Free Wonderful You by Mariah Stewart Page B

randomly spaced homes that appeared to date from the turn of the century, to a sprinkling of 1920s-style bungalows, all set at different angles to the road on large deeply shaded lots.
    “Slow down, here.” Wally pointed to a slight curve in the road. “Third mailbox after the bend.”
    Zoey eased the little car to a stop on the shoulder of the road in front of a white clapboard two-story house with a porch that sat flush to the level ground and red shutters that looked as if they might actually close. At the end of a yellow gravel driveway sat a small barn, behind which several outbuildings spread toward a wooded area.
    “Well, then, here we are.” Wally unhooked his seat belt and turned to Zoey, saying, “This has been a real pleasure, Miss Zoey Enright. I’ve enjoyed spending the afternoon with you. You’re a good sport, and good company. Easy on the eyes, too, though I’ve heard that women don’t like to be told that these days. Want to be appreciated only for their minds, I’ve been told.”
    “I think you got bad information”—Zoey patted his arm—“and I thank you for the compliments, Wally, and for taking pity on a lost soul and making such a fine day of it for me. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much.”
    “Well, now, that doesn’t say much for your social life, does it?”
    “What social life?” She grimaced good-naturedly. “I’m a working lady.”
    “Take the time to enjoy the ride, Zoey Enright. It all passes by very quickly.” His brown eyes deepened earnestly as he covered her hands with his own well- worked, callused ones.
    Zoey gave a quick squeeze to his hands and nodded.
    “Stop by and see me someday when you’re out this way.” Doc Littlefield pushed himself out of his seat and straightened himself up, then closed the car door with a soft thud.
    “I would like that,” she assured him.
    “Well, then, I’ll be looking forward to it.” He stepped back toward the house as she pulled away from the side of the road, then into a driveway two doors up the road. She slowed on her way back to wave out the window to Wally, who stood where she had left him at the foot of his gravel drive. She smiled as he tipped his straw hat.
    She was three-quarters of the way past the house next door before she saw the For Sale sign that sat back about ten feet from a plain aluminum mailbox upon the side of which Kilmartin had been painted in black letters with a shaky hand. She slowed slightly, then stopped to peer at the house, a bungalow with cedar shingles that had long since turned brown with age. Wooden steps rose to a wide porch that spread out from either side of the front door. No welcoming lights shone from the windows, no car stood at the end of the long drive. Along the left side of the house, on or near where Zoey guessed the property line might be, three large maples had dumped mounds of colored leaves, which gave a piebald appearance to the front lawn. All in all, Zoey thought the house looked outdated, but homey somehow. On a whim, she pulled paper and pen out of her purse and jotted down the name and phone number of the realtor.
    After all, it couldn’t hurt to look.

 
     
    6
     
     
    T rying hard not to sound too hopeful, Zoey called Peg, her realtor, the very first thing Monday morning to tell her she’d found a place that intrigued her. Peg made the calls to the listing realtor and called Zoey back, asking hesitantly, “Are you sure you want to see this house?”
    Zoey frowned. “Is there some reason why I wouldn’t?” Zoey’s ever active imagination summoned forth visions of malevolent spirits, carpenter ants, and possible holes in the roof. “Is it out of my price range? It didn’t look as if it would be that expensive.”
    “Not at all. As a matter of fact, it’s way less than anything else you’ve looked at. Properties in that area haven’t been selling well over the past few years, so the prices have declined. And this is an estate sale, so