allergy but by a yearning that gripped me so tightly that I struggled to take a breath.
I stopped myself before I fell into a pose for the cover of a romance novel. My bosom was not heaving. Peter was not standing in the doorway, managing to both sneer and leer at the same time. I had an obligation to him, as well as to myself, to find an adequately spacious house. Pathos has no place in the real estate business, nor does melodrama. I was my own agent, negotiator, and broker. I flipped open a notebook and turned to an unsullied page. I found an extra pen in case it was needed. I refilled my glass and took a ladylike sip. I crossed my legs as I picked up the receiver. I waited until a ripple of dizziness passed and dialed the number.
“Hello,” said a tenor voice.
“This is, uh, Claire Malloy and I want your house!” My words spewed out with the velocity of bullets, but I couldn’t constrain myself. “It’s everything I want and I’ve never had a meadow or a stream or a real library. I don’t care about the price. I mean, I do care if it’s millions of dollars, but I still want it and when can we move in?”
“My house doesn’t have a library,” he said cautiously. “The Gulf Stream originates in this region, but I don’t think I can sell it to you.”
“You have to! It’s perfect! I looked at all the houses on the market, and not one of them is anywhere near as spacious and secluded and wonderful. Just tell me how much, Mr. Kennedy. You can’t sell it to anyone else. You just can’t!”
“Oh, I get it. You’re not talking about my house in Key West. You’re talking about the one in Farberville.”
“Obviously,” I said, wondering if he had suffered a traumatic head injury that impaired his mind. “Angela told me that you’re willing to sell it. How much?”
“Let’s take this slowly. Your name is Claire Malloy?” He paused until I acknowledged as much. “I’ve heard of you. You helped the police in a lot of murder investigations. Winston patronized your bookstore.”
“All the more reason to sell me the house in Hollow Valley. Surely Winston would have approved.”
“Are you or your husband related to any descendants of Colonel Hollow?”
I uttered an oath under my breath. “No, but I bet a genealogist could find a link somewhere in the past. I’m sure I had a seventeenth cousin somewhere who married a Hollow. Do they have Irish blood?”
“They have no blood, Ms. Malloy. No, I take that back. Winston was a warm, generous man who donated time and energy to charitable organizations. He loved music, art, literature, fine wine, and gourmet dining. He was offered the opportunity to design a set for a major Broadway musical, but he chose to move back to his boyhood home.” Terry’s voice was quivering with such emotion that his words were slurred. Had he been within reach, I would have patted his hand and blotted his cheeks with the pillowcase hem.
I gave him a brief moment to pull himself together before I said, “You have my warmest condolences. The mere mention of the house must cause you pain. I can understand why you feel it’s time to sell it and get on with your life. As I mentioned, Angela showed me the house, but before I could sign an offer, she drove off. No one seems to know where she is.”
“Did any of the Hollows know she was showing the house?”
“I have no idea. After Angela left, I spoke to a woman named Nattie. She was surprised to hear the house was for sale.”
“It isn’t.”
My throat tightened. “Angela said that you’re willing to sell it. I love the house, and so does my husband. You can’t snatch it away like this.” Desperation overrode morals. “My daughter is so weak from her treatments that she can hardly walk. Her only hope is fresh air and sunshine. If she could lie on a blanket in the meadow while I read to her from the shade of an apple tree, she might improve. Please, Mr. Kennedy. Only you can save her.”
“Or Charles Dickens,
I stopped myself before I fell into a pose for the cover of a romance novel. My bosom was not heaving. Peter was not standing in the doorway, managing to both sneer and leer at the same time. I had an obligation to him, as well as to myself, to find an adequately spacious house. Pathos has no place in the real estate business, nor does melodrama. I was my own agent, negotiator, and broker. I flipped open a notebook and turned to an unsullied page. I found an extra pen in case it was needed. I refilled my glass and took a ladylike sip. I crossed my legs as I picked up the receiver. I waited until a ripple of dizziness passed and dialed the number.
“Hello,” said a tenor voice.
“This is, uh, Claire Malloy and I want your house!” My words spewed out with the velocity of bullets, but I couldn’t constrain myself. “It’s everything I want and I’ve never had a meadow or a stream or a real library. I don’t care about the price. I mean, I do care if it’s millions of dollars, but I still want it and when can we move in?”
“My house doesn’t have a library,” he said cautiously. “The Gulf Stream originates in this region, but I don’t think I can sell it to you.”
“You have to! It’s perfect! I looked at all the houses on the market, and not one of them is anywhere near as spacious and secluded and wonderful. Just tell me how much, Mr. Kennedy. You can’t sell it to anyone else. You just can’t!”
“Oh, I get it. You’re not talking about my house in Key West. You’re talking about the one in Farberville.”
“Obviously,” I said, wondering if he had suffered a traumatic head injury that impaired his mind. “Angela told me that you’re willing to sell it. How much?”
“Let’s take this slowly. Your name is Claire Malloy?” He paused until I acknowledged as much. “I’ve heard of you. You helped the police in a lot of murder investigations. Winston patronized your bookstore.”
“All the more reason to sell me the house in Hollow Valley. Surely Winston would have approved.”
“Are you or your husband related to any descendants of Colonel Hollow?”
I uttered an oath under my breath. “No, but I bet a genealogist could find a link somewhere in the past. I’m sure I had a seventeenth cousin somewhere who married a Hollow. Do they have Irish blood?”
“They have no blood, Ms. Malloy. No, I take that back. Winston was a warm, generous man who donated time and energy to charitable organizations. He loved music, art, literature, fine wine, and gourmet dining. He was offered the opportunity to design a set for a major Broadway musical, but he chose to move back to his boyhood home.” Terry’s voice was quivering with such emotion that his words were slurred. Had he been within reach, I would have patted his hand and blotted his cheeks with the pillowcase hem.
I gave him a brief moment to pull himself together before I said, “You have my warmest condolences. The mere mention of the house must cause you pain. I can understand why you feel it’s time to sell it and get on with your life. As I mentioned, Angela showed me the house, but before I could sign an offer, she drove off. No one seems to know where she is.”
“Did any of the Hollows know she was showing the house?”
“I have no idea. After Angela left, I spoke to a woman named Nattie. She was surprised to hear the house was for sale.”
“It isn’t.”
My throat tightened. “Angela said that you’re willing to sell it. I love the house, and so does my husband. You can’t snatch it away like this.” Desperation overrode morals. “My daughter is so weak from her treatments that she can hardly walk. Her only hope is fresh air and sunshine. If she could lie on a blanket in the meadow while I read to her from the shade of an apple tree, she might improve. Please, Mr. Kennedy. Only you can save her.”
“Or Charles Dickens,
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