Build Me Up

by Grouse, Lili

  Build Me Up

  LILI GROUSE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1505343844

  ISBN-13: 978-1505343847

  Cover image under license from Shutterstock.com

  oNE

  KRISTEN BARNES hoisted her large suitcase off of the conveyer belt at Greenport local airport, rescuing it from the dark hole it was destined to fall through at the end of the line. Well, all right, it was more of a latch than a hole, but same diff. Better safe than sorry, was her motto. Okay, that was so not her motto, but it sounded good in her head as she thought it.

  Kristen was exhausted. The flight from LAX to JFK had been pleasant enough – she’d even allowed herself a couple of sips of champagne – hey, they were complimentary! – even though she was technically on the clock. But then came the horrendous flight from JFK to Greenport, MA. Kristen had flown to a lot of places but she’d never seen a plane this small or this rickety. She remembered an episode of The Simpsons where future-Maggie was forced to fly instead of teleport and the airline told its passengers to hold onto the emergency doors lest they fly off. This flight had been a lot like that.

  The arrival hall, which she entered after passing a customs booth that wasn’t staffed, was cramped and decorated with sea shells on the walls. Her designer-tentacles were tingling – no, cringing – and Kristen forced herself to look for the Exit sign. That had a red lobster decorating it.

  Kristen had spent years in college training to be an architect, and then got a second degree in interior design. Interior decorating, on the other hand, had always come naturally to her. Telling people how to decorate their homes had always been a hobby for her, but combining her natural born skills with those acquired through studying had made her sought-after. She liked to think that’s how she landed the contract with Quinlan Bankhead.

  Out of all the projects she’d been hired to work on, this one was by far the most exciting. Quinlan Bankhead, multi-billionaire and an eccentric to boot, had acquired a lighthouse and the surrounding land from the Greenport municipality and now he wanted to turn it into a spectacular abode. His words, not hers.

  Quinlan Bankhead had been difficult to pin down, so Kristen had met with his lawyers and personal assistants – she wasn’t sure how many PAs he actually had, but she’d met three of them so far – and done a basic sketch based on the specs she’d seen. Her real challenge started now, though. Now she was going to visit the actual location and meet with Mr. Bankhead himself.

  Quinlan Bankhead had very particular ideas on how he wanted the project carried out. For one, Kristen was expected to be available 24-7, meaning she couldn’t do her work from all the way over in L.A. Instead, she’d been booked into a small B&B in Greenport. She was expected to oversee the build, liaise with contractors, smooch the Greenport Historical Society – apparently none too happy about yet another lighthouse losing its luster – and order every last thing needed to equip his dream home.

  Kristen was used to eccentric people, and to rich people – she’d grown up with a pair of them, after all – but she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t hesitated in taking on a one-year contract under which she was to be almost exclusively confined to a small fishing village on the East Coast. Kristen had no doubt it would be a challenge, and that was ultimately what had made her sign on the dotted line.

  She was wondering if she’d made the right choice now, though. She’d researched the town online before coming, and every site she’d found had promised a quaint, relaxing atmosphere with gourmet restaurants, water sport activities, and spectacular sunsets. There had been no mention of local events or nightlife. She was going to be stuck in the middle of nowhere for one whole year, in a place far removed from the life she had back home. She should have packed more workout clothes. What else was there to do in a place like this except eat? Oh, and work.

  There was no-one waiting for her with a private limo, not even a cab with a driver holding up a handwritten sign saying it was booked exclusively for her. Instead, Kristen lugged her suitcase outside, shading her eyes against the sun and attempting to hail a cab in the process. Competing with the rest of her flight passengers for all of three available cabs, she was unsuccessful.

  Sharp elbows were a necessity in a hard world, her father always said, but Kristen didn’t believe in bullying people to get what she wanted. That attitude was one of the things that had driven her mother away, after all. Ophelia Barnes-Stratford had her own way of getting what she wanted, though, and Kristen wasn’t a hundred percent onboard with that particular strategy, either.

  Kristen would be a hypocrite in not acknowledging the fact that her father’s ways had earned him a place in society many coveted – a regular Mr. Monopoly, one might say. Actually, her college roommate had admitted to thinking that exact thing once. In either case, Kristen wouldn’t be so naïve as to believe Mr. Bankhead had chosen her for his project solely based on her sparkling personality and reputable sense of style. Hanson Barnes hobnobbed with the likes of Quinlan Bankhead on a regular basis, and her father wasn’t shy about promoting his one and only daughter.

  From what Kristen had been able to dig up by means of Google, Quinlan Bankhead had amassed his fortune by using family money to invest in high-risk stocks and bonds, and played a game of poker or two in closed rooms. He was good-looking, at least from the pictures she’d seen, but then she wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with handsome men – they all tended to flock to California. The back slicked look wasn’t one of her favorites, though, and he was a bit too square in the jaw to appeal to her romantically. Which was just as well, as she’d been hired to design a house for him – not move in.

  Finally a cab pulled up to the curb right where Kristen was standing, and the driver got out to put her suitcase in the trunk.

