Lizabeth moved up to his side. "Excuse me. If you step aside, I'll unlock the doors."

She used her best customer service voice which usually calmed people down. Doug came to stand at the man's other side. The stranger mumbled something under his breath but stepped away so she could get the key in and unlock the door. Lizabeth pushed it open. The man brushed past her, hitting her arm in the process just as she barely cracked it open.

Doug came up to get the door and let her walk inside, and she stopped to turn on the bank of overhead lights before passing through the little counter door and taking her place. The man was at the business station; he looked impatient.

"You're late!" he yelled as soon as she approached. "This is a poorly-run government office if you are returning at," he looked at his cell phone, "1:09 when the office is supposed to be open at one o'clock."

"I left a sign on the door, didn't you see it?" she asked. "I left late for lunch."

"Then you should have taken a shorter lunch and returned on time!" the man retorted.

"I probably returned to unlock the door at 1:05, so I was only five minutes late; what's your hurry?" she replied, feeling rattled.

"I need to do a title search on some property," he said, leaning across the counter. Lizabeth supposed the move was meant to be intimidating. It would have been, had she stayed still to argue with him. But he needed the proprietary computer terminal, so she turned and walked back to the counter door.

"This way, you need the property terminal." Her hand paused on the little waist-high door because Doug was on the lone public county computer. He probably wasn't using it for property searches, but she wasn't going to say so in front of this belligerent stranger. Lizabeth flipped open the door, stepped through, and closed it.

The man watched her before coming to meet her at the end of the counter. He wore a dark suit that accentuated his tall, slim form. His bearing was of a self-assured and confident man, and he towered over her. He left very little personal space between them now that she was out from behind her counter. "Where?" he asked.

"This way." She led him to where Doug was sitting. "This is a proprietary computer that has all the maps and other county documents on it relating to property."

"Is it the only one? Isn't it on the web?" he grumbled. She thought his voice sounded like a dog growling in warning, though she wasn't sure what he would be warning her about.

"It's our lone terminal. John Muir is a small county. You will have to share, and wait your turn until Doug, Mr. Morris, finishes his searches," she explained.

"You expect me to wait?" the man cried.

"Yes," Lizabeth answered. Doug looked up, obviously amused by the stranger and his less-than-friendly attitude. Most people in Merton were neighborly.

"How long?" asked the man. "How long?" he repeated when she didn't answer within three seconds.

There had never been a rush or a line for anyone wishing to use the computer in the seven months she had been at her job. She could consult the binder that Mimi had created about procedures, but Lizabeth created a rule on the fly. "Thirty minutes. If someone is on the terminal, they have thirty minutes to complete their search if someone is waiting."

"I suppose it helps that he knows you. He's probably sleeping with you, so you let him get on the computer before me," accused the man, crossing his arms over his chest. He had the dark and distant self-confidence of a businessman; he wasn't the approachable jokester of a realtor like Doug.

"What!" Lizabeth cried, staring at him in shock. She thought her mouth hung open as her eyes went from wide-open to narrow.

"You're obviously familiar with him if you know him by his first name, just saying," said the man, pointing to Doug. He realized that Doug Morris was looking at them and lowered his arm.

"What a horrible thing to assert!" she cried.

"Exactly!" said Doug. "How horrible of you to make assumptions about my sexuality based on my looks alone. I didn't know I had that woman-killer look! What will the fellas think?"

Her shock died as Doug's joke made her feel warm inside. He was trying to diffuse this offensive jerk with humor, and she appreciated his efforts. She knew he wasn't gay, as he was in the process of getting a divorce and had kids. (Another reason for not being able to afford an office.)

The belligerent man offered no apologies for his slander, but looked at his watch and indicated he would be back in twenty minutes. He said he figured Doug had been on the computer for at least ten and felt he was being generous at that.

"How rude!" Lizabeth cried as soon as the door had clicked shut.

"I wonder what he's searching for?" Doug asked. Lizabeth wondered aloud who he was. "Can't you create some sort of sign-in requirement, and ask him to give his name so we'll know who he is?" Doug pressed.

