I held up a hand. “I’m sure she did. But I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m the owner of this property.”
The agent blinked. “But Mrs. Harrison said her husband—”
“Signed it over,” I finished. “He tried. But legally, he couldn’t. The beach house is held in trust. My trust.”
I walked to the sideboard and retrieved copies of the trust summary Margaret had suggested I keep on hand. I handed them to the agent.
She skimmed them. Her expression shifted quickly from polite interest to alarm.
“I… I see,” she said. “Well, I’m terribly sorry for the confusion. I was under the impression—”
“You were under the impression I had something that belonged to her,” I said. “It’s a common mistake.”
The agent flushed. “I think I should leave.”
She packed up her things in record time and practically bolted for the door, heels clicking a retreat.
Victoria stood in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “This place is wasted on you,” she snarled. “All this emotion poured into a pile of wood and stone. You don’t even care about what it’s worth.”
“Oh, I care,” I said softly. “Just not in the way you mean. This house is priceless. The market has nothing to do with it.”