by Becky Melby
As her pulse reclaimed a normal pace, another shrill scream pierced her quiet and she slid the window down. It banged shut but didn’t block the noise. The scream grew louder. Closer.
No laughter followed.
“Let it go!”
Strange to hear her therapist’s advice yelled from a child’s lips.
“Michael! Stop!”
The beach ball bounced toward the river, propelled by the wind. And followed by a barefoot boy. A gust whipped it against the crippled oak. The ball shot into the water.
Lord God, no. Caught in a whirlpool, the ball swirled in a tight circle. Red…white…yellow…blue…
The boy grabbed onto the broken limb with one hand and reached for the ball with the other.
Emily’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her breath rasped, fast and shallow. Black walls pushed in, narrowing her vision.
The limb swayed. A crack split the air. “Michael!” A man’s voice. “I’ll get the ball. Come here. Now.”
The boy stopped and waved toward the voice, then glanced up at her and waved again.
The room tilted. Emily closed her eyes. Release. Relax. Let it go.
Her legs gave way. She slid to the floor, biting her lip against the stab of pain in her right hip. Knees to chest, arms encircling her legs, she folded. Making herself small.
A heavy knock shook the screen door. She shrank against the cupboard.
The door rattled again. “I don’t think she’s home.”
A lighter, quieter knock followed. “I just sawed her,” a small voice insisted. “Just now in the window.”
“Miss Foster? Jacob Braden, Braden Improvements.”
Emily rubbed her eyes with both hands. Go away. She’d call the contractor tomorrow, make up some excuse. A headache or phone call. Tomorrow she’d be rested, calmer, able to think.
“Go in,” the small voice whispered.
“We can’t just walk in. That’s rude.” Footsteps retreated. “Come on.”
“Nuh-uh. Nana Grace lets us.”
“Nana Grace is—Michael! You can’t—”
Hinges whined. Emily raised her head from her cocoon.
Bare feet. Red shorts. Huge brown eyes. “I’m Michael.”
Breathe. Emily clenched and unclenched tingling fingers. Live in the now. “Hi, Michael. I’m Emily.” She smiled. It felt almost natural.
“Nana Grace gived us peanuhbutter cookies.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t had time to bake.”
The door opened again. A man: dusty work boots, one lace untied and trailing; faded jeans, hole on the right knee; snug, heather-blue shirt; sun-lightened brown hair curling over his collar. Eyebrows rose above inquisitive eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She was sitting on the floor, half-curled in a ball. Not a chance he’d believe her. “Just…trying to get a feel for the place.”
He nodded and a chunk of gold-licked hair swung over his forehead. He looked toward the window and Emily witnessed a split-second startle. He’d seen the cane. He wiped his palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “Can I give you a hand?”
There was only one way she could get to her feet from where she was now, and Jacob Braden’s hand wouldn’t help. “Why don’t you go ahead and look around and I’ll join you in—”
The back door moaned once again. The older boy bounded in. “Michael, Mom said you gotta get home.” Eyes almost identical to his little brother’s jerked to Emily then up to the man beside him. “Why is she sitting on the floor?” he asked in a hushed tone, as if she couldn’t hear.
“Russell, say hi to Miss Foster. She’s going to be your new neighbor. She’s sitting on the floor because she’s tired. Miss Foster just drove all the way from…Minnesota?”
“Michigan. Traverse City.”
“That’s a long drive.” He nudged the boy.
“Hi. I’m Russell. It’s nice to meet you.” The words came out stilted, rehearsed. Precious. “Did you see the ghost yet?”
A chill shimmied up her spine. “Ghost?”
Jacob Braden put a hand on Russell’s head. “Local legend. In a town with this much history, people mix a little truth with a lot of fantasy. This house has been around a long time.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Say good-bye, boys.”
Michael took one last look at the empty counter, waved, and ran out. Russell said good-bye, turned toward the door then stopped. “My mom says maybe you will babysit us. Do you have any boys?”
Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
No cookies. No little boys.
Not this side of heaven.
The soles of Jake’s boots whispered in the worn depressions in the steps. If these stairs could talk…A century and a half of footfalls. Newlyweds slipping off to bed…a worried mother walking her feverish baby… children’s voices echoing in the steep, narrow stairwell… The stories this house could tell. He reached the top and ran his hand over the newel post. Smooth. Polished by countless hands.
He smiled as he walked into a bedroom. What a sentimental schmuck he was.
Looking down at the river through wavy blown glass, he listened for footsteps. Then it hit him—maybe the lady couldn’t climb stairs. What was wrong with her anyway? The multicolored cane could have been left by the old woman who’d died right there in that kitchen a few months back, but he doubted it. And something about the wary look in Emily’s wide-set eyes told him her problems weren’t just physical. But in that area he was out of his element. Houses he could read. Women he almost always misinterpreted. He still hadn’t recovered from the last mistake.
