Anyone in the business could tell you that February was the absolute worst month of the year to sell real estate. At least that’s what Lydia Sommers thought as she trudged through the slushy sidewalk on the way to her office. It was impossible to judge the depth of the icy goop, the squishy layers reminding her of a snow cone machine gone berserk. As she sank ankle deep into a quicksand like patch, Lydia mumbled a soft swear word. Not so much for the soaking wet foot, but for not wanting to trouble Grady. He had nearly insisted on dropping her off at the front door of her tiny downtown office, 49½ Middle Road. But she insisted back, more adamantly than her husband that it would make him late. Lydia shook murky water from one foot while the other stood firm on a solid sheet of ice—for a moment anyway. She grasped the peppermint swirl awning of the flower shop next door just in time to keep from landing on her butt, waist deep in cement-colored muck. Muttering a courser swear word she rolled her eyes; two wet feet were still better than one wet bottom.
Slush seemed to coat the entire town of Snow Harbor, a town named for a solitary blizzard two centuries before. The fact was that it rarely snowed in Snow Harbor, Maryland. Mostly it slushed, from December to March. Glancing around the street, she was relieved to see that the sleepy hamlet had not yet awakened. In a town the size of Snow Harbor clumsiness could land you on the front page of the local paper. Lydia suspected that the only person enjoying the early morning ice-follies was Mrs. Lohan who owned the bakery across the street. Mrs. Lohan who looked as if she sampled everything in threes and for dessert lived off neighborhood gossip. No doubt she was gagging on a custard-filled tart, enthralled by the sight. It seemed to be heading toward one of those mornings when Lydia shouldn’t have been quite so ambitious. Settlement wasn’t until ten. But it was the only property she’d managed to sell since Christmas and she was anxious to make sure the transaction went smoothly. One year later and Lydia still wasn’t sure she cut out for the real estate business—a job that required the personality of a snake charmer, the brazenness of a Vegas stripper and skin as thick as a wool mackinaw. But Lydia Sommers, who for reasons that had more to do with making ends meet than making a hefty commission, knew that opportunities were scarce in Snow Harbor. When Henry Bogle, the only realtor in town, practically handed her the business on his deathbed it seemed rude and a little silly to refuse. She and Grady were making the best of it in a life that knew deeper devastation than not getting the home of your dreams.
Naturally, she’d forgotten her gloves in Grady’s truck. Frozen fingers gripped the key as she struggled to turn the tumbler in the circa 1940’s lock. The heavy door creaked open and she hurried inside, shutting out the month of February. Lydia tried not to look in Mrs. Lohan’s direction as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the deer antler rack. The manly memento belonged to Henry and she was fearful that ridding the office of it would also eradicate any positive aura he might pass on from the other side. Kicking off her wet shoes, Lydia glanced toward the dry boots she’d left behind on the previous Friday. Opting for neither item of footwear, she walked the three paces to her desk and sat, tucking her feet into the comfy slippers hidden beneath it. The outdated computer began to gurgle and hum, booting itself into a modestly operational state. Lydia shuffled through some folders, her eyes skimming across the personal belongings that had converted Henry Bogle’s man-space into hers. She snatched a paperclip from its holder, a gift from Greer a dozen Mother’s Days ago. When she accepted Henry’s offer she remembered thinking that she would finally have a good spot for the ceramic purple toad whose wide-open mouth was lined with a plastic fly and some sort of metallic substance. Eighteen now, Greer would immediately whine when coming by the office, “Mom, when are you going to get rid of that horrible thing!” Lydia smiled, running her hand along several pictures of her daughter aging before her eyes. No teeth, baby teeth, no teeth, metal teeth, and finally a perfect smile. The latest photo was taped to the edge of the computer screen. She hadn’t the time to frame Greer’s senior picture yet, admiring a head full of strawberry-blond corkscrew curls that miraculously managed to go in just the right direction every time. Lydia had wondered about that hair, too much like her own, from the day Greer was born. It could have been a teenager’s worst nightmare, but instead it turned out to be the envy of every girl at Snow Harbor High. Without being too biased, Greer also seemed to capture the hearts of most all her classmates. Not the most popular, not the most beautiful—although she ran a close second to Gillian DuPree—not even the smartest, but somebody who’d you be glad to call a friend.
Grady had graduated from Snow Harbor too, twenty-odd years before. Lydia had heard the legend-like tales, the wickedly handsome and popular Grady Sommers. Although the story got sketchy after high school, and she never had bothered to press him for the details. Grady Sommers was a good man, responsible to a fault having turned down a full scholarship. It was his only real chance to leave Snow Harbor. But he stayed, taking over an ailing family business. It had fulfilled a dying father’s wish. Lydia never said it out loud, but she often wondered if there was a statute of limitations on deathbed promises. Lydia’s eyes drifted away from Greer’s picture to the task at hand, but not before catching on a tender memory. Her fingers closed around a wallet size frame of a boy no more than three. It was almost lost among the many pictures of Greer. He sat posed in front of a set of terrycloth blocks and the standard Sears backdrop. It was a beautiful one-of-a-kind portrait, the kind where you got a hundred photographs for $29.95, if you had the coupon.
