It was after seven when I delivered Justin Elmont to his hotel and promised to pick him up early the next morning. All the houses we had viewed were colonial in design, but far too modern for his taste, even though some had watched several generations live and die within their walls. I thought them all charming and would have welcomed living in any of them. Why, I wondered, had he rejected one grand country home after another in anticipation of seeing Tom Grigsby’s pre-Revolutionary dwelling?

      Since it was Saturday evening, I did not expect to find many lingering in the Cameron office. Robin was not at her desk, so I went directly to Sheila’s office to leave a report on the day’s events.  

      The sunset filtering through the shaded windows cast light on the desk. The computer’s illuminated screen saver emphasized the emptiness of an office minus a human occupant.  I was about to jot my message on Sheila’s notepad when a door across the hall opened softly. A passage from Howard Hanson’s “Romantic” Symphony escaped from within. Momentarily I sensed someone behind me.

      “Ms. Prescott?”

      The speaker’s identity was a given.  Turning toward the door, I saw Burke Cameron. He seemed hesitant, reluctant to enter the room. “If you’re looking for Sheila…my mother, be advised that she keeps bankers’ hours, very short bankers’ hours.”

      “It’s not urgent. I was about to leave her a note.”

      “Can I help?”

      “Probably not. I’m in a situation that can’t be resolved until my client decides on a house. Just so it’s not Tom Grigsby’s.”

      Burke’s eyebrows shot up. He took a step forward. “Grigsby? You’ve met him already?”

      “Why, yes, at his underground model.” Sensing that I had struck a chord, I blurted, “I didn’t like him one bit, especially when he managed to interest Mr. Elmont in his other house.”

      “Hold it!” Burke moved closer. “Elmont actually is considering the house Tom lives in?”

      “So it appears. When he learned that it goes back to 1748, he became ecstatic. If he likes it as well as he thinks he will and decides to buy from Grigsby, that means I’ll…”

      “Lose a commission?” Burke read my thoughts before I finished. “Don’t worry. If I know Tom, he’ll be a gentleman and give you a hefty percentage, even though it’s not our listing. After all, you supplied the client.”

      “So you know Grigsby and think there’s no problem?”

      “None. Trust me. Anything else?”

      “No. You’ve answered my question.” I zipped my purse shut and was about to move toward the door when he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.

      “You had a message earlier. I took the liberty of jotting this down.”

      The sheet he handed me bore a telephone number and a name I recognized instantly: Reverend Henry Conyers.

      He studied my expression. “Anything wrong?”  

      “Wrong? Not at all, but rather a surprise.”

      “A surprise?”

      I had no intention of divulging more that he needed to know. “The caller is someone I met recently and didn’t expect to see again. This gives me the opportunity to thank him.”

      “For a favor?”

      “For a kindness that gave me the courage I lacked at the time.” The words tumbled out before I could evaluate how they might be received.

      “That’s very commendable.” 

      “Yes, it is. Meeting him proved to me that there are still a few people in the world interested in helping others, kind people who surely were put on earth to heal broken hearts…” I bit off the sentence within a whisker of baring my soul before Burke.

      There was no need to worry that he would take advantage of my vulnerability, for he was staring out the window and nodding, almost unaware of my presence. A long, awkward silence passed before he turned to face me and said, “You’re right. No matter what hardships a person faces, the outlook can shift dramatically with a smile or a kind word.” He must have read my mind because a moment later he grinned apologetically and added, “And you’re thinking that I’m the antithesis of your hero.”

      I turned scarlet. “I  never! Besides, he’s not my hero, merely an acquaintance.”

      Burke’s lips curved into an enigmatic grin. “You don’t have to explain. He’s a casual friend for now, but there’s no telling what the future has in store.”

      That stiffened my backbone in a hurry. “Mr. Cameron, you delved into my personal life once before and promised that transgression would never be repeated. While you’re far from the mark in this instance, you’re overstepping your bounds.”

      I detected a twinkle in his eye. Had I misjudged him all along? “Ms. Prescott, you make a very strong point. I have indeed overstepped my bounds and beg your apology.” His smile deepened. “Still, I’m betting on Henry.”

      That unexpected twist of the knife set me off.  I managed, “Oh, men!” before turning on my heels and quitting the office.

      As I marched down the hall, he called after me, “Remember, Amanda, he expects to hear from you.”
Back at the apartment, I sliced some plump tomatoes and grated a few carrots onto lettuce for a modest lunch to counteract the heavy noontime dinner, all the while contemplating the slip of paper with Reverend Conyers’ telephone number. He had contacted me first, so it was not out of order to me to return his call. Still, not wanting to appear pushy, I  showered, completed my bedtime ritual, and climbed under the covers before gathering the courage to dial him.

© 2004 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at