by Amie Denman
Chris pushed the play button and they both listened.
Hello Blue Isle Construction. This is the owner of the East Pointe estate. You were supposed to repair the hurricane damage at my home and I have discovered that none of it is repaired yet. I have a big event over the holidays and I expect you to take care of this immediately.
“All right,” Rick said after taking a deep breath and nodding slowly. “It, um, doesn’t sound so bad. We can go out and take a look at it today and see what we can do.”
“Listen to the second message,” Chris said.
Hello again Blue Isle. Your business card says you specialize in quality construction. I wouldn’t know because absolutely nothing has been done to repair my estate. I want you here at eight a.m. sharp on Monday morning with a full crew.
“A full crew,” Rick said. He laughed a little, but he didn’t look amused. “I guess that means both of us and maybe one of the part time guys who isn’t already on Christmas vacation.”
“One more message,” said Chris.
If I don’t see you first thing Monday at East Pointe, my next three phone calls are going to be to the insurance fraud bureau, the better business bureau, and my lawyer.
“Guess she spent most of Sunday thinking about us,” Rick said. “Whatever happened to spending Sunday in church?”
“I think we might have some praying to do,” Chris commented.
“Oh,” Rick said. It was the kind of “oh” that implied a whole lot more, but also implied that nothing more need be said because they both knew it.
“Yep.”
“Well,” Rick said hesitantly, “there was a lot of damage around this island. I guess she’ll have to understand if maybe hers didn’t get fixed first.”
Chris let out a long breath. “Exactly how I see it.”
“Heck, we’re probably still waiting for her insurance company to come through with a down payment anyway,” said Rick. There was a moment of tense silence. “Right?”
“It’s in.”
Rick nodded. “Well, then, I’ll guess we’ll just meet up with her and get the job going. Want me to go deal with it? I’ve tangled with angry females a few times in my life.”
“Nope. Thanks for the offer, but she sounds dangerous. We’ll both go.” Chris smiled at his foreman and got up. “Hate to lose a good man like you.”
They both headed for the door of the small office.
“Did that lady sound familiar at all to you?” Chris asked.
“Nope. All rich Northerners sound the same to me,” Rick said.
“I guess that’s probably it.”
Chapter Five
When Chris drove up the driveway at East Pointe with Rick, his stomach churned. He didn’t like lying to people, even if his “lie” was more a temporary rearrangement of the truth. He wouldn’t take an insurance check and not do the work, he just might not do the work in the order he received the checks. Had he known the owners of East Pointe were coming for the holidays…well, he would have managed something. Somehow.
Now, he was in trouble. His notes said the property belonged to Martin and Kitty East. Kitty. The name suited the woman who left the message on his phone. She sure had claws. He wondered why her husband hadn’t been the one to call, but maybe Martin East was the kind of man who left the dirty work up to someone else. Most rich people were.
Chris parked the truck outside the closed garage door, and he and Rick got out and tramped over the curving sidewalk that led around the side of the house. Beach side would be where the damage was. Chris remembered coming out here right after the hurricane and submitting an estimate. There had been many such visits and a lot of work on claims and damage in the last three months. This one was only one of many and he didn’t remember the exact nature of the damage.
Until now. Holy cow. No wonder Kitty had her fur up. The yard was a disaster with fallen trees. One tree had damaged the edge of the roof and he’d be damn lucky if it wasn’t causing it to leak into the house. Damn. He should’ve at least come out here and covered that part of the roof with a tarp.
A patio and fountain had stones askew, but the worst of it all was a gazebo and trellis pavilion sort of thing. The sort of structure that only existed in magazines of the rich and famous, or maybe in the courtyards of really nice hotels. Hotels with doormen and keycards for the elevators. The kind he never stayed in. Even when he could.
There was no denying there was a mountain of work to do. He could understand why the homeowners were looking for his head. If he owned a place like this, he’d be upset, too.
Still, this was a playground for the owners. They visited a couple times a year, probably, when they were “getting away” from their fabulous homes elsewhere. Maybe it was putting a wrinkle in their Christmas plans to have a really messy yard. Well, too bad. Most of the people he worked for on this island owned only one small home that would fit in the garage of this place.
Chris shook his head as he felt for a notepad and pen in his shirt pocket. This would be a hell of a lot easier if he’d been able to sleep last night. It would probably be easier, too, if he explained the whole situation with the insurance checks to Rick. Truth is, he wondered if maybe Rick had the whole thing figured out by now anyway. Maybe there wasn’t any reason to say it out loud.
Chris walked over to the gazebo with the fallen columns, collapsed roof, and missing boards. Not all of the boards were missing. Some were in the fountain or scattered in the bushes along the front of the house. He’d have to see what he had in the lumberyard and get a quick order in on the next boat or flight if he wanted to get this job going any time soon.
Chris took his chances and stepped into the gazebo. The floor looked solid, but he wasn’t exactly a small man. He tested it with one foot and then stepped all the way in, carefully pulling down a few hanging boards from the trellised roof as he went. He felt absentmindedly for the tape measure usually hooked to the side of his belt. His hand came up empty.
“Must have fallen off in the truck,” he muttered.
