Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  That struck a note of some sort. Daddy’s gaze flickered sideways for a second, a look of surprise on his face.

  “We don’t have time to discuss this anymore.” Susan tossed the wad of napkin on her dirty plate and picked up her purse. “I have to stop by the apartment and get my tennis shoes before softball practice.”

  Returning a wave from Millie across the dining room, she left the restaurant. Daddy trailed behind her, silent for once.

  Chapter Eleven

  Millie held Rufus’s head while Susan looked in his ears. The poor dog trembled so badly she feared he might collapse of a heart attack right there on the clinic floor.

  “What’s the matter with you? You like Dr. Susan.” She scratched the base of his tail, which normally sent him into fits of ecstasy, but his head only drooped further.

  “I don’t take it personally.” Susan smoothed his ear down and switched to the other. “Some animals are afraid of the vet’s office. His ears look fine.” She put the earpieces of her stethoscope in place and pressed the drum against his chest. “Heart and lungs, too. He’s perfectly healthy. How’s his appetite?”

  “Fine.” Millie gave him an extra rub and then straightened when Susan did. Rufus immediately crossed the floor of the exam room and planted his nose in the door crack in a clear statement. “He eats well, but he doesn’t have any energy. All he does is mope around.”

  Susan folded her arms and watched the dog with a thoughtful expression. “I think you’re right. The move to a new house might have him a bit depressed. Dogs like Rufus who have been abandoned can be particularly sensitive to any change in their routine.”

  “Albert is the same,” Millie said drily, “and he’s never been abandoned.”

  “Change is never easy, especially for older people.” Her eyes widened, and she put a hand out as if to retrieve the words. “Not that your husband is old. That’s not what I meant.”

  Not offended in the least, Millie gave a quiet laugh. “Oh, but he is. Not old exactly, but Albert and I are certainly not spring chickens anymore. Still, even as a young man Albert resisted change.”

  “Just like my father.” A troubled look appeared in the girl’s eyes. “But sometimes change is necessary.” She searched Millie’s face. “Don’t you agree?”

  Though they’d become friends in the three months that they’d worked together, Susan rarely confided in her receptionist. Or in anyone, as far as Millie could tell, except her father and lately Justin. Still, Millie was attuned to nuances in relationships, and she’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the tension between Justin and Thomas Jeffries. Poor Susan was caught in the middle of two men she loved, never a comfortable position in which to find oneself.

  In Millie’s privately held opinion, Thomas’s grip on his daughter went beyond that of a typical father. Probably because he’d lost his wife early and raised his daughter himself. Understandable, but the inevitable result of a tightfisted hold like that was a broken hand.

  Millie filled her smile with compassion. “Absolutely. Change is inevitable. Sometimes it’s even more painful for the person who forces a change than for those who resist it.”

  Susan gave her a sharp look. A moment later she nodded. “Well, anyway.” Her tone became professional. “Give Rufus a little extra attention. He’ll come around eventually.”

  “I hope so.” Though Millie looked at Rufus, she was thinking of Albert.

  When she and Rufus got home, good news awaited.

  “You’re mold free,” declared Mold Man.

  “Really?” So much had gone wrong lately she hardly dared to believe him. “Did you check the other rooms?”

  “Sure did. Ran all the tests. Swabs. Samples. Air quality.” He waved a hand in the air. “All came back clean. Even the basement looks good, though I’d recommend treating those concrete walls before too much longer as a preventative measure. Old basements are notorious breeding grounds for mildew.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  He laid a triplicate form on the kitchen counter and extracted a pen from his breast pocket. “Sign here.”

  She did, swallowing hard against the four-figure total at the bottom of the page. Albert would have a conniption. But what choice did they have?

  When his truck had backed out of the driveway and disappeared from view, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Millie left the kitchen and arrived in the entry hall at the same time Justin stepped off the last step.

  “They’re finished.” She waved her copy of the form. “Let’s go see the damage.”

  Together they entered the parlor, and Millie winced at the sight of the giant hole in the wall beside the fireplace. Wooden posts rose from floor to ceiling, newly cleaned and free of the gray growth that had caused the sudden—and expensive—interruption to her plans.

  Justin crossed the floor to inspect the beams closely. He shoved his head inside the jagged hole, squinting upward. “Looks good from here.”

  “From over here it looks ghastly.”

  He turned a sympathetic smile her way. “Don’t worry. When I finish drywalling you won’t be able to tell there was ever a problem.”

  She glanced around the beautiful room. The bay window, broken when they bought the house, had been replaced last month at a cost twice what she’d anticipated. Albert had thrown such a fit she’d decided to leave the renovation of the parlor until after at least two of the bedrooms—where paying customers would stay—were complete. But the discovery of mold had disrupted her plans. She couldn’t leave a gigantic hole in the parlor wall, not when she planned to make this room the heart of their home. After the first upstairs bedroom was finished, this room would be where she and Violet concentrated their efforts.

