The ornate bronze figure glinted in the moonlight streaming through the window above the landing.
Brooke smiled and patted Hermes’s little winged cap. “Did you know he’s the official god of travelers?” She tilted her head. “Well, actually, the book I consulted said he was the ‘Olympian god of boundaries and of the travelers who cross them.’”
“Official god of boundary issues?” Cait laughed. “How fitting for this house.”
Right on cue, Jamie’s sleep-tousled head appeared at the top of the staircase. “Who goes there?”
Cait raised her mug in greeting. “A refugee from the Ivory Tower.”
“Cait? But you …” Jamie rubbed her eyes and peered down at them. “What happened?”
“Long story.” Cait reclaimed her overnight bag from Brooke and made a beeline for her old room at the end of the hallway. “With an unfortunate and unoriginal ending. Heed my words, ladies: Never, ever, ever date a college administrator.”
“… Without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people’s feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.”
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Never, ever, ever date a college administrator.
Cait’s warning reverberated through Jamie’s mind early the next morning as she shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. Because Brooke had yet to select window coverings, the bright morning sunlight had awakened Jamie at an hour when she would typically be going to bed if she still lived in Los Angeles.
But she didn’t live in L.A. anymore. She’d thrown away her job and her attempts to get her life together in California, just as she’d thrown away her jobs and relationships in Miami, Honolulu, and Atlanta.
Never, ever, ever date a college administrator. Jamie would add to that: Never, ever, ever date an investment banker, a chemical engineer, an auto mechanic, a sculptor, a zoologist, an actor, a computer programmer, or a social worker.
Hmm. Come to think of it, maybe the take-home message here was that no man in his right mind should ever, ever date her.
Though Jamie was always the first to make fun of her own romantic track record, she secretly harbored a growing sense of shame about her total inability to see anything through to its conclusion. When the tough got going, she quit, to the point that it was no longer an amusing postadolescent foible; it was a major character flaw. She hurt the people who cared about her. Not on purpose, not with malice, but the end result was the same, regardless of motive.
She thought about Arden and the thick cream-colored envelope that had arrived via certified mail last week, and her stomach churned.
Outside, she could hear birds chirping and a dog barking. The mornings were so quiet here. Careful not to slam the cabinet doors or clink the glasses, Jamie assembled a mismatched trio of coffee mugs. She leaned back against the chipped Formica countertop and gazed out the window at the clear cobalt sky and the copse of maple saplings in the backyard.
Thurwell, New York, billed itself as a pocket of tranquillity tucked in the foothills between the old-world gentility of Saratoga and the rustic charm of the Adirondacks. The streets were small and safe, the air clean and invigorating. The town’s neighborhoods branched outward from the main thoroughfare of Pine Street, which boasted one major grocery store, two stoplights, a pair of boutiques featuring expensive outdoor gear, a few family-owned restaurants, a cozy little pub, and a single-show movie theater. Most local businesses catered to the college population and the tourists who came to enjoy foliage and apple picking in the fall, Nordic skiing in the winter, and antiquing in the summer. The Thurwell College admissions brochures featured photos of professors leading seminars outdoors on the grassy quad and groups of rosy-cheeked students frolicking through the fresh snowfall at the annual winter carnival. But, like most small towns, Thurwell constantly roiled with scandal just below the surface. You just had to know where to look.
“Morning.” Brooke padded in wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and sheepskin slippers at least two sizes too big for her tiny feet.
Cait trailed in behind her, clad in a white ribbed tank top and a threadbare pair of blue plaid boxer shorts that looked vaguely familiar.
“Are those the same shorts you had in college?” Jamie shook her head. “Damn, don’t you ever throw anything away?”
“After years of living on Ramen noodles and a grad student stipend? No. Besides, I look good in these. Right, Brooke?”
“They’re very, uh, Robinson Crusoe chic.” Brooke turned back to Jamie. “What’s for breakfast?”
