It Started with a House..... Helen Myers R.
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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.”
Chapter Two
For the next hour after Genevieve left, Marshall sat at his desk in his new office, his gaze on Genevieve Gale’s business card from The Gale Agency. The colored photograph in the top left corner was flattering in that one-dimensional, photo-by-stranger way, but it didn’t begin to do her justice. The photo he was wishing he had framed before him was one fresh