Authors: Kate Aster
SEAL the Deal
SEAL the Deal
By Kate Aster
Copyright 2012, Kate Aster
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not
to be interpreted as real. Any similarity to real events, locales, or people,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
To Mark, my husband, my inspiration, my hero.
And to Chuck, U.S. Navy Captain and editor extraordinaire.
Come home safely, my friend.
Suburban Chicago
Eighteen years ago
She really
had
thought they were
fixed.
Lacey stared down at Taffy and Buster’s
progeny, seven adorable bundles of fur, as they explored the inside of a crate
beneath her homemade “Rabbits For Sale” sign.
Clearly she had been wrong.
With a defeated sigh, she watched people
bustle in and out of booths at the weekly Farmers’ Market. They held in their
hands a tomato here, a head of lettuce there, as though each locally grown
fruit or vegetable was a treasured prize. At just twelve, Lacey couldn’t quite
appreciate the difference between the produce here and the massive shipments
trucked into the grocery store every day. But it was a fun atmosphere, with the
regulars chatting among themselves and crowds of preschoolers eagerly awaiting
one-dollar pony rides.
The Farmers’ Market was only a short walk
from home, but her parents had never taken her or her sister here. Lacey
couldn’t imagine them waiting till a particular day of the week to buy fresh
produce. They would certainly never spare the extra hour or two to wander
aimlessly from booth to booth, squeezing peaches and tapping melons. Time was
money, after all, Lacey reminded herself as she glanced at her watch.
The morning was passing without a single
sale. Lacey had started the day with confidence, ambitiously writing “$10 each”
in thick marker on her poster. By mid-morning, she had replaced it with a more
modest “$5.” Now she resorted to flipping the poster over and starting fresh:
“FREE to Good Home.”
As the minutes ticked away, she began
imagining the looks of reproach in her parents’ eyes if she returned home
unsuccessful, recalling her recent Girl Scout Cookie sales effort that hadn’t
met the Owens’ high standard for success.
Even worse, what would become of the
bunnies?
Lacey shielded her eyes from the sun to
see if there were any interested prospects in her midst. A familiar shape was
approaching, dark against the glare of the sun. But her sister’s stride was
easy to recognize. Also just twelve, Vi walked as though she should be pounding
the pavement of Wall Street rather than marching through a suburban Farmers’
Market carrying a bright pink piece of poster board.
Standing above her now, Vi glanced down at
the crate, quickly counting heads. “No luck yet.”
It was more of a statement than a
question, but Lacey answered anyway. “No.”
Vi looked sharply at Lacey, as though she was
staring down an unruly bunch of stockholders at an annual meeting. “Okay. Here’s
the deal. If I sell every one of these rabbits by the end of the day, I get a
50% cut.”
“50%? But I feed them out of my own
money.”
“You’re not going to get anything if you
keep doing things your way. Besides, you might be surprised what I can sell
them for.”
Lacey eyed the pink poster board that Vi
held protectively to her chest. “Okay. Deal.”
With great resolve, Vi ripped Lacey’s
poster off the stake and taped up her own.
Lacey’s jaw dropped when she read it:
“Rabbits for Sale: $20 each. Perfect for
Sunday Dinner!”
“That’s horrible, Vi! I don’t want people
to EAT them,” Lacey gasped.
“These are the suburbs, Lacey. No one’s
going to skin a rabbit out here.” Vi then leaned over, lowering her voice. “But
every little kid who reads this sign isn’t going to let Mommy or Daddy let
these cute animals be stewed up. Parents will have to buy them just to stop the
crying.”
“That’s wrong, Vi. We can’t do that.”
“Who says? It’s not a lie. People do eat
rabbit, you know.”
As always, Vi’s logic sent Lacey’s head
spinning. Or maybe it was the heat. “Well…”
“Besides, Mom will make you get rid of these
little guys one way or another.” Vi did a slashing movement with her finger at
her throat for added emphasis.
Lacey’s eyes widened.
Vi knew she had won. She turned
triumphantly toward the crowd. “Rabbits for sale! Rabbits for sale! The
sweetest meat you’ll ever eat!”
Heads whipped around.
“Rabbits for sale! The sweetest meat
you’ll ever eat!” Vi’s chant was as effective as the best advertising jingle
that ever came off Madison Avenue.
A stampede of children dragging their
parents was followed by high-pitched squeals.
“You’re not really going to eat them, are
you?” one whined.
“But they’re so cute,” another chimed in.
