"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until we've got an opening. Maybe there will be a cancellation before then, but I can't make any promises."
"Thanks," Paisley said grudgingly, and hung up. She sat staring at the phone for a minute, massaging her neck. No way would she sit around for a month until Bruce Harris shoehorned her into his busy schedule, nor was she going to knuckle under and retreat to the local Motel 6.
Rummaging around, she found an ancient telephone book in a closet and flipped through the Yellow Pages until she found the only other home repairman listed within forty miles. The ad was nothing more than a couple of lines: the contractor's name, followed by a license number and a local phone number. It posed a stark contrast to the half-page spread for Bruce Harris. The good news was that this guy was probably less busy than Bruce, she thought. And, with luck, cheaper.
No one answered the first five rings, dousing her hopes. Then, just before the phone went to voice mail, a sleepy male voice yawned into the receiver. "Yeah? Who is this?"
For some reason Paisley didn't hang up immediately, although she had obviously dialed a wrong number. "Sorry. I was trying to reach Marvin McMurtry Construction."
Curiosity crept into the voice, which sounded slightly less sleepy. "This is McMurtry Construction. What do you want?"
Whoever was on the other end of the line sounded as if he were still in bed, although, when she glanced at her watch, she saw it was four o'clock in the afternoon. What kind of construction company was this? No wonder the real estate agent had recommended the competition.
With misgivings, she explained what she had in mind.
A longer silence followed. Then, "The Perleman place, huh? Sure, I know it. Exactly what kind of repairs were you thinking of?"
Her initial picture of a paunchy guy scratching a hairy armpit evaporated when she realized the male voice was younger and lighter than it had first sounded, now that it was no longer hoarse with sleep.
She remembered Ray's warning about calling a stranger from the yellow pages, but desperation spurred her on. She couldn't live in the house in its current condition, not even for a few days. "Some roof tiles need to be replaced. And the water heater doesn't work." Paisley eyed the peeling wallpaper. "Maybe some cosmetic improvements, too, if it doesn't cost too much."
"Sorry, but I can't give you a quote over the phone. I'd have to take a look at the place first." To her relief, the voice sounded brisker, more professional.
"When can you come?" she asked hopefully.
"Well, I guess I can squeeze you in, ah ..." A pause, as if he were consulting a calendar. "...How about tomorrow morning?"
A hot bath might be available sooner than she had expected. Relief filled her. "That would be perfect. I'll see you tomorrow, Marvin."
"The name's Ian," the voice corrected her abruptly. "Marvin was my father. He's dead."
Paisley stared at the phone in her palm. He had hung up.
Belatedly she realized Ian McMurtry hadn't asked for her address. But then, everyone around here seemed to know where old Miss Esther Perleman's house was located.
For better or worse, she realized with a fresh burst of surprise, by agreeing to fix up the house, she had committed herself to staying in River Bend until the repairs were finished. If only she knew why.
Suddenly the depression she had fought off for so long washed over her. The short nap had left her agitated, not refreshed, so she decided to leave the dishes in the sink and go to bed early. Besides, with no cable TV and no internet, there wasn't much else to do. She rummaged in her purse for the vial of painkillers.
The effect was almost immediate. It was almost more than she could do to set one foot in front of the other as she climbed the narrow wooden staircase. She left her clothes in a pile on the floor where they fell, and threw herself across the bed, vaguely hoping the sheets were not as dusty as the ones covering the furniture downstairs.
Laundry. Just one more thing to add to her list. Everything in the house needed to be washed, and she had no budget to hire someone to do it for her. Would she remember how to operate the machine? In her last coherent thoughts, she hoped once again she had not made a huge mistake.
#
Paisley moved her head away from the damp area of the pillow where she had drooled during the night and sneezed as the last remnants of the new dream dissipated. It was similar to the one she had the previous afternoon, but instead of singing onstage, she had been waltzing with a handsome bearded man at the Czar's reception at the Winter Palace, rubies sparkling at her throat, on her wrists, and in her upswept dark hair.
