Home For Christmas. Carrie Weaver

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       “Poor thing. Kids can be so mean, especially teenage girls. The peer mediation might give her a way to meet some kids at school, too.”

       “I kinda think that’s where the judge was headed. Smart old guy. But I feel there’s gotta be more I can do, too.”

       “How about Rachel’s mom? Is she still determined not to be a part of her life?”

       “I called Laurie. It’s weird ’cause she’s always been there for Rach. But now, it’s like she’s afraid or something.”

       “Afraid of Rachel?”

       “No. More like afraid of herself. Says she’s under a lot of pressure at work and financial stuff, so she’s just gotta have some time to get her head straight.”

       “So you can’t rely on her to back you up?”

       “No. It looks like I can’t rely on her being there for Rachel in any way.” He rested his arms on her desk. “That’s the reason I’m looking for a house.”

       Nancy tilted her head to the side. “Oh?”

       “Rachel seems to think I’m going to up and leave her and she’ll have nowhere to go. I figured if I bought a house, Rachel’d feel more secure—know she had a place to call home. Some place she’s always welcome, can always count on.”

       Funny, for a guy she’d pegged as a redneck wanderer, he sure was astute enough to see the importance of a home and roots. She wondered if he had any idea how attractive his sensitive side was.

       Shaking her head, Nancy refused to join a long line of women vying for this man’s attention. If she were ever ready to give romance another try, it would be with a man who thought she hung the moon and the stars. A man who wouldn’t notice if Pamela Anderson walked through the room naked, because he was too fascinated with the color of Nancy’s eyes or her witty observations. Maybe a chubby, bald guy so ordinary no other woman would look twice or, God forbid, pursue him.

       “Hey, this is probably a bad idea.” Beau’s voice intruded on her romantic philosophizing.

       She cleared her throat. “No, not at all. Tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll check the Multiple Listing Service, see what’s available. But before we do that, I better get you prequalified so we can see how much house you can afford.”

       “Not very different from qualifying for a car loan, I hope?”

       “No, just a little more paperwork.” She opened her desk drawer and withdrew a packet of papers. “Here, why don’t you fill these out and I’ll see what I can do.”

       Nancy found herself watching him while he completed the paperwork, as if looking for clues to his real personality. The strokes of his pen were firm, decisive. He rarely paused, except to refer to information contained in a small phone book in his wallet. “Is it going to be a problem that I’ve only had this job for six months?”

       “It depends. We’ll go back to your previous employment, just in case. Let me run some figures and I can give you a pretty good ballpark idea of what you can qualify for.”

       He slid the completed paperwork across the desk, his movements strangely tentative for a man who seemed so confident in most other areas.

       Smiling, she tried to put him at ease. “It’s painless. Really. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

       Nancy could have kicked herself.

       But Beau didn’t seem to notice the double entendre. “Um, I’d pretty much rather have a root canal than think about buying a house. I mean, it’s so permanent.”

       “If it makes you feel any better, most people live in their homes an average of five years.”

       His face paled a little beneath his tan. “Yeah, um, five years.”

       “I’m telling you so the thought of a thirty-year mortgage won’t freak you out.”

       Beau turned positively green. She wasn’t sure whether it was the thirty-year part or the word mortgage that made him ill.

       “Anyway, I’ll get right on this. There’s some coffee over on the table.”

       “Maybe I’ll get some air.”

       “I won’t be but a minute.” Nancy could sense the sale evaporating. She wasn’t normally so tactless. She’d always prided herself on being adept at saying the right thing to close the deal. But with Beau, she was off balance.

       While he paced the room, Nancy concentrated on running the figures—something she should have been able to do in her sleep. But today, her fingers and her brain couldn’t seem to connect.

       When she was done, she gave him a figure that made him blink. “I qualify for that much? I don’t need anything huge, just a normal house with a backyard and all that.”

       “This is what it takes to buy ‘a normal house with a back yard and all that.’”

       Whistling under his breath, he said, “And to think I got sticker shock when I started selling new cars. This is unreal.”

       “Oh, it’s very real, I assure you.” She pulled up a list of possibilities. “There are eight homes in the area I can show you. What time would be best for you?”

       “Now.”

       “Okay. Let’s go.”

       Three hours later, they pulled into the driveway of the eighth house—a roomy ranch-style house purported to be immaculate inside.

       God, she hoped so. Because Beau had found something wrong with each house they’d visited. She could feel a tension headache start at her temples and work its way down her neck, contracting her shoulder muscles into tight little knots. She supposed it was their semipersonal relationship that made this so difficult.

       “This is like taking Goldilocks house hunting.” Nancy smiled to soften her words. “This one is too small. That one is too tall. Too hot, too cold, too old, too new. Is there something specific you have in mind that I should know about?”

       “You’ve been reading way too much Dr. Seuss lately.”

       “Sorry, I start rhyming when I’m stressed. I promise not to offer green eggs and ham if you tell me exactly what it is you’re looking for in a house.”

       He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll know it when I see it, though. It’s gotta feel like home.”

       “What do you go by, if you’ve never owned a home? Your parents’ house?”

       Beau hesitated. “No. My parents weren’t the warm, fuzzy kind. They wanted everything perfect. Carpets, furniture, kids.”

       “Carpets and furniture are rarely perfect. And as for kids, well, they’re by nature imperfect.”

       “Don’t tell my folks that. Because they’re certain they raised one perfect son. And it wasn’t me. Now, let’s see this house.” СКАЧАТЬ