"They're not American," she began, then blew out a breath. "Okay, no passport numbers. Maybe you didn't find it yet, or maybe they've used different names to buy the house."
"Maybe. It'll be interesting to find out, because right now it's looking like they popped out of thin air."
"I'd like to know more about the Daughters of Glass.
The more I know about them, the better chance I have of finding the key."
"I'll call my grandmother, get more details of the legend. I can fill you in over dinner tomorrow."
She considered him, then looked back toward the dog. He was willing to help, and she only had four weeks. On a personal front, she would keep it simple. Friendly, but simple. At least until she'd decided what to do about him.
"Would that be a table for two or for three?"
“Two."
"All right. You can pick me up at seven." "Great."
"And you can go out that way." She pointed toward the patio door.
"No problem." He walked to the door, glanced back. "You really are pretty," he said, then eased the door open just enough to squeeze out.
She watched him unhook the dog, watched him stagger under the weight when Moe leaped up to lavishly kiss his face. She waited until they'd trotted off before she chuckled.
Chapter Five
Malory found Zoe's little house easily enough. It was a tiny box on a narrow stamp of lawn. But it had been painted a cheerful yellow with bright white trim. A colorful patch of flowers bloomed vigorously along either side of the door.
Even if Malory hadn't been sure of the address, hadn't recognized Zoe's car parked at the curb, she'd have known the house by the boy in the yard, tossing a ball high in the air, then racing to catch it.
He looked almost eerily like his mother. The dark hair, the long-lidded eyes in a pixie face. He had a slight build clad in ripped jeans and a Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt.
When he spotted Malory, he stood, legs apart, flipping the ball lightly into the pocket of his glove.
He had the cautious and somewhat arrogant stance of a boy who'd had "don't talk to strangers" drummed into his head, and thought he was old enough, smart enough, to handle himself with one anyway.
"You must be Simon. I'm Malory Price, a friend of your mother's." She kept a smile on her face as the boy sized her up—and she wished she knew more about baseball than that it involved a number of men throwing, hitting, and trying to catch a ball and running around a field.
"She's in the house. I can get her." His way of doing so was to trot toward the door and shout, "Mom! There's a lady out here to see you!"
Moments later, Zoe opened the screen door, stood there wiping her hands on a dish towel. Somehow, despite the baggy shorts, old shirt, and bare feet, she still managed to look exotic.
"Oh. Malory." She lifted a hand to fiddle with one of the buttons of her shirt. "I wasn't expecting…"
"If this is a bad time—" "No, no, of course not. Simon, this is Miss Price. One of the ladies I'm going to be working with for a while."
"Okay. Hi. Can I go over to Scott's now? I finished mowing the lawn."
"Looks great. Do you want a snack first?"
"Nuh-uh." At her arch look, he grinned, showing a missing tooth and sudden, dazzling charm. "I mean, no thanks."
"Go ahead, then. Have a good time."
"Yes!" He started to race off, then skidded to a halt when she spoke his name in a tone that Malory assumed mothers developed through hormonal changes during gestation.
He rolled his eyes, but made sure his back was to Zoe as he did. Then he gave Malory a quick and easy smile. "Nice to meet you, and all."
"Nice to meet you, and all too, Simon."
He dashed off, like an inmate escaping the prison walls.
"He's gorgeous."
At Malory's statement, Zoe's face lit up with pride and pleasure. "He really is, isn't he? Sometimes I'll sneak to the window while he's out in the yard and just look at him. He's my whole world."
"I could see that. And now you're worried that what we've done could hurt him somehow."
"Worrying about Simon is part of my job description. Listen, I'm sorry, come in. I used to spend Saturdays at the salon, so I thought I'd take advantage of having this one off and dig in around here."
"You've got a pretty house." She stepped inside the door, looked around. "A very pretty house."
"Thanks." Zoe looked around as well, grateful that she'd finished buffing up the living room. The pillows were plumped on the bright and cheery blue slipcovers of the sofa, and the old coffee table she'd antiqued was free of dust and held a trio of bottles filled with late-summer daisies snipped from her own little flower bed. The rug her grandmother had hooked when Zoe herself was a child was freshly vacuumed.
"These are great." Malory wandered over to look at the framed prints of foreign locales grouped on a wall.
"They're just postcards I matted and framed. I always ask customers to pick me up a postcard when they go on a trip."
"They're really clever, and fun."
"I like to, you know, put things together. Find stuff at yard sales or flea markets and haul it home, fix it up. It makes it yours that way, plus it doesn't cost a lot of money. Ah, would you like something to drink?"
"I would, if I'm not holding you up."
"No. I don't think I've had a Saturday off in…" She skimmed her fingers through her hair. "Ever," She decided. "It's nice to be home, and to have company."
Malory had a feeling that she was about to be invited to sit down while Zoe went back to the kitchen. To avoid that, she walked over and angled herself toward the doorway. "Did you plant the flowers yourself?"
"Simon and I did." With no choice, Zoe led the way into the kitchen. "I don't have any soft drinks. Sorry, but I can't keep them around with Simon. I've got some lemonade."
"That's great."
She'd obviously caught Zoe in the midst of a major kitchen cleaning, but still the room exuded the same casual charm as the living area.
"I love this." She trailed a finger over the mint-green paint of a cupboard. "It really shows what someone can do with imagination, taste, and time."
"Wow." Zoe took a squat glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. "That's quite a compliment coming from somebody like you. I mean, somebody who knows art. I wanted to have pretty things but still make a place where Simon could run around like a boy. And it's just the right size for us. I don't care about the million dollars."
She set her company glasses on the counter, shook her head. "Boy, does that sound stupid. Of course I care about the million dollars. What I mean is I don't need a million. I just want enough so we're secure. I only got into this because it seemed so interesting, and because the twenty-five thousand was like a miracle."
"And because that night, up at Warrior's Peak, was so compelling, so dramatic? Like we were all the stars of our own movie."
"Yes." Zoe let out a laugh as she poured. "I got caught up in the idea of it all, but I never considered, not for a minute, that we'd be taking any kind of risk."
"I don't know that we are. I'm not going to worry about that until we know more. But I don't have a child to consider. I wanted to come by and say that if you want to back out, I understand."
"I've been thinking about it. One of the advantages of serious cleaning is it's good thinking time. Do you want to take these out in the back? I've got some chairs out there. It's kind of a nice spot."
They walked out, and it was a nice spot—that tidy little yard, the two Adirondack chairs painted the same sunny yellow as the house, and a big, shady maple tree.
Once they were seated, Zoe took a deep breath. "If Pitte and Rowena are some kind of lunatics who've targeted us for some reason, there's no backing out. It won't matter. And if they are, doing whatever we can to find the keys makes the most sense. If they're not, then we should keep our word."