"No can do. I never give in to gossip at this job," she asserted, though part of her was tempted. She hoped the man would only do a short search and be gone quickly so she wouldn't have to suffer his presence for long that afternoon. Doug turned back and tapped away at the computer, and Lizabeth went to work.

The stranger returned in fifteen minutes and then stationed himself next to Doug to wait for his turn. Doug Morris dutifully turned the terminal over to the man, waved at Lizabeth, and left. She was processing the paperwork for Mrs. Philips and forgot about her visitor.

"Excuse me," the man called out. She didn't feel the desire to look up or help him, given his previous behavior. She continued typing in Lori Phillips' form—she was in the middle of something, he could wait twenty seconds, right? "Young lady! Excuse me!" His voice was loud, and no, he couldn't wait.

"Yes?"

"I'm not finding what I need," he said. He was sitting at the terminal and yelling at her to help.

What an asshole, she thought as she made her way through the maze that was her office. "What sort of search do you want to do?"

"I need to do a comprehensive property search and am only finding the parcel number," he explained, staring at the screen and not at her. Perhaps that was an improvement.

"You need to tell the system what types of maps you want to see," Lizabeth said, daring to come a little closer.

He had the comprehensive map open, and she was surprised that it wasn't a single house that he was looking at, but a massive piece of property on the outskirts of town. She moved even closer. "Mind if I drive?" He looked at her in confusion. "Use the mouse," she explained, daring to lean over. "Or do you want me just to tell you where to click?"

"Just tell me what to do," he grumbled.

"Open the layers, and click on each map and that should do it." Again, not in her best customer service voice. There was something about this man which rubbed her the wrong way.

"Layers? Where is that?" he asked, searching around the screen. Finally, he gave up and removed his hand from the mouse.

"Here," Lizabeth said as she put her hand over the mouse. "It's not intuitive. Click right here to open them; you click for the maps: subdivisions, assessments, surveys, and parcels, and then click on the property or parcel. The program will download the PDF files you need." She leaned a little away from him, not wanting to get too close. "We charge for each page printed, but you can put them on a thumb drive for free."

"I don't have a thumb drive on me," he frowned. "Just let me have the mouse back, and I'll get out of your hair as soon as possible. I'll figure out what I need. Looks like I may need to come back later as I will need electronic copies." He made a noise that sounded like a snort, but she was willing to allow it just to be a breath of frustration.

She got as far as her counter-door when he called out, "I don't suppose I can email the PDF files to myself?"

"No. No internet access is allowed on that computer," she said, shaking her head. Not that Doug doesn't use it for that, she thought.

"Damn," he said and turned back to the computer.

He didn't leave quickly but sat at the computer for almost two hours. Occasionally, Lizabeth heard him swearing, but she refused to look at him. His business was his business. If he needed help, he would ask. Otherwise, she went on with hers.

The dusty, old property books were in a special bookcase by the public terminal. She thought she would scan old maps and went out to retrieve the 1890s book, which was where she had last left off.

"I will need to come back since I need these files electronically," he told her. Lizabeth looked over at him with the gigantic folio in her arms; he was staring at her, still without a kind look on his face.

"Yes?" she asked, turning.

"You will be here on time on Monday to let me in?" he insisted. Maybe he was being nasty, and maybe he was merely being business-like.

"Doug is here every morning as well," she warned.

"Yes, but will you?" he pressed. Nasty then.

"It's my job to be here to open the doors. And I'll be here tomorrow bright and early at 8 a.m.," she said.

"I can't do tomorrow, so I will need to come back on Monday. I have to get back to LA."

"I'm here Monday through Friday, excluding public holidays," Lizabeth said, trying to sound chipper, but it was difficult with his unkind face and belligerent tone.

"Please ensure you are early on Monday," he retorted, standing suddenly, and walking out the front doors.

"What a rude man!" she told the door after it shut. With her huge map book in her arms, she went back to work.

Judge Metcalfe stuck his head out of his office at about 4:30 to say he was leaving early. His wife had errands for him to run in anticipation of the party on Saturday. Lizabeth waved him off. It was a wonder that he hadn't heard any of the exchanges with her asshole customer earlier. But Metcalfe had his little radio and police scanner in his office, and rarely stepped out.

