Maggie had barely scraped off two more inches when there was a knock behind her. She turned her head, ready to flare if it was Cliff Delaney returned to taunt her. Instead, she saw a tall, slender woman of her own age with soft brown hair and pale blue eyes. As Maggie studied Joyce Morgan Agee, she wondered why she hadn’t seen the resemblance to Louella before.
“Mrs. Agee.” Maggie rose, brushing at the knees of her jeans. “Please, come in. I’m sorry.” Her sneakers squeaked as she stepped on a thin layer of old glue. “The floor’s a bit sticky.”
“I don’t mean to disturb your work.” Joyce stood uncertainly in the doorway, eyeing the floor. “I would’ve called, but I was on my way home from Mother’s.”
Joyce’s pumps were trim and stylish. Maggie felt the glue pull at the bottom of her old sneakers. “We can talk outside, if you don’t mind.” Taking the initiative, Maggie walked out into the sunshine. “Things are a little confused around here right now.”
“Yes.” They heard one of the workers call to a companion, punctuating his suggestion with good-natured swearing. Joyce glanced over in their direction before she turned back to Maggie. “You’re not wasting any time, I see.”
“No.” Maggie laughed and eyed the crumbling dirt wall beside them. “I’ve never been very patient. For some reason, I’m more anxious to have the outside the way I want it than the inside.”
“You couldn’t have picked a better company,” Joyce murmured, glancing over at one of the trucks with Delaney’s on the side.
Maggie followed her gaze but kept her tone neutral. “So I’m told.”
“I want you to know I’m really glad you’re doing so much to the place.” Joyce began to fiddle with the strap of her shoulder bag. “I can hardly remember living here. I was a child when we moved, but I hate waste.” With a little smile, she looked around again and shook her head. “I don’t think I could live out here. I like being in town, with neighbors close by and other children for my children to play with. Of course, Stan, my husband, likes being available all the time.”
It took Maggie a moment; then she remembered. “Oh, your husband’s the sheriff, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. Morganville’s a quiet town, nothing like Los Angeles, but it keeps him busy.” She smiled, but Maggie wondered why she sensed strain. “We’re just not city people.”
“No.” Maggie smiled, too. “I guess I’ve discovered I’m not, either.”
“I don’t understand how you could give up—” Joyce seemed to catch herself. “I guess what I meant was, this must be such a change for you after living in a place like Beverly Hills.”
“A change,” Maggie agreed. Was she sensing undercurrents here, too, as she had with Louella’s dreaminess? “It was one I wanted.”
“Yes, well, you know I’m glad you bought the place, and so quickly. Stan was a little upset with my putting it on the market when he was out of town, but I couldn’t see it just sitting here. Who knows, if you hadn’t come along so fast, he might’ve talked me out of selling it.”
“Then we can both be grateful I saw the sign when I did.” Mentally, Maggie was trying to figure out the logistics of the situation. It seemed the house had belonged exclusively to Joyce, without her husband or her mother having any claim. Fleetingly, she wondered why Joyce hadn’t rented or sold the property before.
“The real reason I came by, Miss Fitzgerald, is my mother. She told me she was here a few days ago.”
“Yes, she’s a lovely woman.”
“Yes.” Joyce looked back toward the men working, then took a deep breath. Maggie no longer had to wonder if she was sensing undercurrents. She was sure of it. “It’s more than possible she’ll drop in on you again. I’d like to ask you a favor, that is, if she begins to bother you, if you’d tell me instead of her.”
“Why should she bother me?”
Joyce let out a sound that was somewhere between fatigue and frustration. “Mother often dwells on the past. She’s never completely gotten over my father’s death. She makes some people uncomfortable.”
Maggie remembered the discomfort she’d felt on and off during Louella’s brief visit. Still, she shook her head. “Your mother’s welcome to visit me from time to time, Mrs. Agee.”
“Thank you, but you will promise to tell me if—well, if you’d like her to stay away. You see, she’d often come here, even when the place was deserted. I don’t want her to get in your way. She doesn’t know who you are. That is—” Obviously embarrassed, Joyce broke off. “I mean, Mother doesn’t understand that someone like you would be busy.”
Maggie remembered the lost eyes, the unhappy mouth. Pity stirred again. “All right, if she bothers me, I’ll tell you.”
The relief in Joyce’s face was quick and very plain. “I appreciate it, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Maggie.”
“Yes, well …” As if only more uncertain of her ground, Joyce managed a smile. “I understand that someone like you wouldn’t want to have people dropping by and getting in the way.”
Maggie laughed, thinking how many times the phone calls from California had interrupted her that morning. “I’m not a recluse,” she told Joyce, though she was no longer completely sure. “And I’m not really very temperamental. Some people even consider me normal.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Come back when I’ve done something with that floor, and we’ll have some coffee.”
“I’d like to, really. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached into the big canvas bag on her shoulder and pulled out a manila envelope. “Mother said you wanted to see these. Some pictures of the property.”
“Yes.” Pleased, Maggie took the envelope. She hadn’t thought Louella would remember or bother to put them together for her. “I hoped they might give me some ideas.”
“Mother said you could keep them as long as you liked.” Joyce hesitated, fiddling again with the strap of her bag. “I have to get back. My youngest gets home from kindergarten at noon, and Stan sometimes comes home for lunch. I haven’t done a thing to the house. I hope I see you sometime in town.”
“I’m sure you will.” Maggie tucked the envelope under her arm. “Give my best to your mother.”
Maggie started back into the house, but as she put her hand on the doorknob, she noticed Cliff crossing to Joyce. Curiosity had her stopping to watch as Cliff took both the brunette’s hands in his own. Though she couldn’t hear the conversation over the din of motors, it was obvious that they knew each other well. There was a gentleness on Cliff’s face Maggie hadn’t seen before, and something she interpreted as concern. He bent down close, as if Joyce were speaking very softly, then touched her hair. The touch of a brother? Maggie wondered. Or a lover?
As she watched, Joyce shook her head, apparently fumbling with the door handle before she got into the car. Cliff leaned into the window for a moment. Were they arguing? Maggie wondered. Was the tension she sensed real or imaginary? Fascinated with the silent scene being played out in her driveway, Maggie watched as Cliff withdrew from the window and Joyce backed out to drive away. Before she could retreat inside, Cliff turned, and their gazes locked.
There were a hundred feet separating them, and the air was full of the sounds of men and machines. The sun was strong enough to make her almost too warm in the sweatshirt, yet she felt one quick, unexpected chill race up her spine. Perhaps it was hostility she felt. Maggie tried to tell herself it was hostility and not the first dangerous flutters of passion.
There was a temptation to cross those hundred