With dark blond hair pulled straight back and no makeup, he’d guess her to be an accountant or lawyer. Something dry and bookish. She’d told him on the phone this was her first house flip. He didn’t like the way she’d said it. But then, he didn’t like the term flip anyway. It sounded like something fast, cheap. Flippant. She wouldn’t get fast or cheap out of him if he took the job.
If he took the job.
He waited a respectful few minutes, gazing down at trees bursting with new, bright green leaves. Skinny branches arched over the river like hundreds of fishing poles. The water was as high as he’d ever seen it. If he found a spare minute he’d get out the kayak. Another big if.
He was walking out the door when he heard her. Slow, halting steps up the stairs. He backtracked to the window and pretended to be absorbed in the flight of a fat robin toting a strip of blue plastic.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Emily Foster stopped in the doorway. “I think I mentioned on the phone that I had the house thoroughly inspected before I bought it. The roof was replaced nine years ago. I’ve hired painters for the exterior and I plan on sanding the porch myself. The foundation is sound. So”—she nodded toward the wall between the two north bedrooms—“why don’t we start up here? I’m thinking these two rooms, with a bath in between, will be the master suite.”
Jake’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the row of old hooks in a small, open closet. Knocking out that closet would be nothing short of criminal. He grunted for her to continue the torture.
“This is a weight-bearing wall.” She tapped it with the tip of her cane. A triangle chunk of plaster landed between them. “But with a header, I think it’ll work. If we—”
“Can we back up a sec?” Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “First of all”—he stretched out his hand—“maybe we should actually meet. Jake Braden.”
“Yes. You’re right.” She held out a pale hand and shook his. “Nice to meet you face-to-face.”
He’d seen more enthusiasm in a smoked trout.
He planted his hands on his belt. “Before we get started, tell me what you already know about the history of the house so I don’t bore you with stories you’ve already heard.”
The girl blinked. Twice, then again. Did she not understand the request?
“Most of the wiring was replaced in the seventies and, like I said, the roof—”
“I
mean history. Like what happened here, who lived here.”
“Oh.” That expression could only be labeled annoyance. “It was built in the 1840s and it was a little over a hundred years old when the Ostermanns bought it. Grace’s great-granddaughter told me legend has it that the man who built this house served with Abraham Lincoln in the Blackhawk War, and Lincoln stopped here once for a visit. That tidbit could come in handy as a selling point.”
Selling point? The greatest president this country ever knew could have slept in this very room and she called it a tidbit? Jake exhaled and almost forgot to take another breath.
“The main floor was redone at some point, but the second story here is all original lath and plaster.” She tapped the toe of her sandal on the chunk of plaster between them. “I’ve drawn up plans to open up both floors. The place pretty much needs a complete overhaul.”
Overhaul? Jake’s sentimental soul writhed. Her word choice summoned visions of steamrollers and wrecking balls. “It needs some cosmetics, but—”
“The layout is boxy.”
Jake folded his arms to stop his elbows from jutting out like a frilled-neck lizard. It’s a Greek Revival house, lady. He counted the boards from the door to her cane. “You’re planning on selling as soon as it’s done, right?”
She gave him an of-course look. “Yes. I’m hoping to have it on the market by the end of July.”
Jake aspirated her last word and fought strangulation for several breaths. “I…think…that might be a bit…ambitious.” He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Why don’t we take a walk-through. You tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do and how long it should take.”
“Fair enough.” Her lips pressed against each other.
He tried to picture her with a smile.
“Nobody’s looking for this many bedrooms these days.” She walked out into the hall. “We can put a bath over there and enlarge that bedroom.” Again, she pointed with the cane. And then we can…”
We? Who’s we? He followed her around like a trained pup, taking notes, asking for clarification.
But he wasn’t a hoop jumper. As much as he needed the work, he’d already made up his mind.
Before he said no, the woman needed a history lesson.
She didn’t have to like him to hire him.
Emily leaned on the railing as she clunked down the stairs ahead of him. He would be the chivalrous type, letting her go first. She led him to the front room, where she’d dropped her sleeping bag. A duct-taped corner of her second copy of Flipping Houses for Dummies peeked out of her duffel bag.
He glanced at her meager belongings. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, are you?”
“I have an air mattress.” She pointed toward the black vinyl bag. “On this level, I’d like to open things up. Kind of a great-room concept. The dining room—” She stopped. Jake Braden held one hand up like he was swearing on a Bible.