Rick seemed absorbed in the roofline of the house where a tree was embedded on an angle. He was already writing down notes in his notepad and Chris was glad he’d brought him along to help. The sooner they took stock of the mess and got away from Kitty’s claws, the better. She hadn’t come out of the house yet and Chris was starting to hope they’d get away without a tongue-lashing.
“I’m going to the truck for a sec,” Chris yelled over to Rick. “Need anything?”
“Ladder.”
“Okay. Be right back.”
****
Whitney went up to her room after breakfast to put on practical clothes for meeting the contractor. Something not too feminine. Something that said she meant business. She was pulling on a loose-fitting T-shirt when she looked out her window overlooking the lawn. She saw an older man staring fixedly up at the corner of the house. She caught a flash of blue work shirt of another man before he disappeared around the corner of the house. A big man.
Hah. They’re here. Maybe they thought they could have a good look at the damage and formulate their story before she got out there. Maybe they were planning to check it out and run so they wouldn’t have to face her.
Whitney hurriedly threw on the rest of her clothes and slipped into a pair of sandals. She ran down the stairs and headed out the beachside double-glass doors. Blue Isle Construction was going to deal with her, one way or the other.
As she barreled through the doors and swung around on the older man, the look on his face registered complete surprise. For a moment, Whitney thought maybe he knew the East family and therefore knew she wasn’t Kitty East as she had implied in her phone message. He was probably expecting someone considerably older.
He walked over to Whitney and stood about ten feet away, a row of bushes between them.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Rick Churchill.”
Whitney waffled between saying something pleasant or letting her tirade in defense of
her friends begin. She wanted to go for the sassy angry approach, but that was a whole lot easier in theory than in practice. Especially staring at a man who was probably somewhere in his fifties, but had enough wrinkles to be seventy. Rail thin with big rough hands and gentle eyes. His short-sleeved blue work shirt had Blue Isle Construction embroidered over a bulging pocket.
“Whitney Oliver,” she replied. She wondered where she should start. “Thanks for coming out here this morning.”
Whitney wanted to kick herself. They should be thanking her that she hadn’t called in the island police or FBI or whoever the heck was in charge of this island. They were the ones who owed her an explanation and a hell of a lot of repair work for the wedding that was in twelve short days. What would Taylor think if she could see this mess right now?
The last thing on earth Whitney wanted to see was her pregnant best friend collapsing in tears over a wedding that looked like it was happening in a war zone. Whitney squared her shoulders and pasted on her serious face. The East family was counting on her.
“As you can see,” she began, “the hurricane damage is, as best as I can tell, totally un-repaired. Un-cleaned up. Un-rebuilt. Un-everything.”
Un-everything. I am such a dork. Stay tough. Eyes on the prize. Wedding in a dozen days.
“And I want it fixed. You have nine days.”
The nine days part was a spur of the moment innovation, but it was a good one. Taylor’s entire family and her fiancé’s brother and parents were arriving in ten days. It had to be perfect when they arrived or she would be a failure. Building in an extra day was…well, it was good insurance. Not that having good insurance had done the East family a whole lot of good so far.
Rick’s mouth dropped open a little and Whitney held her breath while he let out a long slow breath. Instead of answering right away, he turned his head and looked over the damaged lawn, the wrecked gazebo and pavilion, and then finally back up to the tree leaning on the edge of the roof right above them.
“Nine days,” he repeated slowly. “I’ll make a note of your request,” he said as he wrote on a thick pocket-sized notepad.
“What?”
Rick smiled. “I said I understand your request and will make a note of it.”
“Wait a minute. Does that mean you’re going to do it?”
“Honey,” he said patiently, “cleaning up this damage and doing all the carpentry it would take to put it back to exactly how it was is going to take a lot longer than nine days.”
“Honey?” Whitney felt an angry heat wave roll up over her shoulders, across her neck, and up her cheeks. She knew her ears were turning red and she wanted to pick up one of the loose boards defiling the shrubs and throw it at Rick Churchill, grandfather eyes or not.
“Sorry. Comes naturally. Got a daughter just about your age,” he said apologetically.
“Do you?” Whitney said icily. “I wonder how you’d feel if your daughter was getting married in this,” Whitney gestured wildly at the gazebo and pavilion, “mess. Huh? Would you maybe be just a little more concerned?”
Rick slowly wrote something down in the notebook again and rocked back on his heels. He appeared to be waiting for someone to come around the corner of the house.
“Guess that depends on when the wedding is,” Rick said, turning his attention back to her. “Would probably take a good month if we really got at it.”
Had he not heard her ultimatum of nine days? What was with this guy? Too much time in the sun had apparently affected his hearing. He was stalling.
Whitney crossed her arms over her chest. “The down payment check from the insurance company was cashed two months ago. I’m giving you nine days on top of that. I want this place perfect or you’ll be talking to my lawyer.”
Rick stood stock-still and looked at her. He glanced around the side of the house and she thought he nodded slightly at an unseen person over there. Probably the big man in the blue shirt whom she had caught a glimpse of earlier, a meathead employee. He was likely hiding out so he wouldn’t have to face the mad lady.
