The morning was cold and crisp. A light snow had fallen during the night. Fresh prints left by my tennis shoes along the sidewalk dispelled any secrecy I might have hoped for surrounding my mission. I watched for Brad’s cruiser, sure he would show up to try to baffle my plans.

But I made it to David’s back door without any interference. I paused to rehearse my lines, then lifted my hand and knocked.

I fidgeted while I waited, jumping up and down to stay warm. No answering sounds met my ears. I sighed and rolled my eyes. David’s house was such a tomb. My knocking probably hadn’t made it past the mudroom door.

I looked toward the garage. I couldn’t tell from all the tire tracks if David was home or out. The path of footprints worn from the porch to the garage and back was as unrevealing.

I knocked again. Still no answer.

Should I go home and try back later?

Nah. I was his bride-to-be, for heaven’s sake. If he could propose marriage, I guess we knew each other well enough for me to walk in and see if he was home.

I turned the handle and entered. I slipped my shoes off next to a pair of boots on the rug. A pair of women’s boots. A pair of size 7 black leather women’s boots with fur lining and a designer label.

Oh. Okay.

Hmm.

I squeezed my eyes shut, determined not to cry. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to barge in and accept David’s marriage proposal. But it was certainly a good time to meet the competition. And maybe slap David for getting my hopes up at all. Or at least bawl him out for toying with my heart, when all along he was two-timing me. That put him and Brad on equal footing. Both were detestable when it came to women and honor.

I headed around the corner and into the dining room. There were no occupants, but my eyes glommed onto the computer, perched like a blue-eyed Cyclops atop the massive armoire. The printer spewed paper piece by piece into a tidy pile.

I walked to it and turned the top page over.

Mortgage document of some kind. I’d seen a million of them. I picked up the pile and flipped through. Great interest rate. No prepayment penalty and no balloon.

Wow. I’d have loved terms like that on my place.

Sugar Cane International Bank. Never heard of it. The address showed someplace in the Virgin Islands.

I looked back at page one. The documents were assigned to Tammy Johnson of 675 Maple Street, Rawlings, Michigan. My hair stylist. The papers refinanced her home for almost two hundred thousand dollars. I had a hard time believing anything on Maple Street went for that amount.

More paper came through on the printer. I peeked at the appraisal that followed, which backed up the re-fi price. I skimmed the comparable homes used for the final determination of value. One of them was my Victorian. But the sales price shown on the appraisal was almost double the amount I’d actually paid.

Somebody was scamming somebody.

I looked at the computer screen. Squares blinked sequentially in a center rectangle. Printing . . . , said the text.

I wished I knew something about computers.

My heart sounded like cannons in my ears. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty room. Future fiancée or not, I was stepping into dangerous snooping territory. I already didn’t like what I’d found. Looking further might only cement the situation.

A manila folder lay on the desk. I angled it to read the label. IMM, it said in sloppy ballpoint pen. I flipped it open with shaking hands.

The top page was on U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services letterhead, complete with the crest of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. I scanned the contents, forgetting to breathe.

. . . Divorce Decree dated October 15 . . .

Deportation? No wonder David had only given me a week to think about marriage. Maybe I had an ulterior motive for hooking up with him. But his ulterior motive for hooking up with me bordered on usury.

The floor squeaked behind me. I let out a scream of surprise and twirled to face David and Tammy, standing in the archway to the parlor.

Tammy had been crying again. Tears of black mascara trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away as I watched.

I waited for David to yell at me for snooping, but he only smiled and walked toward me. He gently plucked the manila folder from my hands and set it back on the desk.

“Good morning,” he said and kissed my cheek.

Tammy watched the exchange without a twinge or a blink. Maybe I had the whole two-timing thing wrong.

She was first to break the silence.

“David is looking over some paperwork for me. I hope we didn’t startle you.”

“Well, gosh,” I said, putting a hand over my chest, “I guess getting caught with one hand in the cookie jar did shake me up a little.”