Bright morning light flooded through the window. She lay, blinking, enjoying the last remnants of the dream. Like the other dream, this one had been unusually vivid, so vivid she could still hear the delicate strains of the string quartet, the low rumble of conversations, the soft sound of her slippers on marble floors as she left the ballroom on the count's arm and made her way toward the waiting coach, a thick fur wrapped around her naked arms and shoulders. But this time, the dream had not disturbed her. It had enveloped her with the warmth of familiarity, as if she were returning to a time and place she already knew. It felt disconcerting to be pulled back to the present, to reality.
It took a few moments to remember where she was. Then her hand reached for her throat to touch the ruby necklace but felt nothing but the rough edges of her scar. A profound sense of loss stabbed through her, and a sob caught in her throat. She could not have said why. It was not just Jonathan's death. Not the loss of her career. It was another sorrow, one of a loss that threatened to overwhelm her. What was it?
Even as it faded, the dream seemed more real than the rumpled bed she was lying in, the goose bumps on her bare upper arms from the cool morning air, or the tousled, layered hair falling around her shoulders. Why was she so sure the dream had taken place at a Czar's reception? Or that her handsome escort was a Count? She knew nothing about Russia, had no interest in it, had never visited there. And yet she had been as certain of her surroundings in the dream as if she had actually been there.
She closed her eyes, teasing the memory from her consciousness. Again she saw the tall, high-browed Russian leader greeting his long line of guests. He had sandy side whiskers and stylish Van Dyke beard. A red satin sash crossed his chest bearing an array of medals. If she Googled Russian Czars, she suspected she would find his picture on the internet, looking just as he had in her dream.
Had the man on her arm been real too, the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired Count who had led her to the carriage and helped her in, who had pressed his warm lips to the back of her hand? And how did she know he was a Count?
Gradually Paisley became aware of a distant pounding downstairs and realized that was the noise that had awakened her. Groggy from being wrenched away from that other world, she wondered if the sound presaged an earthquake. They had earthquakes in Northern California, didn't they? She had never experienced one before. Then she realized the sound sounded more like a fist striking wood. Someone must be banging at the front door.
She fumbled for her cell phone and checked the time. The small screen told her it was barely seven o'clock.
Grumbling, she kicked off the sheet that coiled around her legs and pushed her curls out of her face. In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her cheeks and scowled into the mirror at the purple circles under her eyes.
The hammering didn't stop. Instead, it redoubled, and small bits of brittle, curling wallpaper fluttered to the floor. Swearing under her breath, she pulled on an oversized T-shirt and sprinted downstairs as the knocking's pattern resolved itself into the slow, steady rhythm of "Shave and a Haircut."
Just before "two bits," she yanked it open, and a man's fist nearly connected with her nose. She yelped and fell back. Startled light-gray eyes stared down at her from a pale narrow face with a wide mouth, which was hanging open in an expression of surprise.
The stranger wore blue jeans and an untucked plaid shirt with one
point of the collar sticking up. She almost reached out and pulled it down to make the sides even, restraining herself just in time. His shock of hair looked dusty, but then that might have been his natural hair color. A wide leather tool belt hung low around his slim hips like a gun belt, reminding Paisley vaguely of a character on an old western movie on the Turner Broadcasting Network, her favorite channel. She loved to curl up on the couch and watch old black-and-white movies and TV shows.
"I assume you're Ian McMurtry," she said finally, when the silence lengthened. One of them needed to say something eventually.
His surprised look changed to a more neutral expression, and he closed his gaping mouth. "And you must be Paisley Perleman. You took so long to answer the door that I thought you weren't home." She recognized the pleasant, tenor voice from the phone call yesterday afternoon, but today it sounded alert instead of slurred and sleepy.
She noticed he was still staring at her, and self-consciously she pulled a lock of hair forward to cover the scar on the side of her throat. "Then why did you keep knocking?"
