All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,21

easily.

“As you can see, Flynn dragged me away from the garden,” she said when the other man glanced at her muddy clothes.

“More power to you. Draw the line at wielding the lawn mower myself, and even then I usually pay one of the local kids to do it.” The agent switched his focus to Flynn. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but we’ve had a bit of an emergency come up and I need to cover another agent’s open home. If it suits you, I thought I could leave you with the keys so you could look around at your leisure, then drop the keys at the office either today or tomorrow.”

“Sure. No problem,” Flynn said.

“Terrific, much appreciated. I hate having to bail on you like this but there’s no one else available to fill in.”

Mel drifted away as Flynn and the agent talked business for a few minutes. She was studying the bare branches of what she suspected was a flame azalea when Flynn joined her.

“The keys to the castle,” he said, holding out his hand to reveal a chunky collection of keys, many of them old-fashioned skeleton keys.

“I hope he told you which one opens the front door.”

There were at least twenty keys on the ring. Flynn looked alarmed for a minute before singling out a key that had been marked with an asterisk.

“What are the odds?”

“Are you feeling lucky, punk?” she asked, doing her best Clint Eastwood impersonation. “Well, are you?”

He grinned. “Let’s see.”

There was a new energy in him as he led the way toward the house. She studied him surreptitiously. She’d always thought of him as the epitome of sophistication—unfailingly well dressed, never at a loss. Yet right now he looked like a little boy on a visit to Disneyland.

He glanced her way and caught her looking. She racked her brain for something to say so he wouldn’t think she’d been ogling him.

“I’ve never been inside Summerlea before, even though I think I’ve probably attended four or five open gardens over the years.”

“You weren’t missing much. I think Brian and Grace saved all their passion for the garden. Not that the place doesn’t have good bones. They’re just really well hidden.”

They’d arrived at the foot of a set of six wide, brick steps. Mel tilted her head and shaded her eyes against the morning sun to examine the facade of the house. Built from the same mellow red brick as the steps, the house boasted a deep porch, with twin stained-glass doors for a suitably grand entrance. Matching bay windows lit the rooms on either side of the entrance, and wood fretwork decorated the eaves.

Flynn started up the steps. She followed him across the chipped and broken terra-cotta tiled porch. He glanced at her as he slid the key into the lock, eyebrows raised with comic trepidation.

“Dum, dum, dummmm.” He turned the lock. The door opened with a mechanical snick.

“Phew,” he said, but she knew he’d never been seriously worried.

Another thing she’d never expected of Flynn Randall—he was playful.

He stood to one side and gestured for her to precede him into the house.

She stepped into the front hall, breathing in the smell of damp and dust. She paused to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. After a few seconds the world assumed shape and form again and she took in the wood-paneled walls, scuffed and discolored wooden floors and the high ceiling with its ornate, elaborate cornice and moldings and original light fittings.

“The living room’s through here,” Flynn said, directing her to the right.

She entered a large, light room. To her right was a large bay window, its curve fitted with a seat, to her left a rather grand marble fireplace. The carpet was a faded Axminster floral. Darker patches near the walls and in the center of the room indicated where furniture had once sat. The far wall was punctuated by a series of French doors that looked out over the garden—not original, Mel suspected, but they offered a great outlook over the house’s best feature.

“So. Am I nuts or what?” Flynn asked, and she realized he’d been watching her as she inspected the room.

“It needs a lot of work.”

She glanced around the room again. The chimney breast was streaked with smoke stains, a sure sign that the chimney was either blocked or poorly constructed. There were two large, dark marks on the ceiling, which almost certainly meant a leak, and even from across the room she could