Jamie nodded toward the coffeemaker. “I’m a bartender, dearest, not a cook. If you need a killer mimosa or hibiscus, I’m your girl. You want eggs Benedict? I’m out.”
“What’s a hibiscus?” Cait wanted to know. “Sounds exotic.”
“Champagne and cranberry juice.”
Cait perked up. “Ooh, that sounds good. I might have to try that.”
“No!” Brooke smoothed her disheveled blond hair and rummaged through the cabinet next to the refrigerator. “No drinking. Today is a workday. For all of us. I have to go into the office—”
“You didn’t quit your job yet?” Cait asked. “I thought that was the whole point of this.”
“Do you have any idea how much it cost to put a down payment on this place? Never mind legal fees, accounting fees, liability insurance, dishware, website design, mattresses, furniture …” Brooke’s blue eyes got bigger and wilder with every word. “It’s only been three weeks, and I’m practically in the hole already.”
Cait nodded. “Point taken.”
“I have to keep my day job at least until I open the doors to guests,” Brooke said. “So I’m going into the office today, and Jamie’s going to start researching how to start an event-planning business.”
“I’ll let in the inspector guy, too,” Jamie volunteered. “And call the mattress place again and harass them about delivery.”
“What about me?” Cait asked.
“Well, you’ll be getting your muse on upstairs,” Jamie said.
Cait looked at them blankly.
“Your novel,” Brooke prompted. “You’re starting today, remember?”
“Oh yeah.” Cait poured herself a bowl of shredded wheat and shoveled in a huge mouthful.
Brooke put down her coffee cup for a moment and clasped her hands. Her face took on a radiant, peaceful glow. “I know start-up is a lot of work, but I shouldn’t complain. We are all so lucky to have this opportunity. How many people ever get the chance to start from scratch and chase their dreams?”
“Mmph,” Cait said.
“Exactly.” Brooke nodded. “No more negativity. Come hell or high water, Paradise Found will flourish. As God is my witness”—she waved her fist like a fair-haired Scarlett O’Hara—“I am going to do Arden proud!”
“Mmph.” Cait took another bite, topped off her cereal bowl, and trudged back toward the staircase.
“Me, too,” Jamie echoed. As soon as Brooke left for work, she crept back up to her bedroom and dug through the profusion of clothes, books, and shoes spilling out of her suitcases until she found the crumpled ecru envelope she was searching for. Then she hurried back downstairs to the makeshift office space set up on a card table next to the fireplace and turned on the paper shredder. She ran her finger over the law office letterhead embossed on the upper left corner of envelope and then, without a moment’s hesitation or any flicker of emotion, extracted the contents and fed them into gnashing metal teeth until her check for $250,000 was nothing more than confetti.
Two hours later, Jamie awoke with a start to find her cheek plastered to the open pages of 10 Simple Steps to Becoming a World-Class Wedding Planner and a thin rivulet of drool pooled in the book’s spine.
“Oog.” She rolled to the side and swiped at the page with her shirtsleeve. Studying in bed had always been her downfall; dull text and orange highlighters pro
vided the perfect prelude to a catnap.
Coffee. She needed more coffee. Plus a more comprehensive how-to guide. At least four of the ten simple steps focused on creating and enforcing an ironclad client contract. She didn’t need a manual to tell her to always get some money up front. Please. They might as well throw in sage little tidbits like Don’t sleep with the groom. Jamie already knew how to protect herself; the whole point of becoming an event planner was to protect someone else’s special day.
She headed to the kitchen, patting Mr. Wonderful on his winged cap on her way down the stairs. “Ahoy,” she said when she saw Cait seated at the kitchen table. “Any coffee left? I need to double down on my caffeine consumption. I’m telling you, I should be writing this guide instead of reading it.” She held up the book with a grimace. “Speaking of which, how’s your writing going? Did you start chapter one yet?”
