Fists clenched against an enemy she couldn't see, she rose, turned away from the desk. She'd needed time, damn it. She'd needed time to try to understand, or at least learn to live with it.
Now the tears came, hot and helpless. Because she knew, in her heart, that she wished her mother had died before she'd told her. And she hated herself for it.
After the tears drained out of her, she knew she had to sleep. Mechanically she climbed the stairs, washed her hot cheeks with cool water, and lay, fully clothed, on the bed.
She'd have to sell the house, she thought. And the f
urniture. There were papers to go through.
She hadn't told her mother she loved her.
With that weighing on her heart, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Afternoon naps always left Shannon groggy. She took them only when ill, and she was rarely ill. The house was quiet when she climbed out of bed again. A glance at the clock told her she'd slept less than an hour, but she was stiff and muddled despite the brevity.
She would make coffee, she told herself, and then she would sit down and plan how best to handle all of her mother's things, and the house she'd loved.
The doorbell rang before she'd reached the base of the stairs. She could only pray it wasn't some wellmeaning neighbor come to offer help or company. She wanted neither at the moment.
But it was a stranger at the door. The man was of medium height, with a slight pouch showing under his dark suit. His hair was graying, his eyes sharp. She had an odd and uncomfortable sensation when those eyes stayed focused on her face.
"I'm looking for Amanda Dougherty Bodine."
"This is the Bodine residence," Shannon returned, trying to peg him. Salesman? She didn't think so. "I'm her daughter. What is it you want?"
Nothing changed on his face, but Shannon sensed his attention sharpening. "A few minutes of Mrs. Bodine's time, if it's convenient. I'm John Hobbs."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hobbs, it's not convenient. I buried my mother this morning, so if you'll excuse me-"
"I'm sorry." His hand went to the door, holding it open when Shannon would have closed it. "I've just arrived in town from New York. I hadn't heard about your
mother's death." Hobbs had to rethink and regroup quickly. He'd gotten too close to simply walk away now. "Are you Shannon Bodine?"
"That's right. Just what do you want, Mr. Hobbs?"
"Your time," he said pleasantly enough, "when it's more convenient for you. I'd like to make an appointment to meet with you in a few days."
Shannon pushed back the hair tumbled from her nap. "I'll be going back to New York in a few days."
"I'll be happy to meet with you there."
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to shake off the disorientation from her nap. "Did my mother know you, Mr. Hobbs?"
"No, she didn't, Ms. Bodine."
"Then I don't think we have anything to discuss. Now please, excuse me."
"I have information which I have been authorized, by my clients, to discuss with Mrs. Amanda Dougherty Bodine." Hobbs simply kept his hand on the door, taking Shannon's measure as he held it open.
"Clients?" Despite herself, Shannon was intrigued. "Does this concern my father?"
Hobbs's hesitation was brief, but she caught it. And her heart began to drum. "It concerns your family, yes. If we could make an appointment to meet, I'll inform my clients of Mrs. Bodine's death."
"Who are your clients, Mr. Hobbs? No, don't tell me it's confidential," she snapped. "You come to my door on the day of my mother's funeral looking for her to discuss something that concerns my family. I'm my only family now, Mr. Hobbs, so your information obviously concerns me. Who are your clients?"
"I need to make a phone call-from my car. Would you mind waiting a few moments?"
"All right," she agreed, more on impulse than with a sense of patience. "I'll wait."
But she closed the door when he walked toward the dark sedan at the curb. She had a feeling she was going to need that coffee.
It didn't take him long. The bell rang again when she was taking her first sip. Carrying the mug with her, she went back to answer.
"Ms. Bodine, my client has authorized me to handle this matter at my own discretion." Reaching into his pocket, he took out a business card, offered it.
"Doubleday Investigations," she read. "New York." Shannon lifted a brow. "You're a long way from home, Mr, Hobbs."
"My business keeps me on the road quite a bit. This particular case has kept me there. I'd like to come in, Ms. Bodine. Or if you'd be more comfortable, I could meet you wherever you like."
She had an urge to close the door in his face. Not that she was afraid of him physically. The cowardice came from something deeper, and because she recognized it, she ignored it.
"Come in. I've just made coffee."
"I appreciate it." As was his habit, long ingrained, Hobbs scanned the house as he followed Shannon, took in the subtle wealth, the quiet good taste. Everything he'd learned about the Bodines in the last few months was reflected in the house. They were-had been-a nice, closely knit upper-income family without pretensions.
"This is a difficult time for you, Ms. Bodine," Hobbs began when he took the chair at the table Shannon gestured toward. "I hope I won't add to it."
"My mother died two days ago, Mr. Hobbs. I don't think you can make it more difficult than it already is. Cream, sugar?"
"Just black, thanks." He studied her as she prepared his coffee. Self-possessed, he mused. That would make his job easier. "Was your mother ill, Ms. Bodine?"