so entertaining when it’s your own history in novel form.” Marshall continued, “Would I be getting too personal if I asked if Sawyer is your maiden name?”

Genevieve tucked her BlackBerry into her bag. “Not at all. Charles Sawyer was my father. He died in a tractor accident when I was fifteen. As sad as that sounds, he was looking over some new land he’d just purchased. I guess I inherited his love of land. Mother’s current husband is Bart—short for Barton—Conway. Part saint, part Saint Bernard, not always tolerant of Mother’s shenanigans, but faithful, reliable, all of the qualities one needs with a high-maintenance wife like Sydney. They’re working on their tenth anniversary. My hunch is that he’ll stick. My prayer is he’ll stick. Between him and Dad was Whit. Whitfield Edwards. You won’t hear that name spoken unless there’s an obituary notice. Not Mother’s,” Genevieve intoned.

“Was theirs a bad experience partially due to things happening too soon after your father’s death?”

Pointing her index finger at him, she replied, “Bingo. For a time, Mother did consider the working title The Expensive Case of Rebound but she never wrote the book…or learned from the experience. She started dating Bart at an investments seminar two weeks after her divorce was final.”

“Sometimes it happens quickly for some people,” Marshall said, gesturing with his glass.

Genevieve shook her head. “You can’t be interested in any of this.”

“I actually believe in seminars. The results from several have kept me from firing a few employees.” When Genevieve failed to respond to that, he added, “What does Saint Bart do while your mother is writing? I didn’t see a boathouse, so I’m guessing he’s not a fisherman.”

“The only water Bart is interested in comes from his shower head or is the frozen kind—ice in his scotch. He likes golf, poker and the online link to his stock trader.” Genevieve pointed to the notes she’d left him. “Don’t forget the security people will be out tomorrow to check on your system and recommend upgrades.”

“Thanks. Should I make a point to introduce myself to the police chief?”

“Phil Irvine. I asked him to stop by in the next few days, but you’re right, it wouldn’t hurt to initiate the meeting yourself. He’s a good man. His son is a talented junior on the high school football team and already being watched by college scouts. His elder child, a daughter, died in a wreck last year. I’m only offering that because Phil can be a bit gruff these days. Please don’t take it personally.”

Marshall stayed her hand as she reached for her bag. “Do you ever stop working?”

His unexpected touch made it difficult to think, let alone answer. “I’m only trying to help make this impossible situation—”

“Easier. You have. But, Genevieve, do you think you could go off the clock now and just talk to me?”

She knew she should have resisted the champagne. So that intuition about his attraction had been dead-on, but while her heart skipped a beat in ridiculous pleasure, her mind—ever the devil’s advocate—was fast to hoist walls. “Oh, Marshall…you know that’s not a good idea.”

“Then you realize that I don’t want to talk about my neighbors or your family, I want to talk about you.”

She kept her gaze on the hand slowly clasping hers. “Yes.”

“What if I asked you to dinner?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Because there’s someone already in your life?”

The easy way out would be to say, “Yes,” but that would be lying. However, she gently extricated herself and looped her bag over her shoulder. “Marshall…I’m flattered. Truly. And what you think you’re feeling is normal after suffering such a huge loss, but it’s not—”

“Don’t say ‘real.’ Not only isn’t this a temporary aberration, I was attracted to you the moment I saw your photo on the realty Web site. When I actually met you, I was relieved that Cynthia shook your hand first because I needed a moment to collect myself.”

His admission was everything a woman wanted to hear from a man she also felt an attraction to—only Genevieve wasn’t proud of having those feelings about the husband of a woman she’d hoped would become a friend. “Please don’t tell me that. Do you realize how bizarre that is? Cyn—”

“Had been ill for a considerable while, you know that. Genevieve—of all women I’d have expected you to understand. I was a faithful husband until we met you. I took my ‘for better or worse’ commitment seriously.”

“I appreciate you sharing that,” she replied. While she refused to let this get out of hand, she would hate for her image of him to be completely shattered.

“But you’re still uneasy.” Marshall stroked his thumb over her soft skin.

“Anyone would be.”

“No, not anyone. You. You’re far more decent and principled than many of your sex, Genevieve. Believe me, from my past vantage point, I’ve seen plenty.” Then, with a faint smile, he added, “But I’m fairly certain that you blushed at least twice when I caught you looking at me.”

Mortified, Genevieve pulled her hand free and covered her eyes. “Please tell me that Cynthia never saw that?”

“She didn’t. But don’t torment yourself. She liked you and would approve of this. Us.”

“There is no us. It’s just too soon.” She gestured toward the French doors. “Besides which, I’ve established a nice business here. Gossip could destroy a reputation in my business as quickly as getting called up on ethics charges.”

“What are we supposed to do, pretend we feel nothing until the police and local gossips give the signal that we’ve suffered enough to suit them?” Marshall uttered something disparaging under his breath. “Speaking for myself, I’ve been through several kinds of hell watching the slow death of my wife, and the slower death of my marriage due to our spats about her inability to quit smoking. I want to feel something besides pity, regret, grief and guilt. I want my life back.”

Genevieve understood, sympathized and even agreed with him. In principle. But, while she wasn’t a coward, she had to avert her eyes to protect herself from the intensity she knew was radiating in his. Marshall was a passionate man and she recognized that now that he was free and had made his feelings known, she was all the more vulnerable to him.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly. When she failed to comply, he closed the short distance between them and put his fingers under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You know what? I think you’re even more confused and trapped than I am by this world of cellophane morals and shredded principles, so this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to kiss you. Then you’ll leave—probably as quickly as I’ll want you to go, but for entirely different reasons. And we’ll talk again after you’ve had a chance to really get used to the idea. Understand?”

She shook her head.

Marshall exhaled in a brief, low laugh. “God help me,” he said, lowering his head. “Neither do I.”