Finally, Rick said, “I’ll make a note of that, ma’am.”
“Make a note of this, too. I want the mess gone, the gazebo perfect, the pavilion ship-shape. I want every stone in the fountain perfect. There is going to be a wedding here on Christmas Eve and it’s going to be perfect. Unless you can get Santa to fly in here with a sleigh full of magic, you’d better get your whole damn company out here. Today. Write that down in your little book.”
Rick nodded. “Guess I’ll be seeing you later, then,” he said calmly as he walked slowly around the house toward the driveway.
Chapter Six
Rick got in the passenger side of the blue pickup and slammed the door. He didn’t say anything as Chris quickly backed down the driveway and steered mercilessly onto the winding road that led away from the East Pointe estate. Both men rode in silence for a few minutes.
“Did you have some trouble finding the ladder?” Rick asked evenly.
“That was her.”
“Her. Yeah, I get it. The furious woman who left the message on your machine. The reason we’re out here when we have a thousand other things to do today,” Rick said.
“No, I mean her. The woman from the airport, the woman from last night.”
“Shit,” Rick started laughing and the tension broke like a landslide in the truck. “No wonder you hid like a scared puppy in the truck. I was looking for a hole to crawl into, too.”
“Sorry I sold you out,” Chris said.
“You didn’t exactly sell me out, you just left me out to dry. There’s a difference.”
Chris looked ahead, both hands gripped on the steering wheel. “What the hell are we gonna do?”
Rick took off his hat and let the breeze from the open window ruffle his thin grey hair. “I guess we’re going to fix up her place.”
Chris nodded.
“In the next nine days,” Rick added.
Chris’ head swung around and he dropped the tires of the pickup off the edge of the narrow road. The truck veered dangerously as he over-corrected and ran across the center line, scaring the devil out of some tourists on bicycles. He and Rick were both breathing heavily now and neither of them said anything for a few minutes.
“Where did nine days come from?”
“She’s getting married on Christmas Eve. Wants it perfect for her dream wedding I guess,” Rick said. “Sure pity the groom.”
Chris pulled the truck into the empty parking lot of a seafood restaurant.
“Married. Did she say she’s getting married?”
Rick nodded. “And she wants it perfect. Said something about us getting Santa to fly in or fixing it up ourselves. I don’t think she’s kidding.”
Chris stared ahead, not even noticing the hot sun slanting through the open window of his truck, the light breeze doing nothing to cool the baking interior. He reviewed everything she’d said since he’d met her. The Jeep under the name Taylor. Said she was here for a wedding…said ‘not tonight’ when he’d asked her about it. Was it just last night they’d walked along the colorful street? Along the darkened waterfront? Half a day ago and he could still feel her skin under his lips. Was he just the final island fling before she married Taylor East: son of the wealthy owners of East Pointe?
If she was marrying Taylor East, why was she here alone? Why had she come ahead to deal with all the hurricane damage? Some people they were, sending a young woman to tackle such a mess. Of course, he reasoned, they didn’t expect it to be a mess. For all he knew, she was here to work on her tan and pick out island flowers for her dream wedding. She sure scared Rick. No doubt she could handle just about anything she wanted to.
But so could he. Chris pounded the steering wheel. He swore out loud and felt the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
“I’m guessing she didn’t mention the getting married part to you last night,” Rick said.
“Not exactly.”
“So, what�
�re we goin’ to do about fixing up the place for her wedding?” Rick asked. “The way she put it, you’ve got her money and got no choice.”
“We’ll see about that.”
****
Whitney took a cup of coffee and sat on the lawn. She waited. She had her cell phone on the chair next to her expecting a call from Blue Isle and dreading a call from Taylor. She didn’t want to tell her friend any more lies about the condition of the place. She was also dreading a call from her general manager at OutWhit Outplay Sportswear. On top of everything else, she was supposed to be considering a major business decision while she was on her pseudo-vacation. She had devoted precisely five seconds to thinking about her business back in Boston. She was busy frying bigger fish right now.
She promised herself that if no one showed up by noon to work on the damage, she would call Blue Isle. If no one showed up by one, she would call the police. If no one showed up by two, she would storm the construction yard at Blue Isle, wherever it was, with her rented Jeep. That’s what rental insurance was for.
At eleven, Whitney went inside to change into something lighter. It was eighty degrees and sunny, and she could already feel her skin browning under the sun’s tropical rays. Sunscreen, shorts, and a sandwich would make the waiting easier. She pulled her lawn chair under the sparse shade offered by the crooked palm hanging dangerously over the leaning gazebo. She resolved to count slowly to one hundred before she had a stroke.
At the count of ninety-seven, she heard a truck in the driveway. Before she got to one-hundred-and-fifty, she saw three young men saunter around the side of the house with rakes, shovels, a chainsaw, and a few hand tools. The older man from earlier, Rick Churchill, was not with them, but she decided they probably knew what they were doing.
Whitney smiled. Her work here was done. She went inside the house, happy to retreat into the air conditioning with a good book and relax in the knowledge that things were starting to happen. She usually got what she wanted by being direct and persistent. This should be no exception. Nine days of being a taskmaster should do the trick.