Randi stared at the well-manicured nails on her left hand for a few seconds before lifting her gaze. “More bad news. The waiting list fell through, according to Bev. Your recently vacated apartment has not been rented. And Connor Harrington in 4-C gave a thirty-day notice yesterday.”
Helena threw up her hands in exasperation. “Connor is single and muscular. I can’t believe he’s afraid of being the serial killer’s next victim.”
“I don’t know what reason he gave, but I’m sure Bev will get back with you in a day or two on that,” Randi explained.
It had taken weeks of soul-searching for Helena to make up her mind to sell her grandmother’s beloved home and now that decision might have to be delayed.
One thing was for certain. She wasn’t going to give Mia’s beautiful home away at below what it was worth just because of the timing.
“I didn’t mean to rain on your parade like this,” Randi said. “We don’t have to decide or sign anything today, but we can talk about how to proceed if you do decide to list with us.”
“I suppose that’s complicated, too.”
“Not at all.”
Helena felt a nagging pain starting at the back of her skull. “I’m a novice at selling real estate, so I have no idea where to start. I suppose I should alert the remaining tenants that I’m putting the house on the market.”
“Let’s don’t jump the gun on that,” Randi cautioned. “Unless the prospective owner plans to use the entire property for himself and his family, having the units already under lease will be an asset.”
They spent the next hour talking about the advantages of working on upgrades and repairs before having the house appraised. Randi clearly knew her stuff and she patiently answered all of Helena’s questions while basically alleviating none of her fears.
By the time they’d finished and gone over the selling contract, Helena felt as if she were drowning in details.
She stood and walked to the window that overlooked the courtyard. “I suppose I should run this new information by Pierre Benoit.”
“Is that the man that Bev listed as one of your tenants?”
“Yes. He’s a divorce attorney with an office in the downtown area. I hired a probate attorney to settle Mia’s estate, but Pierre walked me though some of the legal hurdles.”
She owed him a dinner for that since he’d refused to accept cash.
“I think I’ve given you enough to think about for one day,” Randi said. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, but if you’re going to have two vacant units, it might be a good time to do any needed repairs or updates on those first.”
“Good point. I hadn’t expected so many complexities, but I’ll sign the real estate agreement now,” Helena said. “I’ve made the decision to sell. The hard part is already done.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am.” If she didn’t change her mind in the time it took to pick up the pen and sign her name on several dotted lines.
Randi delayed her departure to take her through the agreement again over a second glass of tea. Signing was more stressful than Helena had expected. She did so love this house.
But the life she knew here was gone forever and she would love her life in Boston, too. She had to keep reminding herself of that.
They made small talk as they walked across the courtyard when they were finished. Randi paused near the fountain just long enough to catch a few drops from the cool spray in her outstretched right hand.
“Whoever gets this house and courtyard is going to be a very lucky buyer,” Randi said as she was leaving.
Helena stood by the gate for a few minutes after she locked it behind Randi. A blue jay darted past her on its way to the nearest bird feeder. Graceful monarch butterflies fluttered among the blooms of a potted verbena.
She was mere steps away from French Quarter revelry, music and great food, yet this space had always been a peaceful haven. Perhaps her tenants no longer thought of it as safe.
If that bothered Connor Harrington, it must be a million times worse for Ella. Helena needed to find time to visit with her today.
She glanced up and then she saw him.
Hunter Bergeron—still, quiet, alone, standing on the edge of Ella’s balcony. Old longings vibrated along her nerve endings as she met his gaze. Her insides melted.
It had been six years, but she would have recognized him anywhere. Tall and muscular. Same unruly brown hair. Same cocky way of standing, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets.
Her stomach knotted and she felt the burn of acid creeping up into her throat.
She’d tried to prepare herself for running into him while she was back in New Orleans. Just not in this courtyard. Not where it had all begun—and ended.
Traitorous recollections pounded her relentlessly.
Then, without even a wave of acknowledgment, he turned and disappeared back inside Ella’s apartment. Helena wrapped her arms around her chest and bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood.
Had he even recognized her? Had she become no more than a distant memory of an infatuation gone bad? Or maybe he looked at it as a commitment he’d escaped just in time.
It didn’t matter. There was nothing left of their relationship but regrets.
She should turn and go back inside before he left Ella’s.
But she was still standing there as if in a paralyzing trance when Hunter stepped out of Ella’s door and into the courtyard. Her insides quaked as he approached, but she managed to keep her head up and her breathing somewhat steady.
“Hello, Helena.”
Hello. That was it, as if it hadn’t been six years since the goodbye that almost destroyed her. Her resolve not to let him intimidate her strengthened.
“What are you doing here, Hunter?”
“Looking for you, for one thing. Police business. We need to talk.”
Helena stared him down like he was a coiled snake about to strike, waiting so long to respond he felt sweat pooling on his brow. She clearly had the temperature advantage in her white shorts and lacy, summery top.
He was wearing his usual plainclothes detective attire—jeans and a sports shirt with the neck unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Nonetheless, he was starting to feel guilty as hell that he was ruining her homecoming by insisting she have anything to do with him.
He stepped closer. “This won’t take long.”
“Then start talking.”
“I talk faster when I’m not sweltering.”
“Does this have anything to do with Elizabeth Grayson’s killer?”
He nodded. “Afraid so.”
“In that case, we can talk inside.”
He followed her into the carriage house. In minutes he’d settled into the same comfortable chair in Mia Cosworth’s cozy sitting room as he had dozens of times before over the last few months. Surprisingly, he’d developed a close bond with Mia during this investigation though she’d clearly never forgiven him for