Try as she might not to pick it up, Lydia did so every day. He was the opposite of his sister, the hair, the eyes and skin that looked as if it had worshipped the sun from inside the womb. Native American blood ran silently through Lydia’s veins and it had startled her upon first inspection of her wriggling wailing infant who looked nothing like herself or Grady. A head crowned with dark hair, the wide curious eyes that had led him astray. She could still hear Grady (slightly paled from watching the C-section) in the delivery room, “Would you look at him, Lydie. I think we’ve got an Indian brave.” Unlike his fair-haired sister there was no sequence of pictures, a secession of time delivering toddler to teenager to other side of puberty with all the angst and wonder in between. Reverently, she placed the photograph next to the answering machine, the light on it blinking furiously the entire time. She had purposely ignored it. Eight o’clock on a Monday morning in a town that endured a pounding ice storm most of the weekend. Who could possibly want to talk real estate? Lydia assumed it was Mr. Franks from Snow Harbor Saving & Loan with a reminder that their mortgage payment was late. She spied the playback button, guiltily envisioning Mr. Franks slipping onto his bony behind outside the savings and loan. “Why bother calling you old goat,” she scoffed to the phone. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to take out an ad in the Snow Harbor Gazette, Sommers Family Past Due—Yet Again!”
Mashing a figure into the button, her brow crinkled at the silky voice that caressed the room, like a strand of pearls over alabaster skin. The regal tone caused Lydia’s toes to curl tight into her fluffy slippers, as if she needed to hang on. “Good afternoon, this is Audra Stiles calling for Mr. Henry Bogle.” Fighting an urge to alert the media, Lydia leaned closer into the phone. “I’m calling in regard to a property you once had listed in Snow Harbor; it’s a summer home on the far southern point. This is a rather old brochure I’m looking at, so I don’t know if it’s still for sale. But I’m familiar with the area, as well as the house, and I suspect that it still is.” Her astuteness alone was disconcerting. “If you could do me the courtesy of returning my call, 617-585-1603, I’d like to inquire about it. My husband, my son, and I, we’re looking for a summer retreat and this may do.” The line went dead without so much as a thank you. Lydia pushed against the desk, rolling a few inches away, as if to distance herself from the caller. She knew the property well, the old Fairview house. Actually, it was more seaside Victorian mansion than house built around the turn of the century. It had been for sale, on and off, for years. Not many people wanted to spend that kind of money to live in Snow Harbor. The coastal community was too rural to attract weekenders from D.C. or Baltimore and no one in Snow Harbor could afford the waterfront address. Lydia picked up the receiver poised to dial the number she’d scribbled in handwriting that was surely an insult to Mrs. Stiles’ gold-gilded voice. But something stopped her and she hung up. Clearing her throat, Lydia was not going to be intimidated by this big city woman and her ability to rattle her nerves via phone wire. After all, was she herself not a transplant from the big city? Okay, maybe Portland, Oregon wasn’t a mecca, but it did have two shopping malls and a TV station. That was something. But before she could dial there was a jingle of bells as a rush of crisp air took her breath away.
“Hey, I thought you might need these.”
Grady Sommers was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen. His hair was the color of honey with a hint of red, Greer’s warming to the strawberry blond that his just missed. And lately, Lydia had noticed the faintest trace of gray at his temples. Underneath a mustache and goatee—a dare over the holidays that he would grow one—was a deep cleft in his chin and his blue-green eyes, they were the color of sea-washed glass. She always thought it was the kind of handsome that would intensify with age, the way it never does with women, and so far she was right. Lydia worried about that. Grady growing handsomer and herself, well, just growing old. His broad-shouldered frame came toward her, faux calfskin gloves in one hand, a Dunkin’ Donuts cup in the other. “Oh, I figured by now they’d be lost on the floorboard of the truck,” she said, smiling up at him. “Did you bring me the coffee, too?” she asked, glancing toward the coffee maker that sat empty.
“Um, sure,” he said, thrusting the cup and gloves toward her.
“Uh huh, and I’m betting there’s not a drop of sugar in it,” she said, wishing she hadn’t. Wasn’t remembering to bring by the gloves enough? “Here, we can split it.”
“Nah, that’s okay. I didn’t need a second cup anyway. I was on my way over to Mt. Pleasant to take a look at that Alden Challenger. Did I tell you, it’s a thirty-three footer?” She nodded, smiling. “Anyway, the guy bought it at auction. If the restoration is anything like he said it could run thirty or forty grand profit. That would be great, wouldn’t it, Lydie? Get us through the summer, into fall.”
