Beetle. “ ‘God bless you, Melanie. All of my final hopes rest with you,’ ” she’d quoted from Nevin Vanderhorst’s letter before slamming her door and speeding away, the bright yellow flowers in the dashboard vase swaying with indignation.
I put down my bag of doughnuts and my latte from Ruth’s Bakery, sat down at my desk, and turned on my computer. I had just started opening the bag when Nancy Flaherty walked in, holding a golf putter in one hand and a small stack of pink message slips in the other.
I looked up in surprise. “Why are you here so early?”
“Well, Mr. Henderson let me leave early Saturday because I had a golf tournament at the club, so I told him I’d make up the time by coming in early this morning.” She smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted to give you these messages. Three of them are from Jack Trenholm.” She smiled even broader now.
“Who?”
“Jack Trenholm—the writer. He writes those cold-case true history’s mysteries books. They’re always on the bestseller lists. And he’s an absolute hottie, if he’s anything like the picture on the back of his books.”
I had no idea whom she was talking about. The only reading I ever had time for was my daily Post and Courier and new real estate listings. A little niggling memory intruded into my thoughts. I leaned forward. “When I was little, my mother’s best friend was a Mrs. Trenholm, but I imagine that’s a common enough name. And I don’t remember her having a son. Even so, why would he be calling me?”
“Well, he’s probably a few years younger than you, so maybe he was under your radar when you were little. Or he’s not connected to your mother’s friend at all.” Nancy leaned her putter against my desk and began flipping through the messages. “Let’s see. He called three times yesterday—on Sunday. Seems like he’s very interested in speaking with you. I wasn’t here. Otherwise I would have grilled the man and would have known not only why he was calling but what kind of underwear he preferred, too.”
I reached out for the messages. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call him this morning.”
“Maybe he saw your picture in one of your ads and wants to ask you for a date.”
“Right. And maybe golf will one day replace baseball as the national pastime.”
She shook her head. “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re only thirty-nine, and you’ve got a knockout figure”—she eyed the bag of doughnuts on my desk—“although God only knows how. If you would just maybe make yourself a little more approachable, you’d have the guys falling all over you.”
I began riffling through the remaining pink slips. “I’ll keep that in mind, Nancy. Now, please don’t let me interrupt your work.” I smiled blandly at her.
She ignored the hint. “You’re great handling men on a business level, but you’re a hopeless case when it comes to dealing with them socially. It’s probably the way you were raised, but for some reason you seem to revert to an awkward teenage girl whenever you’re around eligible men.”
Annoyed now, I glared at her. “Really? And when did you have time to go to psychology school in between golf games?”
As if I hadn’t said anything, she continued. “I think you just need to put yourself out there, get a little practice. You might find that you’ll actually enjoy a little social life outside of work.”
I picked up the phone and started dialing a number, hoping she’d get the hint. I raised my eyebrow at her when she didn’t move.
Leaning over my desk and pointing to the pile of messages, she said, “There’s also a message in there from that couple from North Charleston. I took that one Saturday afternoon. Seems as if they’ve reevaluated their finances and are ready to look at those homes on Daniel Island that you discussed with them.”
“I can read my own messages, but thank you. I’ll make sure I call them back.”
“No problem,” she said,
I put down my bag of doughnuts and my latte from Ruth’s Bakery, sat down at my desk, and turned on my computer. I had just started opening the bag when Nancy Flaherty walked in, holding a golf putter in one hand and a small stack of pink message slips in the other.
I looked up in surprise. “Why are you here so early?”
“Well, Mr. Henderson let me leave early Saturday because I had a golf tournament at the club, so I told him I’d make up the time by coming in early this morning.” She smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted to give you these messages. Three of them are from Jack Trenholm.” She smiled even broader now.
“Who?”
“Jack Trenholm—the writer. He writes those cold-case true history’s mysteries books. They’re always on the bestseller lists. And he’s an absolute hottie, if he’s anything like the picture on the back of his books.”
I had no idea whom she was talking about. The only reading I ever had time for was my daily Post and Courier and new real estate listings. A little niggling memory intruded into my thoughts. I leaned forward. “When I was little, my mother’s best friend was a Mrs. Trenholm, but I imagine that’s a common enough name. And I don’t remember her having a son. Even so, why would he be calling me?”
“Well, he’s probably a few years younger than you, so maybe he was under your radar when you were little. Or he’s not connected to your mother’s friend at all.” Nancy leaned her putter against my desk and began flipping through the messages. “Let’s see. He called three times yesterday—on Sunday. Seems like he’s very interested in speaking with you. I wasn’t here. Otherwise I would have grilled the man and would have known not only why he was calling but what kind of underwear he preferred, too.”
I reached out for the messages. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call him this morning.”
“Maybe he saw your picture in one of your ads and wants to ask you for a date.”
“Right. And maybe golf will one day replace baseball as the national pastime.”
She shook her head. “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re only thirty-nine, and you’ve got a knockout figure”—she eyed the bag of doughnuts on my desk—“although God only knows how. If you would just maybe make yourself a little more approachable, you’d have the guys falling all over you.”
I began riffling through the remaining pink slips. “I’ll keep that in mind, Nancy. Now, please don’t let me interrupt your work.” I smiled blandly at her.
She ignored the hint. “You’re great handling men on a business level, but you’re a hopeless case when it comes to dealing with them socially. It’s probably the way you were raised, but for some reason you seem to revert to an awkward teenage girl whenever you’re around eligible men.”
Annoyed now, I glared at her. “Really? And when did you have time to go to psychology school in between golf games?”
As if I hadn’t said anything, she continued. “I think you just need to put yourself out there, get a little practice. You might find that you’ll actually enjoy a little social life outside of work.”
I picked up the phone and started dialing a number, hoping she’d get the hint. I raised my eyebrow at her when she didn’t move.
Leaning over my desk and pointing to the pile of messages, she said, “There’s also a message in there from that couple from North Charleston. I took that one Saturday afternoon. Seems as if they’ve reevaluated their finances and are ready to look at those homes on Daniel Island that you discussed with them.”
“I can read my own messages, but thank you. I’ll make sure I call them back.”
“No problem,” she said,
Similar Books
