Season Of Strangers. Kat Martin
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I’ll feel better sleeping in my own bed. That’s probably all that’s wrong with me. Too much dampness in the air.”
“I don’t know, Laura. Dr. Heraldson thought staying here was a good idea. And now that you’re sick—”
“I’m going home, Julie. I promise I won’t call the police or do anything crazy, okay?”
Julie looked at her hard. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you’ll go with me to the doctor’s this afternoon?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
Julie sighed. “I don’t mean to be pushy. I’m just worried about you is all.”
“I know that.” Laura walked over and hugged her. “Thanks for caring so much. You’ve always been there for me, ever since Dad took off. Mom wasn’t much of a mother, but you were always there. I appreciate it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She smiled. “But I promise I’ll be okay, so you don’t have to worry.”
Julie fidgeted, smoothed the skirt of her tailored suit. “I guess neither one of us got a good night’s sleep last night.”
Laura just shrugged, but she looked uncomfortable with the subject. For some strange reason, Julie was uncomfortable with it, too.
“I’ll be back to pick you up around noon. In the meantime, why don’t you go back to bed for a while? You’ll be all right until I get here, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Laura said lightly, “I’ll be fine.” But as soon as her sister left, she got up and bolted the doors. She checked and locked all the windows in her bedroom, then locked the ones in the rest of the house. She didn’t open them, not even when the sun came out and the day turned warm. Not even when the temperature began to climb into the nineties and she began to perspire in the closed-up, airless bedroom.
“I’m worried about her, Babs.” Julie shifted restlessly in the black leather chair behind her desk. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.”
Seated on the opposite side, Barbara Danvers made a rude sound in her throat. “You’re always worried about your sister and there’s always something wrong with her. Until she takes control of her life, there always will be.” Black-haired and dark-eyed, Babs had just turned thirty. She’d been married three times, to a banker, an actor and a successful television producer. She was divorced again, worked too hard but didn’t really have to, not after the settlement she’d received from Archibald Danvers two years ago.
“You’re too tough on her, Babs.” Julie sat forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the desk. They were working in her office, going over the Richards file, an estate in Palos Verdes that Babs had listed and Julie had sold. “You know the kind of life Laura’s had. A father who was gone by the time she was five years old, a mother who was never home. No supervision, no direction, never enough money to make ends meet. It’s a wonder she hasn’t had more problems than she has.”
“I hate to remind you, but Laura had the same childhood you had and look at the difference in the way the two of you turned out. You put yourself through college. You’re a successful real estate agent with a lovely home on Malibu Beach. Laura’s a twenty-first-century hippie.”
“Hardly that.”
A sleek black brow arched up. “No?”
“Just because she’s had a number of different jobs—”
“She hasn’t worked more than three months in a row since I’ve known her. How much did you spend on Laura’s medical bills last year?”
“That isn’t fair.”
“I’ll tell you what isn’t fair. Having to work the kind of hours you do to support your sister’s hypochondria.”
Julie glanced away. “This is different.”
“I’ll just bet it is. What does the psychiatrist have to say…Dr. What’s-his-name?”
“Heraldson.” Staring through the glass into the main part of the office, Julie jumped up from her chair as Patrick strode in, grateful for the chance to avoid Babs’ last question. She almost wished she hadn’t brought the subject up, but maybe she needed a dose of Babs’s honesty. “I have to speak to Patrick. I have an offer on one of the units in his condo project.”
“Brave girl. You’re actually going to sell something Patrick Donovan’s involved in?”
Julie jerked open the door without responding. Another shot of Babs’ honesty right now was more than she could manage. She hurried out into the office, running to catch up with Patrick’s long-legged stride.
“Sorry to bother you, Patrick. Have you got a minute?”
“Sure, come on in. Shirl said you wanted to see me.” He led her into the plush interior of his spacious office, remodeled since the days when the place had been his father’s. Instead of the understated mahogany and beige used throughout the rest of the building, Patrick’s office was bold and energetic, done in electric blue and black. Julie took a chair in front of his black lacquered desk, settling herself in one of the deep leather chairs, and Patrick sat down across from her.
“What can I do for you, love?”
Julie glanced up from the manila file folder she’d been rifling through. “I asked you not to call me that. Save it for Anna, or Charlotte, or another one of your bimbos.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “My, we’re testy today, aren’t we?”
She looked up at him, saw the usual dark shadows beneath his eyes, as well as a puffiness she hadn’t noticed before. Some of her anger at him faded. “You look like hell, Patrick. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your father.”
He said nothing to that, but his shoulders sagged a little, and some of his cockiness faded. “He’s not doing so well, Jules. The doctors are afraid he might have another stroke.”
“Oh, God, Patrick.”
“I’m sure he’ll be all right. The old goat’s too tough to die.” He smiled but it came out a little shaky. “You said you needed to see me. What about?”
Escaping the painful subject of Alex’s failing health, Julie pulled the thick sheaf of documents out of the file she’d retrieved from her briefcase. “I’ve got an offer on one of the units in your condo project. Mr. and Mrs. Harvey are interested in buying number thirty-three.”
His long fingers tightened around the burgundy Mont Blanc pen he was holding. “I thought you said you didn’t like the project, that it was too shaky, that you wouldn’t put one of your clients into the development until it was almost full.”
“I think the construction could be better. You skimped too much as far as I’m concerned. But the Harveys insisted I show it to them. They like the location—so do I for that matter. Santa Monica is growing and this is very near the beach. Besides, you said the units had finally begun to sell. The last time I checked the board it looked like over fifty percent of the project was now sold out.”
Instead of looking happy, Patrick looked grim. “Condos aren’t your normal dose of poison, Julie. Are these people friends of yours? How did you wind up working with them?”
“I got them on a floor call while I was covering for Fred. Mr. Harvey is a retired aerospace engineer. They made a little money buying and selling houses when the market was good. That’s why they’re purchasing a condo. They plan to pay cash for it, and whatever is left will be a nest egg for their old age.”
Patrick said nothing for the longest time.
“I thought you’d be happy,” Julie said.