Eyes Only by Fern Michaels

heard the cell phone on the table, where she’d left it, ring. She walked over, but before she could answer it, the call went to voice mail. She waited, then clicked it on. Maggie! Well, damn! She listened to the message five times before she flopped down on a worn sofa that came with the rented flat. The ad in the paper had said elegant furnished flat. It was so far from elegant, she wanted to cry all over again.
    Isabelle walked over to the tiny foyer, where her five bags were waiting to be taken down to her rental car for her trip home. Going home with her tail between her legs. How humiliating. As she stared at her bags, she wondered if her husband, Abner, would ever forgive her. Would the girls forgive her? She rather thought she would fare better with the girls than with her husband. She wondered if she was capable of begging her husband to take her back. She winced at the thought. Better to think about the message Maggie had left for her. She headed back to the living room to call Maggie.
    A needle in a haystack. Didn’t Maggie know how big the English countryside was? How was she going to find an American who bought a cottage four years ago in the English countryside? How? Maybe . . . She had made some contacts while she’d been here, like . . . Arnold Biberman. One of the biggest Realtors in London. She’d even had dinner with him, because he’d wanted to pick her brain on the new age city and to see if he could get an exclusive rental agreement. Now that the entire project was down the drain, she wondered if he would even talk to her. She hadn’t exactly given a promise, but she had alluded to the fact that she would do her best to help him out because she liked him. Well, it was worth a try. If she struck pay dirt by some wild stretch of the imagination, she wouldn’t be going back home empty-handed.
    Isabelle scrolled through her contact list and pressed in the digits for Biberman’s number. She was surprised when he answered the phone himself. She identified herself, said why she was calling.
    â€œIt’s kind of urgent, Arnold. I’m leaving for the States tomorrow. By the way, this flat will be available for rental at noon tomorrow. I’ve cleaned it up, and it looks better than the day I moved in. So, can you help me or not?” She listened. “That’s fine, Arnold. I’m not leaving till tomorrow. Like you said, it might be easier than we think, since not that many Americans buy cottages in the English countryside. Call me when and if you find something.” She listened again and then said, “Of course I’ll miss all of you. I won’t miss your weather, though.” She forced a laugh she didn’t feel and broke the connection.
    Back in the foyer, Isabelle rummaged in one of her bags for her laptop, yanked it out, and carried it over to the small table in the living room. She booted it up and typed in the name Greg Albright. Two hours later, she closed up the laptop and walked out to the mini kitchen to make a pot of coffee that she didn’t really want or even need. She almost dropped the wire basket when her cell phone buzzed to life.
    â€œYou actually found the needle in the haystack?” Isabelle said in wonder. “Amazing. And you have a phone number! Glory be! Of course I want it. And directions to the cottage. Arnold, you never cease to amaze me. The next time I find myself on your shores, I will spring for the biggest dinner you have ever had in your life. Seriously, thank you.”
    â€œAh!” Did she dare call Greg Albright, or should she head out to the cottage? Even with the bad weather, it shouldn’t take her more than an hour each way. She didn’t have anything else to do to while away the hours until the crack of dawn, when she would leave for the airport. She ran to her bags and rummaged again for her rain gear. Five minutes later, she was out of the flat and down at the parking area, map in hand.