David closed the doors on the armoire. “How about a cup of coffee?” He led the way to the kitchen.

Tammy and I got stuck at the door, undecided as to which of us should go through first. I hung back and let her go ahead, more like a hostess than a guest, I figured. I wasn’t yet ready to give up my claim on David.

David dug around through the cupboards looking for the coffee paraphernalia. I got frustrated watching him, so I jumped in to help him track down the supplies and properly load the machine.

I grabbed the filters from him and set to work. Within minutes, we were sipping delicious hot coffee from expensive pottery.

I asked David the question that hung in the air. “So, what paperwork are you looking over?”

He took a slow swallow of coffee.

Tammy rushed to fill in the silence. “I’m getting a home loan to tide me over.”

“Tide you over until when?” I asked. “What’s going to change that’ll make being over-mortgaged a good thing?” Surely she knew the dangers of being upside down in a home loan.

Her jaw clenched. “I’m discussing my options with David, thank you.”

“I don’t know who did that appraisal, but the numbers are all wrong. They show that my house sold for twice as much as it actually did. That’s a pretty big error. And while it pushes up the value on your place, I can’t see you ever catching up if you go to sell one day. I don’t care what kind of rates Sugar Cane offers you, it’s still a bad move.”

Total silence met my sound advice.

“How long were you here, Tish?” David asked. “I didn’t hear you knock.”

I looked at the floor. “A little too long, I guess.” I caught Tammy’s eye. “I just hate to see you get stuck in a panic that you can’t get out of.”

“Thanks for the advice.” She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter.

“Okay. I’ve got to go.” I set down my mug and charged toward the mudroom.

David followed me and watched me tie my shoes. He could probably tell from my mood that this was no time to spew excuses all over me. I jerked my laces tight. I could almost hear the list—“I was going to tell you about my job . . . I always meant to go to citizenship class . . . I hope you don’t think I’d only marry you to stay in the states . . .” Blah, blah, blah.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw David shifting his feet.

“Was there something you came here to tell me?” His voice sounded hopeful. Maybe there really was more to his proposal than just an easy way to remain in the country.

I met his eyes. “No. I just came over to say hi.”

Chicken. I’d botched the perfect opportunity to confront him about my suspicions. He could have explained that he loved me deeply and planned to ask my hand in marriage very soon anyway. The letter from Immigration merely made it a more urgent matter than he’d intended.

We stared at each other for a minute. Then I dove out the back door.

I steamed home, dwelling on my cruel turn of fate. Getting married to stay in the country. I guess David wasn’t the first person to have to do it. Still, I’d hoped for something more romantic to launch my new life with him.

I just couldn’t see lining up the kids one day and hearing David explain to them in his sexy English accent, “I love your mother’s beautiful eyes, soft lips, and keen wit, but what I really love is . . . America.”

I kicked a twisting path through the snow. The second I walked in my front door, I dialed Lloyd’s number, just in case I didn’t already have a big enough headache.

He didn’t answer. The connection flipped to his voicemail.

“Hi, this is Lloyd . . .”

I started talking at the beep. “Hi. Tish Amble here. Don’t know if you heard about Martin Dietz, but I’m going to make another try at getting my cistern removal approved. Still available in January? I hope so. I’m pretty sure I can get this thing through. Call me.”

It occurred to me while out kicking snow that there was now a vacant seat on the Historical Committee, a seat I intended to fill. And the first thing I’d change would be the rule that prevented my cistern from coming down.

I might have to leave the house and meet some people. But it would all be worthwhile. The cistern would be gone, my basement would be finished. And I’d be kissing Rawlings goodbye through the rearview mirror, with proceeds from a full sale price weighing down my trunk.

Of course, the whole plan depended on somebody other than me sitting in jail come January.

35

No sense wasting time. I walked down to the village office and requested the necessary forms to run for the latest vacancy on the Historical Committee.