“Of course!” She stepped back and then shut the door behind him. The Bongo agent stomped the snow off his shoes and unwrapped the red scarf before shedding his jacket. “I’m sorry about this, Grace. I should’ve realized the weather would be a problem. Uh, I need to make some calls … and do you have a phone directory? I might need a tow truck to pull me out.” She nodded, found the Yellow Pages, and then took his leather jacket and red scarf into the kitchen to drip. His shoes and pant legs—they must be soaked too. Still in the kitchen, Grace braced herself against the kitchen counter and took several deep breaths. She’d prepared herself for their meeting, and it had gone well—but it was supposed to be over. She’d been looking forward to some quiet time to process what they’d talked about, make her decision about switching agents from Fowler to Newman—a no-brainer, really—and start thinking about the implications of taking a monthlong sabbatical. But now Jeff Newman was back in her house—stuck, he said.