"Because you said you'd be here."
The statement did not sound quite logical to her, but he strode past her as if she had already invited him in. Stopping in the center of the room, he angled his head around like a periscope, light-gray eyes taking in everything in the room: the scarlet Stella McCartney jacket slung across the old, striped Herculon couch, the Coach handbag lying on the scuffed coffee table. The vials of anti-anxiety pills poked out of the unzipped compartment. She’d forgotten about them when she galloped down the stairs a few moments ago.
Now fully awake, Paisley was growing annoyed at being barged in on. Who showed up at this insanely early hour? It couldn’t be later than seven-thirty. Nor did she like the fact that this stranger had noticed so much about her so quickly. She reminded herself that he was just a handyman. Here to do a job, get paid, and leave. The quicker the better.
"Do you realize what time it is?" Paisley closed the door. "I thought you were the type that sleeps in late."
"Why would you think that? Oh, because of my behavior when I answered my phone yesterday. In my defense, I'd been up late the night before. I don't usually sleep all day. By the way, I already found your first problem," he added, nodding brusquely toward the front door. "The doorbell doesn't work. That's why I had to knock so hard to wake you up."
She bit her tongue as he continued inspecting the room, making notes on his clipboard. He missed nothing: the fraying carpet by the kitchen, the broken window pane, the electrical outlet that hadn't worked when she had tried to use it to recharge her phone last night.
Finally, he turned, pencil behind his ear. "All right, what were some of those other improvements you were thinking of?"
"Just what's necessary to make it habitable for the summer. I'm on a tight budget."
He shook his head. "Most contractors would say it makes more sense to bulldoze the place. If you're going to stay for a while, you'd be more comfortable in a motel."
She bristled. The motel again, she thought, disgusted. That was what Ray had said, and the receptionist too. But that odd sensation she'd felt upon first seeing the house returned, as tangible as a gentle hand on her shoulder. She couldn't allow bulldozers to knock over this charming house. That is, it would be charming when the repairs were finished. Century-old houses didn't come along every day. Some buyer, some day, would thank her for preserving it. And she did have a little money tucked away, left over from selling the stocks. She had planned to use it to pay the last of her debts, but those could wait.
"I don't care if it doesn't make financial sense. I want to save the house."
To her surprise, Ian nodded. "Good," he said, crouching over a pile of mouse droppings. "It's a nice example of a Queen Anne, and the basic structure is sound, even if it does need some work. Are the services on?"
"The water is cold, but there's electricity." She flipped on the light switch to demonstrate. "I don't know who's been paying the bills, but..."
"Auto-pay." He echoed Ray's earlier guess. "If you inherited her bank account, I bet there's not much left. I'll take a look at the water heater later. Want to follow me around while I finish the inspection? Or would you rather…?" His gaze fell, and his eyes grew contemplative.
She looked down at the oversized T-shirt and, suddenly self-conscious, realized it barely reached the top of her thighs. The wide neck had slipped off one shoulder. Her face grew hot. "I'll get dressed," she said quickly, backing toward the staircase. "Join you in a minute."
"Sure." He started toward the kitchen. "The circuit breakers are over here, aren't they?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Feel free to look around."
#
When she came back downstairs, modestly dressed in a flowered cotton top and neat linen shorts, Ian was staring at the photographs hanging on the wall by the kitchen. She'd noticed them earlier but had given them little more than a glance.
"Hey, you've got to see this," he said, beckoning her.
"What is it?"
"I noticed something weird when I first saw you, but I didn't realize what it was until I saw these."
"Weird?" She joined him, puzzled.
The jumble of pictures seemed rather ordinary to her: bland studio portraits of a much-younger Jonathan and his parents, mixed with older images of people who must be relatives.
"Look." Ian pointed at a gilt-framed black-and-white portrait of a married couple from the 1920s. The husband with luxuriantly curling mustaches wore a pince nez, a rounded cellophane collar, and a stern expression. He stood stiffly behind a slender seated woman, his hand planted firmly on her shoulder. Both man and wife appeared to be middle aged.
