"All the appointments have been rescheduled to the patients' satisfaction," Kelsey informed her smugly. "You're going to be working a few extra hours tomorrow and Monday to make up for it, but you're off for the rest of the day. Enjoy."
Spring narrowed her eyes at Clay, who was looking innocently back at her. He was wearing disreputable jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and even the mouse looked blandly conspiratorial to her suspicious eyes. "Clay, what are you planning?"
"Sight-seeing," he told her succinctly. "Get your purse."
Groaning, she tugged off her white lab coat and got her purse.
"Well?" she asked him when they were in her car and on their way. "Where are we going?"
"I've found something really interesting. Ever heard of the Quapaw Quarter?"
"You're taking me to see the Quapaw Quarter?" she asked in bewilderment.
"Yes. It's an area of downtown Little Rock full of old homes ranging in architectural style from the pre-1836 Territorial Period to the 1940s. Many of them are Victorian mansions or large cottages, and some have been completely restored to their former magnificence. About five hundred homes and buildings in the six-square-mile area have been renovated or fixed up, with a total investment of some twenty million dollars. There are—"
"Clay!" Spring loudly interrupted. What was going on? Clay always liked to talk, but now he was positively chattering!
"Yes?"
"What are you quoting?"
He looked sheepish. "A publication that I picked up from the Quapaw Quarter Association. Did you know that there are a thousand members of the Quapaw Quarter Associ—"
"Clay, I know about the Quapaw Quarter. They have tours of some of the restored old homes every Christmas and every spring, which I've been on several times. This is why you kidnapped me from my office?"
"Just wait, Spring," he told her mysteriously.
Thoroughly confused, she leaned back against her seat and waited, noting in surprise that he was holding the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.
Clay drove slowly down Broadway, pointing out some of the restored homes, such as the Bankston House, the Thompson House and the Foster-Robinson House. He turned on Twenty-first, taking them over to Spring Street, a name he pointed out gleefully.
"I was well aware it was here," Spring told him, but he ignored her, chatting away like a tour guide to a true foreigner. She frowned when he pulled into the drive of a gray frame Victorian cottage on Spring Street. "Why are you stopping?"
He dangled a key in front of her, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "Private tour."
"We're going inside?"
"Yep. The realtor is holding my Rolex, all my credit cards and my firstborn child hostage until I return the key."
"Why?"
"So I won't take the key and run, I guess. I thought it was kind of silly. After all, the key's not worth that much, and it would be pretty hard to steal the house—"
"Clay, why are we going into this house?" she asked, holding on to her patience with an effort.
"You and I are both interested in restoring old homes, and this one is really nice. Restoration was begun a couple of years ago. Then the couple who'd started had to sell and move away, so nothing much has been done since, but it has a lot of potential. Wait until you see the gingerbread trim inside. Wonderful!"
Her heart had started to pound, but she told herself not to read too much into this odd private tour. For all she knew, Clay could just be sight-seeing, as he'd told her.
He kept up a running commentary as he led her onto the front porch, with its quaintly delicate columns, and to the door, a heavy wooden one with a lead-glass fanlight above it. "This house and most of the others in the Quarter have been researched and the information kept on file by the QQA, the Quapaw Quarter Association. They also keep a library of books on the art of restoration and preservation of historic houses, hoping to encourage more people to take on these homes as family projects."
Though part of her mind followed his words, another part of her noted in growing fascination that there was a nervous edge to his voice and that his hand was shaking so hard he had trouble fitting the key into the lock. Her own hands began to tremble. In fact, she was trembling all over as she followed him inside.
"Look at that staircase. Isn't it fantastic? And these floors. They need sanding and refinishing, of course, but they're—"
His voice broke. Shoving his shaking hands into the pockets of his jeans, he went still, staring at her with eyes that were shadowed by deep emotion.
"Clay?" she whispered, unable to look away from his face to notice any of the features of the house. "What is it?"