It Started with a House..... Helen R. Myers

her the oxygen to say a little more. “If anyone does, it’s you. All I do know is that you’re about to join a club that no one wants to belong to. There are no words to change it or make it easier. All you can do is deal with things one click of the clock at a time.” Until you think you’ll go mad, she continued to herself, or lose the ability to think altogether, or you wish for your heart to quit beating altogether because of sheer exhaustion.

      As Genevieve exited the hospital’s property, she joined the heavier morning traffic on Main Street. Oak Point was a six-traffic-light town and it wouldn’t take more than five minutes to get to the title company. She’d insisted on picking him up because she’d kept on top of Cynthia’s status and anticipated his emotional state and the exhaustion that came with it. He didn’t need to be behind the wheel of a car even for a few minutes.

      As though reading her mind, Marshall glanced at her again and said, “You do know that we’re both eternally grateful to you, don’t you? You’ve been gracious and patient, and too kind. You’ve made this as easy as anyone could.”

      The quietly spoken sentiments, as much as the sadness that underscored them, had Genevieve briefly touching her hand to her heart and made her eyes burn. “Thank you, but stop. Anyone would have been grateful for the opportunity to be your agent and help you. You and Cynthia are wonderful people and Oak Point needs you.”

      “Maybe, but you’ve become a friend, Genevieve—and you know I’ve had enough real estate dealings to accept that doesn’t often happen.”

      “Then I’m doubly glad you think so, too,” she said just as softly. She had intended to say something similar to him and Cynthia jointly after the closing, and to hear Marshall speak the words first filled her with a unique, yet bittersweet joy. Heavens, at this rate, she was going to be openly crying in a minute, and so she attempted to redirect their conversation to practical matters that might have slipped by the wayside due to unmitigated circumstances. “So speaking as a friend, have you confirmed the arrival time of your movers?”

      “The truck should be arriving tomorrow morning by 8:30. Heaven knows where I’m supposed to tell them to put everything, let alone deal with the unpacking when I need to be at the hospital.”

      Genevieve began to reply, hesitated, and then ventured, “I remember quite a bit of what Cynthia said about how she would like the living room to look. The dining area is a given due to its shape and the shape of your table. We could temporarily guess about the bedroom. Would you like me to come over and give you a hand?”

      Marshall’s expression reflected a man torn between hope and conscience. “You can’t possibly have the time. I know for a fact that you’ve already devoted way too many hours to us because of—Cyn’s deteriorating condition.”

      Those hours had cultivated deeper feelings and gained her broader insights into the Roarks’ lives, and Genevieve knew that Marshall had no one else to call on for help. Both he and Cynthia had been only children—or that was what had been eluded—and Cynthia’s parents were in California, but estranged from her, while Marshall’s were deceased. There might be extended family and undoubtedly friends in Dallas that they could reach out to; however, Marshall never brought up the prospect.

      “I have a morning appointment that isn’t critical,” Genevieve told him. “If you’d like, I’ll reschedule as soon as I get back to the office. If the truck arrives as promised, we should have you in good shape by noon or not long thereafter.”

      With sculpted fingers, Marshall raked back his wavy, maestro-long hair. “You keep leaving me speechless, Genevieve. Having been in the restaurant business almost half of my life, I know more than a little about Southern hospitality and the wisdom in stroking customers and pampering clients, but you put me to shame.”

      Struggling not to take too much personal pleasure out of his appreciation, she reached for her reliable pragmatism. Granted, the change in plans would delay her catching up on other deals in progress, but she would worry about Marshall coping with trying to be in two places at once anyway. Then there was Cynthia lying in the hospital feeling perhaps afraid or abandoned. Forcing a brighter smile, Genevieve quipped, “We have more churches per capita than you do in Dallas. Our ministers would lay on the fire-and-brimstone sermons really thick if they heard you weren’t being treated right as a new resident of Oak Point.”

      However, once she parked in front of the title company, Genevieve turned to Marshall. “My conscience demands I give you another chance to table this. Say the word and we’ll reschedule.”

      “No.” Although undeniably fatigued, Marshall reached for the door handle. “Cynthia was struggling to stay conscious waiting on the news that the house was ours. Let’s get this done.”

      His confession had another, harder knot of dread forming in her abdomen. She exited her vehicle, opening the back to retrieve her leather shoulder bag. The honey tint matched her high heels. She discreetly smoothed her long blond hair, then the slim skirt of her camel-colored suit. At least, she thought, slamming the door and joining him on the sidewalk, this was a cash deal and the paperwork would be minimal.

      Once inside the white-brick title company, Genevieve warmly greeted the four middle-aged ladies who owned and operated the business. As she introduced Marshall, she wasn’t surprised that they became like teenage girls in the presence of a school heartthrob. She couldn’t blame them. Like a bird of prey, Marshall Roark’s face possessed a fearsome beauty that drew the eye; however, the rest of the man deserved equal admiration. He was tall and sinewy rather than muscular, which gave his movements an elegance, enhanced by long legs and slim hips. The ladies offered him everything but wine, phone numbers and a room key. Genevieve observed their reactions with a mixture of bemusement and sympathy since, like her, one of the women was widowed, two divorced and the other’s husband was on the run for legal reasons. Nevertheless, as sad as Genevieve was for the lonely women, she was more concerned for her client’s comfort. She’d called ahead to warn the ladies of Marshall’s increasingly grim situation to avoid questions about Cynthia, and she diplomatically guided him into the meeting room where they could get on with things.

      It took less than a half hour. The legal issues and paperwork had long been resolved. At Cynthia’s insistence, the house was going to be in Marshall’s name alone. Marshall was paying cash for the five-thousand-square-foot structure set on three acres. The house was already vacated by the Carsons, who’d retired to Arizona to be closer to their grandchildren. Actually, Genevieve’s work was done, except to confirm that the inspector’s documentation was all in order, the utilities had been transferred—and to stand by and get Marshall out of there should he suddenly decide he couldn’t go through with this, after all. But having also bought and sold several office buildings in the DFW area, along with a chain of restaurants, he was the real veteran in the room and managed the transaction with greater professionalism and dignity than she could have if the tables were turned.

      At the end, he shook hands with Marti Quinn and thanked her for her efficiency and kindness. His deep, brushed-velvet voice had Marti blushing anew. Genevieve wasn’t immune herself. Not in the least. If it wasn’t for her constant consciousness of Cynthia, she would be well on her way toward having a crush herself—and that was saying a great deal for her.

      Thanking Marti for the check that the older woman handed her, which represented her commission as agent and broker, Genevieve escorted Marshall out of the building.

      They weren’t halfway down the sidewalk when Marshall’s BlackBerry buzzed. A half-step ahead of him, Genevieve glanced over and their gazes collided. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting a call—or maybe he had and anticipated the worst?

      Taking a step back, she touched his arm. “You have to answer it,” she said gently.

      Grim-faced, he drew out the device, took one look at the screen and flexed his strong jaw.

      That expression told her all that she needed to know. “Give me those and I’ll get the Escalade’s doors unlocked.” She took his folder of closing papers from him and left him the modicum of privacy that was available.

      Lowering his head, Marshall connected