It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,108

stuff?”

“I have no idea.” It all looked old-fashioned and heavy to him, but what did he know?

“We should get an evaluator in. One of those guys who specializes in estates,” Brent said.

“I guess.”

“You sound tired.”

“Lot of road between here and Sydney.”

“That’s kind of the point, though, right?”

Oliver shut the shed door and used his shoulder to hold it in place while he forced the rusty bolt home. “Yeah.”

“I’ll let you go. Speak again tomorrow, okay?” Brent said.

Oliver suppressed a sigh. Ever since he’d told his brother about Edie and Nick, Brent had been checking in with him daily. As though Oliver would “do something stupid” if he didn’t have his hand held.

“You don’t have to keep up the suicide watch, you know. I’m pissed off, but I’m hardly going to end it all,” he said drily.

For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the distant thunder of surf.

“You’re not on suicide watch,” Brent said stiffly.

“Whatever you want to call it. I don’t need my hand held.”

“Excuse me for caring.”

Brent sounded pissed now. Oliver ran his hand through his hair.

“I appreciate the sentiment, okay? But you don’t need to babysit me.”

“Sure. I’ll speak to you later.” Brent hung up.

Oliver congratulated himself on being a dick. Brent was a good guy. A little fussy sometimes, but maybe that came with the territory when you were the older brother. Rewarding his concern with smart-assery was a kid’s way of dealing with an uncomfortable situation.

Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Oliver promised himself he’d call Brent tomorrow. He surveyed the garden, looking for Strudel before he headed into the house. He frowned when he saw her doing the doggy meet-and-greet routine with the neighbor’s dachshund.

“How did you get over here?” He glanced at the fence that separated the two properties. It was silver with age, but it looked solid enough. Obviously there must be a hole somewhere.

“Strudel. Come here, girl. Come here.”

His normally obedient schnauzer didn’t so much as glance in his general direction. She was too busy canoodling with her new best friend, sniffing and dancing around and generally being coy.

Oliver went after her, scanning the fence line as he walked. Sure enough, he found a half-rotted board and a hole that was sufficiently large for a determined dachshund to gain entrance.

“Party’s over, buddy.” He reached down to scoop up the dachshund. The dog wriggled desperately, but Oliver kept a tight grip, only releasing him when he’d arrived at the fence. He squatted, pointed the dog at the hole and stood guard until the sausage dog had wiggled into his own yard. There were a few loose bricks in the garden bed nearby and Oliver used them to build a blockade. He’d patch the hole properly later, but the makeshift barrier should keep Romeo out in the interim.

He returned to the house and did a thorough tour of each room, making notes on the work that needed to be done. He’d reached the kitchen when he realized Strudel had disappeared. He checked the living room, sure he’d find her making herself at home on the overstuffed couch. She wasn’t there, however.

He glanced outside as he returned to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the dachshund planted at the bottom of the exterior steps.

Bloody hell. Houdini had done it again.

He found Strudel sitting at the door, gaze fixed longingly on the handle, almost as though she was willing it to turn. He had no idea how she knew that her furry friend had come calling, but clearly she did.

“You can do much better, girl,” he said. “He’s way too short for you.”

He went outside, Strudel hard on his heels. He watched in bemusement as the two dogs greeted each other with what he could only describe as the canine equivalent of a twenty-one-gun salute. Didn’t seem to matter that they’d seen each other less than an hour ago.

“Okay. Hate to break it up, but Houdini has to go home.”

He picked up the dachshund and carried him to the hole in the fence. To his surprise, the barricade was still intact. He followed the fence farther into the garden, squirming hound under his arm

By the time he’d reached the rear of the property he’d found another three holes, which made the dachshund more of an opportunist than an escape artist. Oliver considered the problem for a few seconds, but he really couldn’t see any alternative to biting the bullet and paying his