“Well, I told your wife here that I’d be thrilled to get this baby on the market.” She leaned in. “I’m not surprised you’re not going with Victor Benson.” She motioned with her head in the direction of the neighbor’s house. “I hear he’s a little…” She took a fake drink with her hand.

“Oh,” said Marla. “Is that so?” She waved her fingers in an effort to herd Abigail along.

Like parents waiting for children to clear the room before arguing, Ben and Marla were quiet until Abigail was out of earshot.

“How could you?” snapped Marla, her voice still low. “You’re such a coward, Benjamin Archer. Sending a real estate agent… and not even our neighbor, for God’s sake.”

“I didn’t think she’d actually come down here,” said Ben. “I was away from my desk. I’m sorry, Marla. Victor Benson did say the value of the house has skyrocketed due to your green thumb.”

“Did he?” Marla put her hands in the pockets of her white jeans. “It was all for the homes tour.”

How could Ben have forgotten? There had been hundreds of people traipsing through this house for the Summer Festival that had ended nearly two weeks earlier. Thanks to Marla, their house—and now their garden—was always included on the tour. She was also the official photographer of the festival, although most of those bookings still weren’t paying. “Might be a good time to sell, then.”

“We’ve been over this before. I’m not selling.” She put her hands over her face in exasperation and walked down the hall. While he didn’t feel he should notice such things anymore, he did think she looked great, refreshed even. He sank a little when he realized that it was probably because she was rid of him. She had on jeans with a flowing pink top. As she shuffled to the kitchen, the sound of her bare feet whooshed against the floorboards, her long, chestnut-colored ponytail bobbing behind her. “You aren’t coming in if you’re just here to talk about selling. This house belongs to me.”

Technically the house belonged to them—both Ben and Marla—but he wasn’t going to push it. Before them, it had belonged to her mother and had been in her family for years. Marla had been working as a photographer in Los Angeles when her mother had gotten sick. She’d moved home to care for the woman until she’d died, then found herself living in a dilapidated eight-room house.