Cait stared down at her plate of apple wedges and cheddar cheese. “I’ve been at the computer all morning. Just taking a five-minute break.”
Jamie nodded. “Well, let me know if I’m making too much noise or, you know, disturbing the creative cocoon in any way.”
Cait shrugged one shoulder. “No, you’re fine.”
The ancient avocado green wall phone rang, making them both jump. Jamie picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Oh, thank goodness you’re there, Jame, you have to help me!” Brooke’s voice was a hiss of panic.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hang on a second, I have to make sure no one hears this or I am fired, do you hear me? Fired!” There was a lot of rustling, then Brooke came back on the line. “The college is hosting a 150th anniversary celebration the day after tomorrow and all the trustees and muckety-mucks are invited and I’m in charge of the cake—I’m always in charge of the cake—and I thought I called the baker weeks ago, I could have sworn, but somehow, between everything with Arden and the funeral and the inheritance and buying the house …”
“There’s no cake,” Jamie finished for her.
Cait looked up from her apple with raised eyebrows.
“Exactly,” Brooke said. “I just called the baker and asked if she could pull something together on short notice, and she actually laughed at me! She says there’s nothing she can do. I can’t believe it, she’s never said no before. And the college has been such a loyal customer for the past few years.”
“Jeez,” Jamie said. “What a—”
“I know! That’s the problem with trying to do business in this smug little town: no competition. What am I going to do? I can’t show up to this with a grocery store cake!”
“Brooke. Settle down,” Jamie said. “Seriously, breathe. You don’t want to get the vapors and pass out.”
Cait’s eyebrows inched higher and higher as she craned to overhear Brooke’s end of the conversation.
“I can’t believe I dropped the ball like this.” Brooke emitted a tiny squeak of despair. “They’re going to fire me, and I can’t blame them one bit. I’m going to have to rush order something from Albany for half the quality and twice the price.”
“No, you’re not.” Jamie turned to Cait and gestured that she needed a pen and paper. “It’s all about confidence, remember? Just put on your game face and maintain. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“But how? We only have two days. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to do what any self-respecting English major would do: pull something out of my ass. Isn’t that why you called me?”
“Well, I—” Brooke stopped gasping for breath. “Yes.”
“Okay, then. Leave everything to me.” Jamie hung up the phone, whereupon Cait immediately demanded, “Brooke’s freaking out? What’s going on?”
“Nothing a crackerjack event planner can’t handle.” Jamie tossed 10 Simple Steps in the recycling bin and started to smile in spite of herself. “I do my best work under pressure, you know.”
“Uh-oh.” Cait’s lips formed a perfect O. “I know that look. That look means trouble.”
“You wound me.” Jamie snatched up the phone again, punched in numerals she knew by heart, and waited through three rings for someone to pick up. “Hey, it’s me. What are you doing right now?”
“Ovulating,” Anna said with decidedly un-Anna-like dejection. “All by myself.”
Jamie didn’t miss a beat. “Great. Can you ovulate and bake at the same time?”
“Might as well be productive, even if I can’t be reproductive. Why? What’s up?”
“Old houses mended,
Cost little less than new before they’re ended.”
—Colley Cibber, The Double Gallant
Brooke could smell the cinnamon and vanilla a block away from Paradise Found. Her pace quickened as she rounded the corner on her half-mile walk from work. The first floor of the house was brightly lit and upbeat New Wave music emanated from the open windows. As she ran up the steps and opened the front door, she set aside her anxiety and indulged in a moment of nostalgia.
She was coming home again. All of the stress and second-guessing of the past few weeks would be worth it.
“Honey, I’m home!” Brooke called as she hung up her handbag and light twill coat on the hooks next to the door.
All she heard in response was “Our Lips Are Sealed” by the Go-Go’s blasting out of the kitchen. When she got to the end of the hallway, she saw Anna and Jamie stationed at opposite counters with several large mixing bowls and open containers of flour, sugar, and spices on the table between them.