Troy Metcalfe didn't help in the recording office unless specially asked to; Lizabeth had learned that early on. He liked to maintain a separation of duties. He was a judge; she was the county clerk and just there to record data. Not that he wasn't a friendly and sociable man. Not like the man who had just left, who had spent hours that afternoon frowning at the computer, and whose presence Lizabeth would now have to suffer again on Monday.

At five, she locked up and headed home. Her apartment still didn't feel lived-in yet. It was too sterile, though she was working on acquiring those sorts of items that decorated (or cluttered) a place and made it a home. It was a two-bedroom apartment. That had been at the insistence of her mother, as Mrs. Bennet initially believed that she would visit every weekend. But weekly well check-ups had been one activity which Lizabeth had been able to halt. Aunt Chrissie had backed her up, and they had come up with a compromise: Sunday dinners with the Gardiners. So long as Lizabeth spent her Sunday nights with her aunt and uncle, Dawn was satisfied that Lizabeth hadn't been abducted (or suffered some other atrocious fate), and Mrs. Bennet didn't insist on visiting every weekend.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennet purchased two queen-sized beds as a move-in gift. Oddly, Lizabeth preferred the smaller bedroom with its walk-in closet to the larger front bedroom, which merely looked down on the parking lot. She left the larger room for her parents whenever they visited. When they came to town, they didn't stay with Edward and Chrissie, claiming the Gardiner's house was too full (as if things had changed in half a year). The Gardiners had two sons. Her cousin Tyler was in college, and Scott was about to graduate from high school but never home.

She was working on developing a routine at home; should she play music, turn the TV on for background noise, bask in silence? Her mother had controlled so many minute aspects of her life that she had to consciously think about small choices. She was also learning to cook by using videos and the equivalent of a Dummy's guide to cooking. Dawn had never let her into the kitchen and insisted on always cooking for her 'baby girl.' Lizabeth realized what a disservice it had been, as she felt that she had not mastered boiling water and cracking eggs.

Her stir-fry rice ended up soupy, but she ate it anyway, put the items in the dishwasher, and attempted to find something on Netflix to watch, but her mind wandered back to her day. Poor Mrs. Philips and her daughter and being locked out of their bank account. And then that man, what was up with him and his LA attitude?

Maybe he was some film guy scouting locations? But that didn't make sense. People did property searches if they were buying or selling. A film producer would just rent or sweet-talk the use of some location; he wouldn't purchase it. Maybe he was some land speculator then? They'd had a couple come through, according to Judge Metcalfe, though without much luck. The real estate highs and lows that had affected other parts of the state hadn't come here—except for the bad loans.

She shook her head and got dressed for bed. Then Lizabeth pulled out one of the historical romances she had borrowed from the library and dove in. It was midnight before she turned out the light.

Fridays were always busy. People are lazy by nature, when it came to remembering to deal with paperwork, so they put it off as long as possible. But with the weekend looming, citizens would come in to get their fictitious business names filed or register to vote or submit to have their taxes reassessed. It was a typical Friday, but it passed by without any unexpected hitches.

It was ten minutes to five when Edgar called. "I'm running late; things are just…crazy here. Can we skip the drinks and dinner downtown, and I'll take you to the country club instead?"

"Sure," she agreed. Lizabeth preferred the casualness of eating downtown, but so long as she got the date in with her boyfriend, she'd be happy.

"Why not go home and change and meet me at Mom's house, okay?" he suggested. Ed sounded a little breathless, and she could appreciate that he was busy. Most days, he worked until eight. It was a stretch for him to leave his job and pick her up every Friday for their date. They always met in the downtown area, went to the bar inside the hotel (because the other downtown bars would not have met her mother's approval), and then chose a restaurant for dinner.

Edgar Stone, III, was the son of one of Uncle Gardiner's business acquaintances. Mr. and Mrs. Stone had a house that backed up onto the Merton Municipal Golf Course, just down the street from the Gardiners. The families had been friends for years.

Lizabeth had met Edgar when she was a young girl and came to visit her uncle and aunt. She had always thought him handsome and out of reach because he had a couple of years on her. Ed was going off to college when Lizabeth just started high school. He went to graduate school when she walked with cap and gown in high school. But a month after she had moved to Merton, he asked her out which had both shocked and thrilled Lizabeth's romantic heart.

