Make Me Yours (Bellamy Creek #2) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,38

house, he said the gutters had obviously been dumping water right next to the foundation for years, the yard wasn’t graded properly, and I was definitely looking at replacing the roof soon. “They went cheap on those shingles,” he said, shaking his head. “You might get another couple years out of them, but that’s it.”

On our way out, we stopped in the kitchen to say goodbye to the agent, who was doing a crossword puzzle at the table. He wore a cardigan sweater and bow tie, and his name was Moe Kravitz. He was an old-timer, retired from the Post Office, and he’d taken up real estate after his wife died a few years back. Confidentially, he whispered behind one hand, he thought this one was overpriced.

“I think you’re right,” said Moretti, looking over the spec sheet.

Moe looked pleased someone agreed with him. “And what’s your name?” he asked Mariah.

“Mariah Mitchell,” she recited.

“And how old are you?”

“I’m nine.”

“That’s a wonderful age,” he said. He shuffled over to a briefcase on the counter, opened it up and took out a Dum Dum sucker. “Would you like a lollipop?”

Mariah looked at me dutifully. “Can I have it?”

“Sure,” I said, stifling a yawn.

Moe handed it to her, and she thanked him. “You know, there’s a beautiful old house that just came on the market over on Rosebud Lane,” he went on. “I forget who has the listing, but it’s real nice. Needs a little TLC, maybe, but the lot’s terrific and it seems to me the price is right.”

“We’re actually headed there now,” Moretti told him, folding the spec sheet. “It’s Joy Frankel who has that listing.”

Moe nodded enthusiastically. “Yup, yup. That’s it. It was Charlie Frankel who told me about it last week at the Rotary Club meeting. That’s his daughter-in-law.”

“Right.” Moretti caught my eye and jerked his head toward the front door, and I got the message—we had to get out of here, or Moe was going to want to talk forever. He held out his hand. “Thanks for showing us the house, Moe.”

“Oh, sure.” Moe shook Moretti’s hand and then mine, but kept right on talking. “Joy’s the one who won that beautification award from the Historical Society for the work she did on those flower beds out in front of the general store.”

“Is she?” Moretti said absently as he steered Mariah out of the kitchen by the shoulders.

Moe followed us. “Yup. Yup. Fine job she did there. She’s married to Chuckie Frankel. Remember when he hit that home run to win the state tournament back in, ohhh, what was it, seventy-nine or so?”

“Can’t say that I do, but I’ve heard the story.” Moretti pushed the front door open and herded Mariah and me through it. “Well, we should go. I don’t want to leave Joy waiting.”

“Right. Enjoy your afternoon!” Moe stood on the front stoop of the house, waving at us as we got into the car like a grandpa saying farewell after a Sunday visit.

“What a nice old man,” Mariah said from the back seat, tearing the wrapper off her sucker.

“He is, but he’ll gab your ear off,” Moretti said, starting the car. “And I don’t think that’s the house you want.”

“It’s not,” I agreed, yawning again. “I don’t mind some manual labor, but I really don’t want to have to buy a new roof so soon. Or deal with water in the basement. Or a crooked staircase.”

“This next one should be better, at least structurally,” Moretti said. “It’s at the top of your price range because it’s got four bedrooms, more square footage, and it’s on a huge lot, but we can probably get them to come down a little since it needs some cosmetic work. No deck, but like I said, we can build one in a weekend. And it’s definitely far enough away from your mom to avoid unannounced drop-in’s.”

“Not even the moon is that far,” I mumbled.

As we headed west, we passed the elementary school Mariah attended. “That’s my school!” she said.

“Oh yeah? What grade are you in now?” Moretti asked.

“Fourth. Miss Cheyenne teaches kindergarten there too.”

I pictured her there, sitting with her little students on a colorful rug, reading them a story, teaching them to add and subtract, making construction paper turkeys. She was probably a great teacher. I bet the kids adored her.

She was a great kisser too. I propped an elbow on the door and rubbed my thumb along my lower lip, recalling that bourbon-and-pumpkin-pie-flavored kiss last night—her mouth beneath mine,