“That would ruin the…” His shoulders rose, almost to his ears. “Maybe my opinion is clouded because I live in this neighborhood, but my personal and professional opinion”—he put way too much emphasis on professional—“is if you hope to sell a historical landmark, you need to respect the integrity of the original design. The buyers who will be drawn to this place are looking for a trip back in time, a strong flavor of the past.”
Fingers curled toward her palms. She’d spent seventeen pain-racked months trying get rid of a strong flavor of the past in every aspect of her life. This house represented her first step toward everything new. “That’s a very small, niche market. My goal is to make this place appealing to a broad range of buyers. And most people like new.” She held his gaze, amused at his irritation. Braden Improvements came highly recommended. She didn’t have to like him to hire him, but she did have to agree with him. Or rather, he needed to agree with her. Two more contractors would walk through the house yet today, and if she needed to interview a few more, so be it. She didn’t have the energy to argue with this man.
He pulled a phone out of his shirt pocket. “Maybe you’ve already seen this, but I found a picture of your house on the Historical Society website. Taken in 1906.” He tapped and scrolled then handed it to her.
She stared at the sepia-toned photograph. A big white dog sat on the front step. Her front step. The house hadn’t changed much in more than a hundred years, but the top of the oak tree that now stood like a wounded soldier didn’t even reach the roofline in the picture.
“Mr. Braden, I do have an appreciation for history. I understand the importance of keeping a historical feel, but I want to incorporate changes that make it work for the way people live today.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I suppose if I were remodeling this house for myself, I might get interested in its stories. But, frankly, this place is a means to an end.”
“Can I ask what’s at the end of the means?”
Restitution. That wasn’t the answer she’d give him or anyone else. “I want to buy another house when this one sells.”
“And then?”
The guy was nothing short of rude. “California. Eventually.”
“In a paid-for house with a pool and a view, huh?” Condescension tainted his smile.
“No.” The word popped out. She should have stopped it, should have let him think she was all about luxury or appearances, or whatever conclusion he’d come to.
His head dipped slightly forward, eyebrows lifted a fraction. He was waiting for more, but there was nothing more she could tell him. If she succeeded, if the house sold and she could repeat the process at least once—somewhere even farther from Traverse City—she’d reach the West Coast penniless and without a plan. But at peace. “I just—” Jake’s phone buzzed in her palm. A name flashed on the screen. Lexi. She held it out to him.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.” He turned his back to her and walked toward a window. “Lex? Can it wait?” A rumbling sound, part sigh, part growl, came from the man as he listened. “I’ll pick you up.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed over his face. “It’s not a problem. And it’s not your fault.” His shoulders lowered. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said quietly, with more than a hint of resignation. “Bye.”
He crossed the floor in four long strides. With his hand on the door handle, he seemed to suddenly remember he wasn’t alone in the room. He turned and looked at her with tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m your man, Miss Foster.”
CHAPTER 2
I don’t think you are either, Mr. Braden.
Emily closed the door behind him and walked over to her duffel bag. Her stomach burned. She hadn’t put much in it today. Rummaging through clothes and books, she found a bag of rice cakes. Nibbling on one while massaging her lower back with the other hand, she walked through the kitchen to the cellar door. She had half an hour to explore until the next contractor arrived. If the cellar was dry, she could store her few belongings there, protected from drywall dust and out of the way of whomever she ended up hiring.
The top of the door was level with the top of her head. She turned the porcelain knob, but it just kept turning. With a yank, she pulled the door open. Half-moon chips along the opened edge displayed at least five different colors of paint. Sage green, salmon, pale yellow. Did each color represent someone’s fresh start?
Cool, musty air wafted up. She pushed a mother-of-pearl button on an old-fashioned switch. A dusty bulb hanging from a wire above her head came to life. Two-by-four railings flanked the open-sided wood staircase that was little more than a wide ladder. Emily hung her cane on the doorknob. Rough planks gave slightly beneath her feet, sounding as though they were pulling free of the rusty nails that held them in place.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from two bare bulbs and a small, algae-covered window. Canning shelves that once bowed under Grace Ostermann’s trophies stood barren. The whole unit listed slightly to the right. With a little reinforcing, they would
hold her bins. The other three walls were made of field stone with wide mortared spaces between the rocks. A deep ledge ran the length of the wall beneath a small window just above her eye level. Shapes cluttered one end of the ledge, but she couldn’t make out the objects. She walked closer, wishing she’d brought a flashlight.
A cricket and two spiders scurried into the shadows when she lifted a heavy, stained and tattered Havoline Motor Oil box. Emily shivered and blew off a coating of dust before she opened it. The box was filled with pint jars. Full pint jars. She lifted one to the light. Apple slices.