“So, what’s keeping you now? Your family’s in good shape. Your surgical skills are probably in demand just about anywhere you want to move to. Or are you still playing George Bailey?”
Mitch frowned. Was her tone just a little cross? And if so, why? “George who?”
“George Bailey. It’s a Wonderful Life. The movie.”
“Ah.” He remembered now. “The guy who kept trying to leave home and couldn’t because of the family banking business?”
“Yes.”
He chuckled. “I’m no George Bailey. I haven’t tried all that hard to leave yet. And, like you said, there’s no reason I couldn’t move now if I want. I mean, I like my job here, and my family and friends are all here, but still, I can see the appeal of checking out new places. Maybe I’ll just find a good home base here and travel when I get the chance—like my upcoming trip to Peru.”
“You’re really looking forward to that, aren’t you?”
“I really am.”
“Then I hope the trip will be everything you want it to be.”
“Thank you.”
As he turned into the driveway of his sister’s house, he glanced across the street toward the for-sale sign in the yard of Seth’s former house. He knew it would make his mom happy if he bought that place. Not to mention he’d be doing his brother-in-law a favor. It wasn’t as if he didn’t get along well enough with the family to live that close. It just didn’t— Well, it didn’t excite him, he thought, recalling Jacqui’s words.
As he followed Jacqui into the house, it occurred to him that the only time that day he’d been anywhere close to excited was when he’d stood in that closet with Jacqui’s slender shoulders beneath his hands, her face very close to his.
Something told him that wasn’t the type of excitement she had urged him to pursue.
Awakening with a start, Jacqui rolled over to look at the illuminated clock on her bedside. 3:00 a.m. Great.
Knowing she wouldn’t sleep again with the echo of her sister’s voice in her head, she climbed out of the bed. The house was silent, and she figured Mitch was sound asleep, but she still thought it best not to go traipsing around in nothing but a thigh-length nightshirt—even though he had seen her in that outfit before, she remembered with a slight wince. She pulled on the jeans she’d left draped over the foot of the bed. Figuring that counted as at least mostly dressed, she walked barefoot out of the room, making her way silently down the stairs to the kitchen.
She opened the refrigerator door and reached for a bottle of water. A half bottle of wine caught her eye, but she left it sitting there. That was her mother’s sleepless-night crutch, not hers.
Too restless to sit, she leaned against the counter to sip her water. She stared at the table across the shadowy room, but what she saw instead was the kitchen of the Craftsman house she and Mitch had toured that afternoon. She had taken one look at that house and fallen in love. Every step she’d taken inside had only fanned the flames of that passion. The house had been perfect. Exactly the style she and Olivia had always talked about when they’d lay awake at night in a cheap apartment or motel and fantasized about the home they would have someday.
She wan
ted a house like that. Oh, not that particular one. As much as she had loved it, it had been well out of her price range for any foreseeable future. But she could find a less expensive little house in a less expensive neighborhood and decorate in a similar style. She could paint and hang wallpaper, and she figured she could learn to grout tile and refinish secondhand furniture.
Maybe it was time for her to start haunting estate sales and garage sales on her days off, collecting a few things for the little house she wanted to buy. She’d been in the habit of not accumulating possessions so it would be easier to move when the time came, but she hoped her next move would be into a little house where she could stay for a nice long while. Her goal had been to own a home by the time she turned thirty, just less than a year away. She saw no reason why she couldn’t fulfill that dream.
If she had needed any evidence of how different she and Mitch were, she figured their outing today had done the trick. He had looked at apartments and condos and houses with little enthusiasm, seemingly willing to settle for the first reasonably suitable option. From what she could tell, he’d seen the houses as potential anchors, more long-term commitment and responsibility than he was looking for. For someone who had just spent—what had he said, six years?—living in a rented duplex, he certainly saw himself as the footloose type.
Just her luck that the only man who had made her pulse race in the past busy year was a restless surgeon related to her employer—so many strikes against him that it was almost funny. So why wasn’t she smiling?
Her somber thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound from the backyard. Frowning, she looked toward the door. Maybe Waldo had heard her moving around and was trying to get her attention. It hadn’t sounded like his usual whine, though. Something was…
The sound came again. Catching her breath, she set her water bottle on the counter with a thump and ran toward the door. It took her only moments to disarm the security system and open the locks. “Waldo?”
She could tell at a glance that the dog was in trouble. The trees silhouetted by the backyard security lighting threw long shadows over the pool, patio and lawn, but there was still enough light for her to see that Waldo had somehow become trapped in the fencing designed to hold the adventuresome dog in the yard. His head jammed between a post and a fence slat, he was unable to move anything except his hind quarters. He pumped his back legs wearily, as though he’d been trying for some time to extricate himself, and he whimpered in pain and frustration.
It took only a couple minutes of trying before she conceded she wouldn’t be able to free him herself.
“I’ll be right back,” she assured him, as if he could understand. “Be still so you don’t hurt yourself.”
Leaving him whining, she dashed inside the house and up the stairs, skidding to a stop in front of Mitch’s closed door. She knocked on it sharply. “Mitch? Mitch!”
“Wha?” she heard him say groggily from inside. Moments later the door opened. Tousled and bleary, wearing only a pair of navy pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, he peered down at her. “Jacqui? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Waldo. Can you help me, please?”