She hadn't been allowed to date in high school, and college had been a busy time. Living at home had also put a damper on dating. Few men took kindly to her announcement that she still lived with her mother and quickly walked away. It didn't help that Mrs. Bennet insisted that her dates come in and introduce themselves as if this was the fifties. Appealing to her father hadn't worked. Even though she was legally an adult, it became a house rule that dates had to be introduced. (One of a multitude of Bennet 'house rules.') Few men hung around for longer than two dates.

But Dawn Bennet approved of Edgar, probably because her uncle or aunt reported back about Lizabeth and their dates. This was one instance, however, when Lizabeth didn't mind because she liked him. And Ed had lasted longer than a week.

She closed up the office, but rather than running home to change (the country club had a dress code), she walked the block and a half to the hotel. Ed might say he would try to hurry home to meet her at his parents' house, but he would get held up. He always did. While Lizabeth liked his parents, hanging out at Ed and LuAnn's house wasn't what she wanted to do for an hour. His mother was decent, but she still hadn't warmed up to his father. She figured she had time for a drink.

Sometimes, Lizabeth thought it odd that she liked to hang out at a bar, but the hotel bar (it was a chain) at five o'clock on a Friday was rarely crowded. The bar countertop was small, but two women perched there. Lizabeth knew Jane Sweet, but couldn't identify the other woman from the back as she approached.

"Hi Jane," she said, sitting next to the hotel's events planner. "How are you holding up? Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"I am. Everything is under control for the Big Reveal," Jane answered. "I'm just taking some time to relax and compose myself. I'll have enough to set me on edge tomorrow. How are you?" Jane Sweet was always calm; Lizabeth couldn't imagine her ever having ruffled feathers.

"You know the sex then if you had to plan the reveal?" Lizabeth nudged.

"Yes, though, I could have planned that event without knowing the final outcome. I can plan for any contingency, that's part of my job," said Jane. Perhaps she was bragging, but she sounded confident.

"I wish I were invited," said the woman on Jane's other side. Lizabeth leaned over to look. She was another hotel employee, the piano player.

"Lizabeth, do you know Mary?" Jane asked, leaning back so the two women could get a better look at each other.

"Yes. I've seen you around many times," Lizabeth said, reaching a hand in front of Jane.

"Me too," said Mary as she shook hands. "Mary Abel, lounge lizard queen." She grinned. It was a Cheshire cat grin.

Lizabeth couldn't keep in the chuckle. "Lounge lizard queen?"

"I wear my badge proudly," Mary declared.

"She's a marvel," said Jane. "I tried to get the Metcalfes to hire her for the party, but they didn't want live music."

"Everyone in town is going; I'm sure they wouldn't notice if you snuck in," Lizabeth suggested.

"I think they'd notice now since my act has already been shot down," Mary argued. "I'll just read about it in the paper on Monday."

"Too bad I already RSVP'd, I could bring you as my plus-one," she murmured.

"Aren't you Edgar Stone's plus-one?" Mary hinted.

Lizabeth couldn't help bristling a little. "No. We both received invitations as we both know the Metcalfes through work."

"Oh. I guess I'm fated to be seen as the help and not an invitee," Mary murmured.

"I think it's unfair of Mimi not to invite you," Jane argued, looking sympathetic.

Lizabeth was brought up short. She hadn't considered that the Metcalfes were so concerned with class distinctions. "I think I should just sneak you in with me," she pressed.

"Won't you be driving over with Edgar?" asked Jane.

"We're going separately. He has something to do, some weekend business venture that was to keep him busy all day tomorrow. He said he would be late," Lizabeth explained.

"They know me. It wouldn't work, but thanks." Mary's smile was warm.

"Maybe we can meet on Sunday, and I can fill you in on all the juicy details?" Lizabeth suggested then.

"I have to play for Sunday brunch here," Mary explained, holding up a hand and waving it around vaguely.

"I'll come sit at the end of your piano and fill you in," she offered.

"Okay, you're on," Mary agreed. "Having a little company besides the usual Sunday brunch guests would be a welcome relief."