Lydia smiled again, thinking that would be great. Grady was an expert in his trade, building and restoring all kinds of boats, a craft that had been in his family for generations. It was unfortunate that the boat building business was only slightly more than seasonal and always a one-at-a-time proposition. “Mmm, you’re right, it would. But don’t worry too much about it. With the commission I’m going to make on the Jamieson closing, we’ll be okay. Even if it doesn’t pay that much.” She immediately wished she hadn’t said that either, watching his Adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, hoping it wasn’t all of his pride. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she murmured, breaking eye contact as she busied herself with the coffee cup.
“Yeah, I know,” Grady said, his arms crossing over the chest of a worn flannel jacket. There was silence. The kind of silence you wouldn’t expect between two people who’d been married eighteen years.
“So, what else are you going to do today? I mean, after the settlement.” She let out a breath. As always he was so willing to forgive—no matter how large or small the transgression.
“Well, I did have a phone call. Over the weekend, I guess, about the Fairview place.”
“The Fairview place?” he said with a raised brow. “Let me guess, city people thinking Bed & Breakfast again. They’re all ready to trade the rat race for us country mice, until they realize that even summer traffic wouldn’t back up at a four-way stop sign around here.”
“That’s if there was a four-way stop sign,” she said, sipping the coffee. “Actually, this sounded different, she sounded different. I’m positive this woman isn’t serving anyone at a Bed & Breakfast. In fact, I’d be willing to bet she wouldn’t be caught dead as a guest in one either. She was from Boston, I think, if I recognize the area code.” Lydia turned the paper, trying to decipher her own scribble. “This, um, Mrs. Stiles, she said she was looking for a summer place for herself, her husband and their son.” The last word caught like a thorn between them and Grady looked away, his gaze shifting toward the large storefront window.
“Yeah, well, as soon as she finds out the closest thing to a Neiman Marcus here is a choice between Delia’s Dresses and Wal-Mart she’ll have a change of heart.”
“No doubt… On the other hand, she did mention that she was familiar with the area. She knew of the property.”
“Really? Hmm,” he said, stroking two fingers around the beard, an instant habit upon sprouting whiskers that gave his hometown handsomeness a sophisticated edge, making Grady look as if he didn’t quite belong. “Maybe she got a flat tire here once or something.”
“Maybe.” Lydia came around the corner of the desk, nuzzling up to the softness of jacket, the warmth underneath. She found the whole goatee-look somewhat irresistible. “I’ll call her later. And you, if you don’t get going, are going to be late to your appointment.”
Grady’s hands closed around Lydia’s waist, slipping beneath the thick blue sweater she wore—in a way you might not expect from people who’d been married eighteen years. The top of her head came to rest below the hidden cleft of his chin and he nuzzled back into the curly tangles of brunette hair, breathing her in.
“Lydie, are you trying to make me late?”
“Is it working?” she asked leaning harder into him, realizing it was.
“Definitely working. Especially if you’re interested in giving Mrs. Lohan a show. I believe she went for the binoculars when I pulled up.”
She laughed, pushing away from him. “Boy, do you know how to kill a moment.” Lydia walked back around the desk. “Goodbye and good luck, Mr. Sommers. I’ll see you at dinner,” she said, fingering the piece of paper.
“See you later. Maybe we can pick this up after dinner. Doesn’t Greer have basketball practice tonight?” he said, grinning at her.
“Seven to nine,” she said, nodding. “Maybe I’ll get something special for dessert.”
“Forget dessert.” He leaned over the desk, kissing her rather passionately for eight o’clock on a Monday morning. “We don’t need to add to Mrs. Lohan’s profit margin. And we won’t have time for it.”
Years later and he could still make her blush. Lydia looked down concentrating on the desktop. His forehead bumped against hers, squeezing her fingertips. But his hand fell away, spinning around the paper beneath.
“Lydie, what, um, what did you say her name was?”
“Who?” she asked, caught in the dream he’d swept her into so long ago.
“The woman who called about Fairview. What’s her name?” he demanded, squinting at the scrawl as if it might bring it into focus. The change in his tone woke her right up.
“Mrs. Stiles. Um, Audrey… No, Audra Stiles. Why?” Lydia watched the soft sea-washed color of his eyes churn. They filled with a discontent she recognized, but had nothing to do with this conservation. She drew her arms tight around herself, trying to understand how he’d suddenly ended up there. “What, um, what’s the matter?” She watched him grapple for composure, taking a breath.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Thought maybe I recognized it, but that’s impossible. Listen, I’ve got to go. Like you said, I’m gonna be late. I’ll see you later, bye.” He left, shutting the door hard, the harness of bells above jingling an omen of reprise.
