Читать книгу Coming Home For Christmas - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“You do realize you work too hard, right?”

Marcy Crawford aimed the question at her younger sister, MacKenzie Bradshaw, as she followed her sister around a showroom that was nothing short of an obstacle course for anyone who wasn’t a size three. And in her current state of pregnancy, Marcy admittedly hadn’t been a petite size three for a little longer than eight months now.

Her question was a rhetorical one, and it was meant to get Kenzie, the youngest of five and the one everyone in the family doted on, to reassess her present life. However, her supposedly impromptu visit to Kenzie’s place of work wound up getting the latter to fall back on her usual evasive maneuvers. Whether or not she actually meant to, Kenzie was weaving her way in and out of small pockets of space. Pockets that Marcy was frustratingly finding close to impossible to get into. Thus she was completely unable to follow.

Kenzie glanced over her shoulder, pausing only long enough to blow her light blond bangs out of her eyes—she had to find time to get a haircut, she silently noted. With Christmas almost here, business had been good lately, really good. The turnaround at her shop, Hidden Treasures, both with items coming in and going out, had been more than a little gratifying.

“Said the woman who’s more than eight months pregnant and carrying a fourteenth-month-old around in her arms,” Kenzie pointed out.

She dearly loved her sister—loved all four of her siblings and her mother—but she instantly went into withdrawal mode the moment Marcy or the others felt compelled to change around the structure of her life. She liked it just the way it was—busy and profitable.

“Exactly my point,” Marcy said, shuffling so that she was finally able to move in front of her sister by coming in from the other side. The less than fluid movement managed to trap Kenzie with an ornate carved turn-of-the-century credenza at her back while she, with her sheer girth, barred her sister’s escape from the front. “All this effort you keep putting out, it should be going toward your own family, not toward pawing through dead people’s junk.”

“Hidden treasures,” Kenzie corrected her with just a touch of indignation, taking offense for both her clients and the one-of-a-kind items in her shop. “One woman’s junk is another woman’s prized possession.”

“Call it whatever you like,” Marcy told her with a sigh. Alex, her sleeping fourteen-month-old son, was growing increasingly heavy and she shifted him from one side to the other in an effort to balance his weight. “Just say you’ll come to dinner tonight.”

“I’d say it,” Kenzie replied willingly, “but you know I don’t believe in lying.” She fixed her sister with a penetrating look. “Look, Marce, I’d come over in a heartbeat if you weren’t setting me up.”

“Setting you up?” Marcy echoed, torn between sounding utterly innocent and completely indignant at the suggestion that she would do something so underhanded—even though that’s exactly what she was doing. Her free hand was pressed against her offended breast. “Who’s setting you up?” she asked, her voice cracking as it went up just a little too high at the end of her question.

“You are,” Kenzie replied without blinking. Turning, she found an opening next to a vintage Singer sewing machine console and wiggled through it, leaving Marcy to lumber over to a wider aisle.

Marcy valiantly attempted to keep up the ruse. “I am not. Why would you say that?” she demanded. When Alex began to whimper in response to her elevated voice, Marcy was forced to lower it to a whisper. “Why would you say that?” she repeated in almost a hiss.

Kenzie gave her a knowing look. “You told me not to wear my jeans and to remember to fix my hair.”

Because of her hectic schedule and the fact that she had to dress well for work, in her off hours Kenzie enjoyed kicking back and being comfortable during her get-togethers with her family. Apparently, in her sister’s estimation, there was such a thing as being too comfortable.

Marcy sniffed. “I just happen to think you look nice with your hair up.”

Kenzie felt compelled to point out the flaw in that excuse. “Marcy, you spend your days running after a kid whose energy levels rival the Energizer Bunny and you’re about to give birth in a month or less. Why would you even care if I shaved my head before I came over for dinner?” she challenged. “Unless, of course,” she went on, “you’re inviting an extra guest to attend that dinner.”