“Anna!” Brooke cried. “What are you doing here? What’s all this?”
“This”—Anna barely glanced up from the food processor—“is bakery boot camp. And I’m your commanding officer. Get in here and grab an apron.”
“Not so fast.” Jamie stopped whisking a metal bowl full of cream and pointed upstairs. “The insurance inspector is here. I let him in hours ago; he’s gotta be almost done.”
“How does he look?” Brooke asked. “Lenient and lackadaisical or surly and stern?”
“Couldn’t really say. I’ve been too busy trying to appease the sugarcoated slave driver here.”
“Less talking, more whisking,” Anna barked.
“Sir, yes, sir.” Jamie redoubled her whipping efforts.
“Where’s Cait?”
“Grocery store run,” Anna said. “Your pantry is scandalously understocked. I need more milk, butter, eggs, cream of tartar—”
“What the hell’s cream of tartar?” Jamie asked. “I’ve never even heard of that.”
“Don’t you worry.” Anna smiled wickedly. “You’re going to find out all about cream of tartar, right around two a.m. tonight when you’re exhausted and begging for a nap and a cheeseburger.”
“Do your worst. You’ll never break me, McCauley!”
“I’ll be right back,” Brooke said. “Save me a sifter.”
She dashed up to the second floor and peeked in the doorways until she located the insurance inspector in the bathroom adjoining Cait’s bedroom. “Hi! How are you? I’m Brooke Asplind.”
A stooped, lanky man wearing scuffed olive pants and a white polo shirt was hunched over a metal clipboard. His pale blue eyes looked weary beneath the brim of his navy cap. “You the buyer?”
“That I am.” She flashed her brightest, flirtiest smile. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” She waited for him to offer up his name along with a handshake, but he merely scratched his neck and thumbed through his paperwork.
“Says here that you’re planning to occupy the house as your primary residence and operate a bed-and-breakfast with the extra bedrooms?”
“That’s the plan,” she said. “May I offer you something to drink? A cup of coffee or tea?”
“Nope.” He scribbled away with his pen. “I’m finishing up.”
She crossed her fingers. “Everything checked out all right, I hope?”
“Pretty much,” he said. Her spirits soared.
Then he added, “With one no
table exception.”
“Oh dear. That sounds ominous.”
“There’s good news and bad news.” The inspector clicked his pen with finality. “I’ll talk you through it. The good news is the plumbing looks okay, the roof’s fairly new, and the smoke alarms are functional. I checked the basement and the attic for asbestos, and you’re all clear.”
Brooke nibbled the inside of her cheek. “And the bad news?”
“Well, you got a few minor issues to address: The back porch has a loose board, the toilet tank in the downstairs bathroom has a hairline crack and it’s leaking water, and you need to modify at least one of the ground-floor bedrooms to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
“Of course, that makes sense.” She paused. “What does that entail, exactly?”
“Well, the room needs to be wheelchair accessible, so you’ll have to widen the doorway, install grab bars in the shower, make sure there’s knee clearance under the sink, maybe add a ramp to one of the porches …”
“Sounds doable.” She started to relax. “Expensive, but doable.”
“Yeah, I think you can even get a tax credit for that type of remodeling.” He thumped his thumb against the clipboard. “Now here comes the bad news.”
His tone was decidedly worrisome.
“Shall I rustle up some tissues and bourbon before you break it to me?” Brooke asked. “Because you seem a little—”
“Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it: You’ve got knob-and-tube wiring.”
She blinked. “I’ve got what?”
“Knob-and-tube wiring. Through the whole house.”
“I don’t exactly know what that is.”
“I’ll tell you what it is: a house fire waiting to happen. Your whole electrical system’s outdated and potentially dangerous. Probably installed back in the 1930s or so. At least. No way can we insure this place. Especially if you’re planning to have boarders.”
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