  “Whoa, lady, what’ve you got in here? Lead pipes?” the cabbie grimaced as he lifted the case.

  Kristen shrugged, tilting her head and smiling at him endearingly to apologize for the fact he might get himself a hernia lifting her heavy load. She waited by the back passenger door until the cabbie shut the trunk and hobbled over to the driver’s side. Realizing that no-one was going to open the cab door for her, Kristen did the dirty deed herself, wrenching the slightly rusted door open and jumping up back onto the curb to avoid splattering her outfit with excess lube from the last time the hinges made a cringing sound. Small-town charm did not equal poorly maintenanced cabs in her book. Why had Quinlan Bankhead decided to settle here?

  The answer came to her when the cab pulled onto the road that was clearly the scenic route and she could see the dark blue water with white foam crashing onto the rocks, and the outline of a lighthouse in the not-so-far distance. Greenport had location, location, location.

  It was a short ride, and when they arrived at the little B&B – Breeze Inn – the cab driver opted to stay in the car and save himself the pain of trying to get Kristen’s suitcase out. She thanked him for his trouble with the smallest tip possible after hauling it out herself. The wheels of the case didn’t appreciate the gravel she attempted to maneuver it across.

  She made a mental note to ask the proprietor if she was going to be staying at an inn – as the name suggested – or at a B&B. Not that it mattered much to her, but sh
e suspected the Inn’s of America would take issue with the much smaller establishment appropriating their trademark. Then again, her best friend was the lawyer, not she.

  A small gravel slope led down to the house, which was nestled in between rocks and dunes. She could see the small private beach, which appeared to consist of more pebbles than sand, further down. The house looked more like a cottage, with a balcony stretching across the entire top floor. Kristen wondered if she would get that view. The listing had said there were two rooms for rent, one of them with a view of the harbor and the other with a view of the garden. From this direction, she couldn’t see a garden anywhere. Maybe it was hidden in between the giant rock formations.

  She could see the harbor, though. It was packed with boats and kayaks and there were people on the pier, walking around. The sounds of children laughing carried across the water. It was summer, and Greenport was obviously a vacation spot to be reckoned with. Mr. Bankhead must have booked this room well in advance. Or maybe it was the only place left in town that still had available rooms. In either case, she was here now.

  Kristen lugged her suitcase over to the little green door that looked like it would lead her into a dungeon rather than a B&B. She looked up at the balcony again. She really hoped that was the room she’d been assigned. Fingers mentally crossed, Kristen knocked on the door and waited.

  The first thing she heard was a meowing, coming directly from behind her. She recoiled when the animal stroked its mangy fur against her bare legs. She’d worn a summer dress on the flight, along with strappy sandals. Weather-wise, she was happy with her choice. Cat-encounter-wise, she was not.

  The door creaked open. Clearly, the hinges could use some of the excess lube from the cab door.

  “Yes?” an elderly woman squinted at her, hunching over as if she was using a cane or walker. Except she wasn’t.

  “Hi, I’m Kristen Barnes,” Kristen put on her biggest smile. Time to work her charm on the locals. “I have a reservation.”

  “Who?” the lady asked, putting her hand to her ear and leaning forward.

  “Kristen Barnes,” Kristen repeated, aiming her words into the woman’s cupped hand.

  “Oh, Heavens, must you shout?” the old woman huffed. “I just got new batteries.”

  Kristen assumed the woman was referring to her hearing aid and pushed any other thought of batteries out of her mind, making a mental note to stop by the store later.

  “I’m so sorry. I just flew in from L.A. I have the right place, don’t I? The Breeze Inn?”

  “Oh, that silly name,” the woman wafted her hand as if she was chasing a foul smell away. It didn’t work. The cat must have indigestion or something. “Been wanting to change it for ages, but Carl would turn over in his grave if he saw me doing anything of the sort. Can’t have that – I finally got those darn daisies to settle in.”

  Kristen smiled politely and wondered silently if there was possibly a Best Western in town. She’d have to get her phone working again. Yet another thing that needed battery power to operate.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” the white-haired woman huffed. “Get those bags inside before Charlie Chaplin scratches them open.”

  Deciding it was probably best to put some distance between herself and the mangy cat, Kristen obeyed.

  Half a minute into the tour of the B&B, Kristen concluded that this was either the last available place in Greenport, or Quinlan Bankhead had already decided he didn’t like her. Despite being located smack dab in the middle of a busy tourist spot, Breeze Inn might as well have been sitting in the middle of a dense forest where only does and possibly little lost girls hiding from evil stepmoms would find it. It needed a makeover. Stat.

  “You get your breakfast from this cupboard here,” said the old lady who’d grudgingly let it slip that her name was Edie May Breezer and had been so since she married Carl Breezer in 1948. Kristen guessed that put her at about 80 years old now. The cupboard was a full-length pantry filled with canned goods and biscuits. Kristen could see a couple of packages of cereal, too.