Marcy sighed, giving up the pretense. “Okay, you got me. I had Bob invite his friend George to dinner. But George is very nice—”

Kenzie immediately cut her off. This line of conversation had no future. There was no point in letting Marcy just go on and on.

“I’m sure he is,” she said, patronizing Marcy just the slightest bit, “but I’m never going to find out because I’m not coming over to dinner.”

Marcy looked at her pleadingly. “C’mon, Kenzie, don’t be stubborn.”

“You call it being stubborn. I call it surviving. Stop pulling a Mom on me,” Kenzie requested, then added a little more kindly, “I have no desire to be set up. My life is full enough as it is.” With that, she went on adjusting a new display of furnishings.

Marcy cast a disparaging look around at her sister’s most recent acquisitions. “Yeah, full of dust and allergens,” she grumbled.

Kenzie paused for a moment to pat her sister’s cheek. “C’mon, Marcy. Don’t pout. Your face might set that way,” she teased. It was something their grandmother used to threaten them with when they were little and scowled at being reprimanded.

“What am I going to tell George?” Marcy asked. “I’ve already built you up to him as the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Tell him I ran off to feed the masses,” Kenzie joked. And then she sighed, shaking her head. She would have thought Marcy would know better by now. “This can’t be coming as a surprise to you. You know how I feel about setups.”

Marcy shifted Alex over to her other hip again, clearly physically uncomfortable. “But that’s when Mom does them.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Kenzie pointed out. “A setup by any other family member would be just as rotten.”

Marcy played her ace card. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at her youngest sister. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

“Nobody’s getting any younger, except for Brad Pitt when he played that weird guy in that movie a few years ago.” Kenzie congratulated herself on delivering the comeback with a straight face.

Marcy’s hands were full as she held onto her son. Otherwise she would have used one to anchor her sister and get her to agree to dinner tonight. “I’m serious, Kenzie.”

“And so am I, Marce. I’ve got a rocking chair with my name on it at the retirement home. The second I turn thirty, I’ll be sure to get my butt over there and start rocking in it.”

“This isn’t a joke, Kenzie,” Marcy complained. She clearly wanted her sister to enjoy the sort of happiness she herself had a handle on: home, husband and an expanding family.

“Neither is being set up.” Maybe if Kenzie issued a blanket warning, her siblings would cease and desist once and for all in attempting to manage her life. “Pass the word along to Marilyn. And while you’re at it, you can also tell Tom and Trevor in case they’re entertaining any ideas to jump in and pick up where you dropped off. I don’t want to be set up. Got that?”

“I got it,” Marcy grumbled with a sigh. “But someday, you’ll regret this when you find yourself alone.”

Kenzie suppressed a laugh. “Marcy, I have four married siblings with seven kids among them. I will never find myself alone. Besides, this way I get to be Fun Aunt Kenzie to the short tribe.

“Now please, I’ve got work to do and I’m going to be here all night if you don’t let me finish it.” She paused for a second to kiss her sleeping nephew and brush her lips against her sister’s cheek. “I appreciate what you think you were doing for me, but trust me, setting me up will only lead to disaster. Now go before Pablo comes in with his duster. If you wind up staying here, you’ll be sneezing for a week,” she promised. “Go, Marcy.”

Scowling her disapproval at the way things had turned out, Marcy murmured a few disenchanted-sounding words and then backed out of the space she was in. She was still scowling when she slowly made her way out the front door.

Kenzie breathed a sigh of relief. Finally!

She had exactly sixty seconds all to herself before the phone rang.

She made it to the counter, where the store phone was located, by the second ring. Managing to collect herself to convey cheerfulness, Kenzie lifted the receiver from its cradle and declared, “This is Hidden Treasures. How may I assist you today?”

The moment she heard the voice on the other end of the line, the smile she had deliberately forced to her lips widened of its own accord, generously spreading to the rest of her.

