Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

minute, but the spitting rain hurled big fat drops like pebbles that pelted my face, soaked my hair and drenched the hem of my jeans in seconds.

“Lovely day you ordered.” Joan backed out and pointed to the console. “I got us some coffee from Bo’s.” She pointed to the new restaurant at the end of the block. Close to a line of train tracks, the restaurant’s front was built around a real boxcar. “Their coffee is actually quite good.”

I picked up one of the steaming Styrofoam cups stamped with the logo from Bo’s Boxcar Diner, and held it between my palms. Taking a sip, I decided that Joan’s definition of quite good differed from mine. It wasn’t Starbucks, and it wasn’t Jiffy-Stop, but somewhere in-between. Bottom line, I could drink it. “Thanks.”

While rain showers came and went, we looked at all the houses I’d thought were likely choices. They all had their good points, they all had their bad. The one I liked best had a flooded front yard—good information to have, and maybe worth the trouble of house-hunting in the pouring rain. None were as perfect for Ben and the kids as the one they lived in right now, and I still had serious reservations about his plans to move. I knew he thought it would help them rebuild their lives, but it seemed too soon to me.

Ben would have to realize this was going to take a long time. His expectations would have to bow to reality. You can’t just order up the perfect house and expect it to appear. And once they made it through this first Christmas without Mel, things wouldn’t seem so bad.

Joan folded the MLS listing we’d been working from and put it aside. “I have one more that isn’t on the list. The one I was telling you about on Tuesday.” She sounded so mysterious a shiver of anticipation went through me. Or maybe it was just the raindrops drying on my skin. “This one had a sale pending, but the financing fell through. It has passed all the inspections, and the owner has already moved out. It’s a little more expensive than the others, but I think the owner would come down off the price for a quick sale.”

She pulled up in front of a gray brick Tudor-style house in an old neighborhood. Within walking distance of my house and the elementary school, the location was ideal. Ivy covered the walls, and with the overhanging oaks surrounding the house, it looked as if it had grown up out of the ground. A welcoming ray of sunlight parted the clouds to shine on the wet window glass and make it sparkle.

“It backs up to the canal. You’ll have lots of birds and wildlife coming to your back yard.”

“Ben’s back yard, Joan. Not mine.”

“Sure. I get it.” Her tone implied that she didn’t believe me. “Let’s go inside.”

The wood floors echoed as we stepped into the empty house. But even empty, the house had a warm, welcoming feeling.

“Oh, Joan,” I whispered. If I spoke too loud—or even breathed too hard—would this mirage disappear?

“Wait until you see the kitchen.” She led the way to a huge custom kitchen where delft blue and white tiles accented the eggshell walls and ceiling. An antique butcher-block island occupied the center of the brick tile floor.

The window above the sink looked out over a fenced back yard dominated by a huge dark tree with low-growing branches.

“That’s a flowering plum,” Joan said. “It’s lovely in the spring. You can see it from the other side of the canal.” I could imagine a tree house there for Jake, Amy’s Little Tykes cottage huddled below.

Joan left the kitchen, expecting me to follow. “Let’s see the bedrooms.”

I couldn’t believe it. The house was perfect. A long bank of windows in the downstairs master suite offered a glimpse of the canal through the trees. A small adjacent room would be suitable for an office. There were four rooms upstairs, two on each side of a central hallway, each pair linked by connecting baths.

“This is it.” I was awed by the luck that must have been shining down on me, or at least on Ben, this rainy day.

“There’s a half-basement, too,” Joan said, “and a space over the garage that you could convert into a studio. It needs some work, though. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I didn’t bother to correct Joan about her assumption that I’d have any use for a studio at Ben’s house. It never did any good.

We got back to Joan’s office around eleven-thirty, and I walked in distractedly, eager to call Ben and conscious that I’d soon have to pick up Amy from school. Joan pressed the key into my hand. “Keep it for the weekend. Ben can drop it on Monday, after y’all have another look at the house.”

“Thanks.” I had that being-watched feeling, and looked up to see Ian standing there. He looked powerful and elegant in gray trousers, white shirt, gray silk tie, his gray suit coat unbuttoned.

She was right behind him, smiling and shaking hands with Joan’s husband, Richard. Her glossy curls weren’t just dark, they were ebony. Her curvaceous body was expensively clothed in a sweater-dress that had to be cashmere. I looked away from her to meet Ian’s gaze.

No, his glare. He looked murderous, and that piercing stare was directed straight at me.

He turned to the woman. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

He reached me in three strides, grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me out of the office. I had a quick impression of everyone staring open-mouthed at us before I found myself alone with Ian on the sidewalk.

His fingers squeezed my upper arms. “What are you playing at?”

“Playing?” Through the window of the real estate office, I could see Joan and Richard standing in the lobby with that woman. All of them stood like statues, watching the show we were putting on. “I don’t know what you mean.”

With a quick glance