Saving Brielle

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Brielle

“I seriously do not have enough wine stocked up to deal with this right now,” I mutter under my breath as I wait for the seller’s realtor to come back on the line.

There has been a snag – again – with the closing schedule, and my buyers have officially moved past irritated into upset. When they called on my drive home, I had done my best to soothe their frazzled nerves, promising not to rest until this latest (and hopefully final) hurdle to home ownership was cleared.

Now I am sitting behind my desk in my home office instead of in my garden tub, where I long to be, because the seller’s agent has… misrepresented some things.

That’s putting it mildly, my sarcastic wit observes.

I have earned a stellar reputation as one of the best realtors in the state of Texas - and with good reason. I’ve spent the last twelve years making sure my clients are treated like family; I have chosen to focus on quality of service over quantity of closings, and as a result have not had to advertise in a long time. Every single client I have worked with in at least the past five years has been a referral from a previous one.

So, when I find myself tending to clients who become unduly stressed due to someone else’s negligence – or greed, or just stupidity, this one could really go several different ways – it angers me to my core.

“Ms. Cerver?” the young woman says, a tremor in her voice, and I instinctively know.

Not malicious, a rookie mistake.

“I’m so sorry… you’re absolutely right. I transposed a really important number.”

“And you’ll be correcting and resubmitting to the title company?”

“Yes, ma’am, it will be in their hands in the morning.”

“Thank you, Miss Carmichael. If you would be so kind as to also email me a copy of the correction for my clients, that would be most helpful.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll send it to you in the next few minutes.”

I gracefully disconnect the call and sigh.

An hour and three calls later, I sink gratefully into my garden tub at last with a glass of chilled Moscato in hand, willing away the remnants of another long day on my feet.

Stupid high heels… those things are straight from the devil… why couldn't I have chosen a career that allows for tennis shoes?

Down the hall I can hear my cell phone chirping, and I sigh again.

Gonna have to keep, I decide. It can wait thirty minutes, whatever it is.

I sip and soak until the water is lukewarm, then pull the plug and step out of the bath, feeling loose and sleepy. I towel off, wrap up in my favorite robe, and pad on bare feet back through the living room toward the kitchen to put together a light meal.

Four new voicemail notifications greet me when I glance at my phone, and I reluctantly pick it up to listen to them while I pull together ingredients for a chef salad.

The first three are benign. Clients who had called to say thank you or ask a question.

The fourth is anything but.

For several seconds there is only a rough and raspy breathing, followed by a growled three-word message that somehow manages to both anger me and chill me to my core.

Miss me yet?

I immediately check the call log, fighting back a shudder when I see it. All the numbers but one pop up on the display, and I can clearly see that each of those calls had been forwarded from my office across town to my cell phone.

The lone standout that reads ‘unavailable’ makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. My personal cell phone number is not publicly available. Only trusted friends have direct access to me that way. For my clients, routing calls through my office to my cell phone is my standard protocol. I have always tried to be very diligent about maintaining a buffer between personal and professional, even more so lately since a good friend and fellow realtor was assaulted in a vacant property a few years ago by an infatuated acquaintance.

So how the hell did someone get my number?

Although I really do not want to, I listen to the message again, eyes closed, straining to hear any familiarity in the deep, snarling tone.

Please God, not him. Please God, not him…

But try as I might, I cannot place the voice at all, and with relief I release the breath I did not even realize I'd been holding in.

“It’s a wrong number, or a prank call,” I mutter with conviction, and steeling my nerves, I delete the disturbing voicemail and return to preparing my salad.

That accomplished, I refill my wineglass, pick up my bowl of salad, and move to the couch to flip channels while I eat.

But in the back of my mind, I replay the mysterious caller’s message repeatedly.

"Stop it," I chide myself. "That message wasn't meant for you. It was a misdial. Let it go."

By the time I place my empty bowl and wineglass in the dishwasher and head for bed, I have managed to convince myself that it was a fluke.