“Hello, Theresa,” she said warmly to her mother’s close friend and the woman who had handled several catered affairs for her. “What’s up?”

* * *

It was a nice house.

Kenzie recognized it instantly. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but still very nice. And well kept.

The company her mother had founded and then passed on to her six years ago had her traveling up and down the California coast, visiting estates, regular homes and houses that fell somewhere in between. It was the middle group that tended to present her with the most surprises, yielding the occasional hidden treasure—which was why she had decided to change the shop’s name to that.

Her work had taught her never to judge a book by its cover. She’d discovered that the most incredible things could be found in old cigar boxes—or their equivalent—left forgotten in the recesses of an attic, under a bed or in a seldom opened closest. Anything—from a vintage pack of playing cards once held in the hands of a famous gunman, to a great-grandmother’s precious missing cameo, to a deed to forgotten property—could turn up if some effort was given to the hunt.

What she liked most about her work was entering a different world while she assessed the belongings and, in some cases, prepared to undertake the sale of them. She always gave 110 percent of herself so her clients wound up receiving the maximum amount for their things while the items found homes with people who appreciated their worth.

Kenzie liked to call her undertaking a win-win situation.

Every place, be it a simple home or an estate, had its own kind of hidden treasure, no matter how unimpressive that item might appear to an outsider. With that in mind, Kenzie couldn’t help wondering what she would find in this pleasant residential home that Theresa Manetti had sent her to.

She knew it was just serendipity that brought her here because she doubted Theresa had any idea she’d once known Amy, the girl who had lived here—or that she’d had a wild crush on Amy’s older brother.

Parking her car next to the curb, Kenzie got out and slowly made her way up the front walk. She did a cursory evaluation of what she saw as she went.

The property had been well maintained, although there was one hearty weed making its way up against the fence as if waiting to let loose with a growth spurt the moment no one was looking. The rest of the front yard, though, had been well tended.

The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in an upper-class residential neighborhood. All the houses in West Park appeared to be cared for. Holding a successful estate sale here with just a little bit of advertising would require next to no effort on her part, Kenzie decided just as she reached the front door.

For a second, snatches of memories came scurrying her way, stirring questions.

One thing at a time, Kenzie, she told herself.

It seemed to her that the exact instant she touched the doorbell and pressed it, the front door flew open. She hoped she managed to hide her surprise from the tall, dark-haired man who answered the door.

Oh, God, is that...?

Yes, it is him. Keith. This is still his house, then.

Kenzie struggled to subdue her erratic pulse. She forced herself to breathe normally.

Had he been standing by the front window, waiting for her? Or was this just a coincidence? Mrs. Manetti had told her that according to her real estate agent friend, Maizie Sommers, the owner of this house was extremely eager to sell it and everything inside.

But somehow, until this moment, she hadn’t made the connection. She knew Keith had moved away but assumed that his mother had, too.

Because of what Mrs. Manetti had said, she should have realized this was still the O’Connell house. She supposed it was the story that threw her. Mrs. Sommers had said the seller had grown up here, which meant it was his childhood home. If anyone had told her that her parents’ house was being sold, she would have been upset, not indifferent. And if she were forced to pack up whatever belongings she wanted to take with her, she would have had to hire a large moving van, not carelessly ask to have it all sold off to strangers.

But then, not everyone was as sentimental or attached to things as she was. And, she supposed, in a way there was a cloud over this house. Maybe that was what Keith had been thinking when he said he wanted everything sold.

The moment she looked up at Keith, that old queasy-stomach feeling came over her. She had to fight to keep it in check. This was business, Kenzie reminded herself. Her smile increased its wattage. Partially it was the saleswoman in her, and partially it was just the woman in her responding to the man.

He had only gotten better looking.

It figured. Was he married?

It had been ten years since she’d seen him. Of course he’d gotten married.

Hadn’t he?

