One Wish (Thunder Point #7)(69)

“Oh, Grace,” Ray Anne said, hand to her heart.

“We’re doing as well as we can with the diagnosis,” she said, making it sound almost as if she’d known as long as her mother had. “Now, when I’d like her nearby, when she’s getting worse, I want a house for her. A one-level house. A beautiful flat house. She’s certainly not up to looking at houses, but everyone knows you’re the best there is. Fortunately, my father took care of my mother—he passed a long time ago. That San Francisco house will bring a nice price and she has a healthy pension. She can afford to spend her last months in comfort.”

“Almost anything in San Francisco can fetch a good price. Do you know what kind of house you’re looking for besides one level?”

She shook her head. “I don’t. It has to be ready. We don’t have weeks or months to decorate. Even though my mother isn’t getting around much, it should be spacious.”

“And will you be staying with her?”

“I’m sure I’ll be spending my share of nights there, but let’s think of her. I want her to have something to look at—”

“Oceanfront?”

“That would be wonderful, but anything that doesn’t feel like a hospital room. She has ALS. The symptoms are coming faster now. I think she’ll be bedridden in a few months.”

“And your price range?”

“I don’t have one. I don’t know how much my mother has socked away, but there’s plenty. She has old family money and, Ray Anne, I don’t want any of it. I want her nearby or else I’ll have to close the shop and go to San Francisco until...” She cleared her throat. “If you find something wonderful, I’ll look at it and if it’s perfect, I’ll find a way. My mother has always lived well.”

“I assume you want to rent?”

“I’m flexible,” Grace said. “If there’s nothing stunning for rent but there’s a listing that’s perfect, I can always sell it...” She looked down. “Later,” she finally said.

Ray Anne reached out and touched her arm. “There are some nice properties around. Have you looked online?”

“I haven’t. But I could—”

“Don’t worry about it. Write your email address on the back of this card,” she said, helping herself to one of Grace’s flower shop business cards and flipping it over. “I’ll get right to work on this. I can see why you’re in a hurry. I’ll send you some links.”

“Is this possible, Ray Anne?” Grace asked. “Because I have to convince my mother that this is a better idea than me moving to San Francisco for a year.”

“If it’s possible, darling, I can do it. It’ll give me a chance to show Ginger a few things about real estate and hunting property in case... Well, my darling girl is with me for at least a few weeks, maybe longer, and we’re visiting local businesses to see if anyone needs help. Ginger wants to work while she’s here.”

“Are you serious? What kind of work?” Grace asked.

Ginger flushed and looked down. “My experience is mostly in retail. I worked in women’s clothing, housewares, a little bit in an office. I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Did you work in decorating at all, while you worked in housewares?”

“I wouldn’t call it decorating, no. But I did things like bridal registries.”

“I’m desperate for help. Especially now, with my mother and all. Do you have any interest in flower design? This is a small boutique, but it’s busy. Not crowded, but busy. There are a lot of phone orders and arrangements to design. I spend a lot of time in the workroom, putting them together. Most of them are not originals but created from pictures I have and they’re pretty easy to learn. I try new things from time to time.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I could try.”

“Would you like to spend a morning with me? Just to see how it feels? It’s very messy work.”

“Could I? The idea of a small shop appeals to me a lot more than a restaurant or—” she glanced at Ray Anne “—real estate.”

“It’s okay, babe,” Ray Anne said. “Not everyone is cut out for my job, even though they think they are.”

“Can you come tomorrow morning? Early? Eight o’clock?”

“I can do that,” she said.

“Wonderful! Ray Anne, thank you. Send me pictures, please.”

Sixteen

Mikhail Petrov’s flight arrived promptly at three in the afternoon and he walked into the baggage-claim area with a duffel over his shoulder. He was sixty-six and his face was whiskery and lined with age, but his hair was reddish brown. Bad color, Grace thought. He’d had bad hair color for so many years. But for a man his age, he was fit and strong. Small but built like an ox with his big shoulders and short legs. She held up her tablet upon which she had typed, in very large letters, PETROV. He didn’t smile, but she did. He was accustomed to limos or at least town car service. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t recognize the best figure skater he’d ever coached.

“I see,” he said. “You think you’re funny.”

“I do,” she said, grinning. “Do you have luggage?”