“Some shippers move dates around if they have space in a truck that’s ready to go. And unfortunately, some agents try to tag you with extra charges and kill fees.” Grace glanced over the information. The estimated weight was grossly inflated—40,000 pounds. In reality, the contents of this house amounted to no more than 20,000 pounds. The inequity didn’t surprise Grace but set her teeth on edge.
Paging through the boilerplate sections of the contract, she found what she was looking for. “You’re okay,” she said. “They can’t charge you for rescheduling so long as you ship within sixty days. I’ve been a relocation ombudsman for the Navy for years. I could make a call for you, if you like.”
Marcia handed her the phone. “Be my guest. I’d love some help.”
Grace hit Redial. She and Marcia moved aside as a young couple came to the master bedroom. Like Grace, they were instantly drawn to the view from the wide front window. Go away, she wanted to tell them. This is my house. The clarity—and the absurdity—of the thought startled her.
“Yes,” she said when she finally got past the receptionist. “Terry, is it? Hi, Terry. It’s Grace Bennett of…Executive Relocators.” She tossed out the name from a well of fantasy inside her, claimed Marcia as a client and plunged in. It took no effort at all. When Grace discussed business, a certain confidence came over her. She stood up straighter, spoke with authority.
“Thanks for the info, Terry,” she said. “Then I guess I’m confused. According to Mrs. Dunmire’s contract, she has sixty days to reschedule. Yes, yes, of course.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the girls come in. When they spotted her with contract in hand, phone to her ear and the older lady watching with hands clasped in hope, they rolled their eyes and went somewhere else. They were used to seeing their mother in ombudsman mode.
“Let me check with my client on that, Terry.” She pressed the mute button on the phone. “He says you didn’t say you’d ship within sixty days.”
She sniffed. “I didn’t get a chance to say anything. But the extra time would solve the problem. I’m sure of it.”
Grace went back to Terry. “I’m a little concerned about this weight discrepancy here, too, so maybe you should send another agent out to redo the estimate.” She honestly liked doing this—sticking up for people. Whatever floats your boat, as Steve would say.
A few minutes later, she hung up the phone. “Well,” she said, “that should help some.”
Marcia rolled her walker toward the door. “You have no idea. Good Lord, I’m a babe in the woods. Since my husband died I’m finding new areas of incompetence every day.”
“No,” said Grace. “You’re finding new challenges. And new ways to shine.”
“You’re very wise for such a young woman.”
“Bless you for thinking I’m young,” said Grace, remembering the dumpy housewife in the mirror. “And wise. Actually, I know there’s no comparison to being widowed, but every time my husband goes to sea, I find myself having to deal with things on my own. Moving seems to be my specialty.”
“Are you really an executive relocator?”
“No, I just said that on the spot, to sound more official. I’ve done it unofficially for years.”
“You’re very good at it. You should charge for your services.”
“So I’ve been told. But my clients are all Navy families. I work pro bono. Sometimes I think about doing this professionally, though. But…”
“It’s a great idea, especially for this area. Boeing, Microsoft, Starbucks, Amazon…It’s the land of the high-profile multinational company.”
The notion teased at Grace, but she pushed it away. “Do you need help on the stairs?”
“No, thanks,” Marcia said. “I keep another walker downstairs. Blasted ankle. I broke it playing volleyball.”
Grace spotted her daughters out on the lawn, pacing. “I’d better be going. The natives are getting restless.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“It was my pleasure. I love your house.”
“Do you? We bought it in the sixties when it was all we could afford. I just couldn’t deal with updating it only to put it on the market. Are you planning to buy a house?”
“Some day,” Grace admitted. “But it’s a long way from the wish to the deed. Steve and I always said that when we were stationed in a place we liked well enough, we’d talk about buying a house.” Although most Navy families did buy homes, Grace and Steve had agreed long ago that a permanent home and mortgage didn’t fit their way of life. But for a while now, she’d been having second thoughts about that decision.
“I’ve heard people in the service are able to retire young and start a whole new life for themselves.”
Grace smiled, even as she felt the terrible tension between fantasy and reality. “I’ve heard that, too. But not from my husband.”
“Well, you could pick a worse place than this to make a permanent home. It’s beautiful and peaceful, just a ferry ride to Seattle, yet far enough from the city to feel safe and quiet.”
“It’s pretty ideal,” Grace admitted.
“I’ll tell you what,” Marcia said. “Since you won’t let me pay you for your help, let me do something I’m good at.”
“You don’t have to—”
“What I’d like to do,” Marcia said, overruling her, “is design a Web site for you. That’s what I do for a living. I’d consider it a privilege.”
“That’s incredibly generous of you,” Grace said. “But I don’t have the first idea of what I would do with a Web site.”
“It can be for anything. Your family, your kids, your husband.”
“My husband already has a site. It’s called navy-dot-mil.”
“Oh, my. Well, I can’t really compete with that. But something for you, personally. We can create a Web site for your hobbies—knitting, gardening, songwriting, what have you.”
“My hobbies?” Grace grinned. “Most days, that would be carpooling and family finance.”
“Give it some thought.” Marcia handed her a business card. “Call me. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. I really do owe you, big-time.”
Grace was quiet as they drove away. On the seat beside her lay the various receipts and flyers she’d collected. She had two things to show for her day. Two impossible dreams. A perfect body and a home of her own.
CHAPTER 6
After the day’s final briefing, which was anything but brief, Steve Bennett knew the exact date and time he’d be leaving his family. Again. Sure, he was a patriot; he’d spent his career serving his country. Yet he felt alternately harried, preoccupied and distracted by his myriad duties. A part of him missed the glory days of flying, the constant brushes with danger and the heady rush of cheating death. But he was a family man now, and he’d reached the stage of his career where he was ready for his own command.
And that didn’t happen without compromise. Even if it meant putting up with rule-book blowhards like Mason Crowther, his immediate superior.
When he walked through the door, he deep-sixed the burdens of the day, shutting his eyes and inhaling the smell of baking chicken. Like magic, the aromas and sounds of home lifted his spirits. Then he took off his cap and tossed it Frisbee-style to a hook on the hall tree—a little stunt that drove Crowther nuts and often prompted him to remind Steve that replacing a damaged cover would set him back two hundred bucks.