Kenzie dealt with a great many people in her line of work, and she was accustomed to all types crossing her path. As far as looks went, Keith, with his chiseled features, somber expression and sad green eyes, was definitely in the top 3 percent. She allowed her well-organized mind to wander just a little bit.

She had to admit that if Marcy or Marilyn had wanted to set her up with someone who resembled Keith, she probably wouldn’t have turned the offer down, principles or no principles.

The next moment, Kenzie sternly upbraided herself for allowing her mind to wander this far off course, even for a split second. Even if it was Keith.

Grow up, Kenzie.

This was definitely not how she conducted business. It didn’t matter if this was Keith, just as it didn’t matter if she was dealing with a man who looked like Prince Charming or resembled a diseased frog. The only thing that mattered was whether or not she could help him sell the possessions inside his house. She could if those items were in decent condition or, barring that, if they were unique and interesting.

And even if that wasn’t the case, she could offer suggestions on the measures he needed to take to make some money on the items.

All these thoughts went racing through her head in far less time than it took for an outsider to actually review what had happened.

Showtime, Kenzie thought. She was ready. She liked to think of herself as always ready.

She handed him her card. “Mr. O’Connell?” she asked, her throat feeling remarkably dry as she formally said his name. She waited for him to recognize her.

Green eyes went up and down the length of her, taking measure of her. Her breath backed up in her lungs.

“Yes?” Keith answered. There was absolutely no recognition in his eyes.

Banking down her disappointment—reminding herself that she had done a lot of transforming since she’d been in high school—Kenzie forced a smile to her lips and extended her hand to him. “Mrs. Sommers called to tell me that you were looking for someone to help you find a new home for your things.”

The woman standing in front of him with the thousand-watt smile seemed far too youthful to be handling anything with the word estate in it. He felt as if he had just accidentally wandered into a children’s story time. The underage woman made it sound as if his mother’s things were animated with lives of their own.

Which was beyond ridiculous.

A distant, formless memory hovered about his brain, teasing it, but when he tried to capture it, to nail it down, it eluded him.

The woman on his doorstep reminded him of someone.

Who?

He pushed the thought aside.

“Technically, they’re not my things,” he informed her. “I don’t care if they find a home or not. I just need to get them out of the house. Mrs. Sommers seems to think the house will show much better—and sell better—if there are no distracting pieces of furniture scattered throughout the house, cluttering it up.”

Kenzie nodded, hurt that there was no recognition in his eyes when he spoke to her. Reminding herself that she looked quite a bit different now didn’t help.

Give it time, Kenzie.

“Okay,” she said gamely to him once she was inside the front door. “Why don’t you show me around so I can see what I’ve got to work with?”

He hadn’t been into all the rooms since he’d returned home himself. More specifically, he hadn’t seen most of the rooms since he’d left home ten years ago.

Even when he’d returned yesterday, he’d deliberately remained downstairs, sleeping on the living room sofa. When he’d woken up after a less than restful night, he’d ventured only as far as the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

As for the rest of the house—his room, Amy’s, his mother’s bedroom, the bonus room they used for a TV room—he hadn’t gone into any of it. And he wanted to keep it that way until he felt up to viewing the other rooms—if that time came.

But saying anything of the kind to this woman felt far too personal.

Keith supposed he could just beg off, or murmur some noncommittal excuse that accomplished the same thing. But he had a feeling this woman wasn’t the type to accept no for an answer, at least not without a really good reason.

To be fair, he decided to make one attempt at accommodating her while maintaining the balance he was searching for.

“You can just find your own way through the house. I don’t mind if you poke around,” he added, thinking she probably wanted a chance to review what might sell and what just needed to be carted away.

The smile was lightning fast as she attempted to coax him into accompanying her. “I’m bound to have questions,” she told him. When he made no response, thinking she’d take the hint, she just continued. “If you come along as my guide, it’ll go faster that way. I promise.” Turning on her heel, she led the way to the staircase.

He was really beginning to regret this.