Tears rained a downpour.
“I don’t want anyone to eat this one. I
would name him Charley.”
Helpless parents reluctantly pulled out
their wallets.
Less than an hour later, Lacey handed over
the last rabbit to a freckle-cheeked boy, while Vi smoothly accepted a stack of
bills from the father, swift to point out that he was one dollar short.
When the boy and his father were out of
earshot, Vi yanked the sign out of the ground, saying under her breath, “Let’s
split up the money at home. We don’t want to look too mercenary.”
As Lacey watched her adopted sister load their
belongings into their red wagon, she was reminded yet again of the undeniable
difference between the two of them. Lacey, the only biological daughter of the
successful Gerald and Hilary Owens, did not have nearly the business sense or
ambition of either of her parents.
Yet with irony, her adopted sister
resembled them in every way possible.
Despite the day’s windfall of cash, Lacey
felt strangely inadequate as she lifted the empty crate into the wagon. She was
uncomfortable with this new feeling she had as she looked at Vi.
She felt envy.
Today
Annapolis, Maryland
Not another open casket.
Stepping through an arched doorway and into
a sea of gray hair and solemn faces, Lacey quietly groaned at the sight of Dr.
Donald Baker at the other end of the room. Through the hushed crowd, she waded toward
the casket that rested in front of a stunning wall of floor-to-ceiling windows
overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. The well-appointed funeral home was easily the most
expensive place to mourn on the Eastern Seaboard.
Death, Lacey had discovered recently, came
with a hefty price tag.
Holding her breath apprehensively, she
gazed down at Dr. Baker as he lay in an impressive mahogany casket. He looked
just like the photo that had caught her eye in the obituary section of the
newspaper three days ago. Even stone cold, his face had a kindness that brought
tears to her eyes. Absurd, of course, since she didn’t even know the man.
After so many funerals, she should be
callous to this part of her job.
With a little digging online, Lacey had
learned that the late Dr. Baker owned a chunk of waterfront property crowned with
a stately Colonial. For a real estate agent just starting out, selling a
listing like that would upgrade her life from ramen noodles to Chinese take-out
for at least a year.
She bolstered her determination, recalling
the image of Vi gracing the cover of
BusinessWeek
. Lacey doubted she’d
ever climb to such lofty heights of success as her adopted sister, but it would
be nice to have something to boast about.
Besides, she had rent to pay. So she dabbed
her tear-moistened eyes and scanned the room.
Lacey had memorized the face of Dr.
Baker’s widow from a photograph online. Spotting her immediately, she felt a
small surge of excitement.
Too easy.
She might even get out in time for the
next funeral on her schedule.
Taking no more than three brisk strides
toward the widow, she slammed into something as unyielding as a six-foot-three
slab of concrete. Two jarring steps backward and she slipped, suddenly seeing
nothing but a blur of vertical motion.
It was an out-of-body experience, as
though she could actually see her own mortified expression as her head made its
rapid descent toward the floor. She vaguely heard a few foul words strung
together, which was likely her own voice cursing her friend Maeve for
convincing her to wear stiletto heels to a funeral.
Completely inappropriate—both the
stilettos and the curse.
In a flash, she saw her life rush past
her, an unimpressive sequence of failed careers and failed relationships. She
could see her parents and sister standing over her casket, shaking their heads
and muttering, “You just couldn’t get it together, could you, Lacey?” Then her
head smacked against the marble slab floor, the impact thankfully softened by
the updo in her hair.
Opening her eyes, she thought she must be
looking at the face of God, or maybe St. Peter ready to usher her through the
pearly gates. Whoever he was, the man hovering over her was sex in a suit.
“Are you all right?” the Vision said.
Lacey just stared. His image was decadent—piercing
blue eyes, classically chiseled features, and skin that begged to be touched. His
short, military-style haircut seemed to accentuate his broad shoulders subtly
bulging with muscles beneath his tailored suit.
Mercy.
Definitely not God, or she wouldn’t feel
this surge of desire burning just below her stomach. At least she hoped not.
“Wow,” she said in quiet admiration.
“You fell and hit your head. Do you
remember where you are?”
A flurry of other heads, mostly topped
with silver hair or half bald, invaded her vision.
“Yes, I’m at the funeral of…” Donald,
was it? Or was that last week’s corpse?
“Donald Baker.” The man kneeling beside
her said and called out over his shoulder with fierce authority, “I need some
ice right now. And this woman needs an ambulance. Call 911.”