  “The cold stuff is in this here fridge,” she continued and pulled open the door to a small fridge. Kristen caught a glimpse of milk, yoghurt and butter before it shut again. “Don’t be letting out the cold.”

  A meowing cat had Mrs. Breezer pausing her tour and scooping a black cat off the floor. “Hello there. Are you hungry?” The cat seemed to reply in its own way and Mrs. Breezer obviously spoke ‘cat’. “All right, let’s see what we got here…”

  She opened the fridge again, the fridge that was supposed to house Kristen’s food for the duration of her stay, and pulled out a tin can of cat food.

  “Frank Sinatra only eats veal,” Mrs. Breezer explained to Kristen as she shut the refrigerator door again. “Charlie Chaplin is a chicken man himself.”

  Kristen nodded sagely, as if storing the information for further use. Rather, she was chopping it up like liver. Hm. Wonder if there was a third cat who only ate liver?

  “You take what you want from the pantry and the fridge,” Mrs. Breezer said as she opened the tin can and a faint odor of cat food spread in the kitchen. Or maybe that was coming from the tins in the overflowing trashcan in the corner of the kitchen. In either case, Kristen hoped she’d be spared all evidence of cats in her room.

  “I stock it once a week. If you want something else, there’s a store over by the harbor office, only a couple of hundred yards away if you swim. Bit more if you walk.”

  Yes, Kristen would definitely be walking over to the harbor later on. Maybe she’d find a lead on alternate accommodations there.

  “You’re lucky – the Harbor View room was available. You get the entire upstairs to yourself.”

  Kristen could hardly believe it – or, rather, didn’t dare believe it until she saw it for herself. She couldn’t help grinning, though, as Mrs. Breezer hobbled up the staircase ahead of her. Kristen took even longer getting up the stairs, what with carrying her suitcase and all, which decidedly already had a couple of scratches on it.

  The view was good – no, great – there was no denying it. The French doors leading out to the balcony, though, didn’t look sturdy enough to weather a storm. Or a cold front.

  “Um… does it get cold here in winter?” Kristen asked as Mrs. Breezer opened the doors. They squeaked a little and she had to jostle them to get them to open fully.

  “What would be the point in calling it winter if it didn’t get cold?” Mrs. Breezer retorted, and Kristen thought she could see the old lady rolling her eyes. She really needed to find another place to stay.

  “Now, some house rules,” Mrs. Breezer said, turning around to all but glare at Kristen. “No smoking. No loud music. And no canoodling.”

  Canoodling?

  “I’ve heard of those ‘California Girls’,” Mrs. Breezer sniffed. “Don’t want any trouble in my house.”

  Would that be the Beach Boys or Katy Perry Mrs. Breezer was getting her intel from? Kristen pondered but simply smiled in reassurance. She was here to do a job, not get lucky. Her luck appeared to have run out somewhere between New York and Greenport anyway – it probably went out with the airplane waste disposal system.

  “It’s a very nice room, Mrs. Breezer,” Kristen said politely. The upstairs room consisted of one large room that housed a queen-size bed, a desk, two wicker chairs, and a bathroom with a clawed tub. The walls were painted white, making the room feel airy, and the artwork consisted of several paintings of boats.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” Mrs. Breezer said and dug deep into her front pocket. “If you happen to come in late, watch the third step on the stairs – it creaks. I don’t like waking up in the middle of the night and neither does Humphrey Bogart.” With that, she pressed a key into Kristen’s hand and hobbled back down the stairs.

  Kristen walked out onto the balcony and took a deep breath. The air was salty and fresh, and she could hear the waves canoodling with the rocks down below. Private beach, the
listing had said, and Kristen had to agree it was indeed private. There was no path running along the beach, so if she wanted to get to the neighbor’s house, she’d either have to climb a jagged rock or swim. Or, well, at the very least wade.

  Of course, she wasn’t counting on spending too much time in her room, or on the beach, for that matter. She had a meeting scheduled with Quinlan Bankhead the next morning for 7 am, and from that moment on, she’d be at his beck and call for the following year. She decided she would spend the afternoon getting acquainted with the town and maybe have dinner at one of the restaurants in the harbor.

  After a shower and the unpacking of all her clothes, Kristen headed out. She’d gone for casual wear – jeans, a cowl-neck top and sandals. At 5’7”, she could afford to skip the heels from time to time, and today her feet were insisting she do just that.

  She followed the little gravel path to where the cab had dropped her off, and then walked along the paved road towards the harbor, which she could see from where she was. The road inclined slightly and then started to decline, sloping down towards what appeared to be the town center.

  She could see gated properties as she walked, and assumed this was where the so-called crème de la crème lived. The town of Greenport had been described as a small but affluent town on every website she could find. So far, she’d only encountered the small part of that description. She would have to assume that affluence hid behind gates and walls here, as it so often did.

  She could see houses up in the hills, and figured the view from up there must be spectacular. It was surprising to her, though, that Mrs. Breezer was sitting on an ocean-side property with a dilapidating house and business. Had people tried to buy her out and she’d refused? Or did the rocks encasing the house make the property tough to sell, even with its location?