Paisley leaned forward to peer at the photograph. "Those must be Esther's grandparents, aren't they? So what?"
Ian stared down at her. "You don't see it?"
"See what?"
He gave her a long, considering look, then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his shorts, while his lids slid half-closed over his eyes. "Never mind. Come outside. I need to show you something else. Something you won't be happy about."
He led her out the kitchen door and pointed up, at the eaves directly above the empty china cat bowl. Had the cat made an appearance, after all, and nibbled all the tuna she'd left out last night? Or had some other animal taken advantage of her largesse? She chose to consider the disappeared food a sign that the cat was still on the premises. She looked forward to meeting Esther's pet eventually.
Then Paisley looked upward and her moment of elation ended. "Termites?"
"Uh huh. And that looks like the source of the leak, up there."
"The roof's bad?" She suppressed a groan, temporarily forgetting the cat. She didn't know much about home repairs, except that roofs were notoriously expensive to replace. "Can't you just patch the part where the water gets through?"
"Maybe. Won't know for sure until I get up there. The good news is your water heater's fine. I relit the pilot light, and you'll have hot water in a couple of hours."
As he jotted something on the clipboard, she stood on tiptoes to look over Ian's shoulder, close enough to smell bacon and Irish Spring soap, and saw the list was disconcertingly long. She crossed her fingers behind her back for luck. "So, how much?"
"Depends on what you decide to have done." He chewed the nib of his pencil, and added one more item. "I'll write you up an estimate when I get back ho …back to the office, and give you a call with the total." A smile lit up his gray eyes. "Don't worry, I'll give you a good deal. Number two always tries harder, right? I bet I wasn't the first place you called."
"Well, no...."
He nodded, unoffended. "Bruce Harris would have sucked your wallet dry. It's a good thing he was too busy to take you on."
"How did you know…?" she began, then gave up. It was just another example of a small-town grapevine. Or, maybe, common sense. Bruce Harris was, after all, the only other local contractor in the phone book.
/> Ian held up his notepad. "Got all the information I need. I'll call you later with the estimate."
"Thanks." She followed him to the rusty green pickup parked in the gravel driveway, curiosity overcoming her. "By the way, what was it about that old photograph that seemed weird? Who was that woman?"
Ian looked at her, eyebrows raised. "That was Jonathan's great grandmother, Ruth Wegiel. They say she was a famous singer in her day. Couldn't you tell? You're the spitting image of her."
He ducked into the cab of the pickup, slamming the door twice before it stuck. Gravel stung her shins as the pick-up peeled away.
Chapter Four
Paisley watched the pickup grow smaller with an unsettled feeling and a host of unanswered questions. First, was the photograph really of Ruth Wegiel? How would Ian McMurtry know? Paisley wouldn't have been able to identify any of her own great-grandmothers if someone offered her a million dollars to do so. And Ruth wasn't even Ian's ancestor, not unless there was some unknown connection between the handyman's Irish Catholic family (as she deduced from his name) and the old-world Polish Jews from whom Jonathan was descended.
Even stranger, why had Ian pointed out the picture to her? He couldn't have known Paisley had dreamed of Ruth Wegiel twice since arriving yesterday.
Paisley hurried back to the hallway and took the framed photograph off the wall, to inspect it more closely. Then she caught her breath. Penciled on the back of the frame in the shaky handwriting she recognized from Esther's holiday postcards, was "Ruth Wegiel Perleman."
She stared at the name for a moment before hanging the photograph back on the wall. Score one for Ian. Maybe he was a member of the town's historical society, or maybe he had worked in this house before, and Esther had told him about the photographs. It would be natural for a lonely old woman to tell a visitor, even a construction worker, about an ancestress who had been the toast of eastern Europe. Why not?
The Jewelry Case Page 4