  Returning her attention to Justin, she studied him more closely. A hint of dark smudges marred the skin beneath his eyes, a telltale sign of sleepless nights that shouldn’t trouble a healthy young man.

  Unless he was in love.

  While she must draw a line against prying into her employer’s personal life, she had no such compunction about the young man before her. She’d grown to care about him over the past several months. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yeah. Well, mostly. ” He raked fingers through his dark, curling hair. “I’ll feel better come Sunday.”

  She knew without asking what would happen on Sunday. “That’s when Susan’s father returns to Paducah, isn’t it?”

  The look he gave her was sharp, and followed by a rueful smile. “Not much gets past you, does it, Mrs. Richardson?”

  She answered with a small smile and watched him pace to the fireplace with long-legged steps.

  “The trouble is, geography isn’t going to change Mr. Jeffries’s feelings.” He laid a forearm across the ornately carved mantel and rested his head against it, staring with distant eyes at the marble hearth. “I’ve been as nice to him as I know how to be, but the man hates me.”

  “You know his feelings for you aren’t personal, don’t you?”

  “You mean he’d feel the same about any man who’s interested in Susan?” His lips twisted into a rueful line. “Yeah, I know. But he doesn’t. He thinks I’m the cause of all his problems.”

  A particularly wise observation for a young man.

  “But Susan loves you. Anyone with eyes in their head can see that. In the end, her opinion is the only one that matters.”

  “I know.” Without raising his forehead from his arm, he turned toward her. The look on his face wrenched her heart. “But she’s spent her whole life thinking her father is the smartest man in the world. And that he has her best interests at heart. When he moves here, it’ll be a matter of time before she agrees with him.”

  Millie wanted to deny the dreadful prediction, but the words died unspoken. Thirty-seven years of marriage had taught her that a couple never really left the influence of their parents behind. Baggage, they called it. But a strong couple could carry the baggage, as long as they did it together.

  “Then perha
ps what’s needed is a preemptive move.”

  He lifted his head, questions in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Millie merely smiled. Albert often accused her of meddling without compunction, but that was untrue. She did draw the occasional line, and here was one.

  “You’ll come up with something,” she assured him, and then changed the subject. “How’s the attic coming along?”

  He hefted himself away from the wall. “The squirrels have cleared out. I’ve covered all the grating with wire mesh and patched the holes. It’s an obvious patch-job, though. At some point you’ll probably want to do some restoration work on the original siding.”

  At what cost? When they bought the house, Millie had been furious with Albert for saying they would repair the house, but could not afford to restore it.

  “That will have to come later,” she said, “after the B&B starts making money.”

  “Well, at least all that carved trim hides the damage from anyone at ground level. And the trim is in good shape, as far as I could see.”

  “That’s good anyway.” She glanced in the direction of the backyard, where the ten traps still cluttered the lawn. “I don’t suppose you could rid the yard of squirrels as easily as you cleaned out the attic?”

  He heaved a laugh. “Can’t help you there. Personally, I think Al’s fighting a losing battle, but don’t tell him I said so.”

  She certainly would not. If Albert heard that, he might decide to move into his travel trailer, and she’d never see him again.

  Al entered Cardwell’s on Saturday morning, pleased to see a full contingent of Creekers once again. Saturdays in summer were some of his favorite days of the year. A quick scan of the crowd provided an extra mood-lifter—Thacker was not in evidence.

  “Morning, manager,” Fred called out.

  “Morning, catcher,” Al replied in a light tone as he claimed the stool vacated by Leonard Cardwell, who drained his coffee cup and headed for the pharmacy counter in the back.

  Lucy picked up her husband’s cup and replaced it with a full one for Al. He nodded his thanks and swiveled toward the tables, where Norman sat in one chair and his foot, swathed in a thick layer of Ace bandage, occupied another.

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “Eh.” Bushy eyebrows drew down to nearly obscure the older man’s squinty eyes. “Hit pains me right bad. Doc won’t gimme me no more pills, neither.”

  Beside him, Little Norm shook his head, disapproval heavy on the features that resembled his mother more than his father, thank goodness for him. “He doesn’t want you to get addicted, Pa.”

  Lucy turned a scowl his way, her arms still elbow-deep in a sink full of soapy water. “You follow the doctor’s advice. Don’t mess around with pain pills.”

  “Bah!” He dismissed her with a wave and focused again on Al. “You’uns is doin’ good, I hear. Gonna give them Morleyville fellers a run fer their money, ain’t ye?”

  Al caught Little Norm’s eye, and the younger man quickly looked away. Apparently he’d been talking up the team’s skills to his father, though why he would lie Al couldn’t imagine. Probably to keep Norman from hobbling onto the field to resume his place on the team. Well, Al wouldn’t interfere.

  “We’re coming along,” he said, and changed the subject. “How’s the painting progressing?”

  “Good.” The word shot quickly out of Little Norm’s mouth, and his lips clamped shut.

  Beside him, Junior twisted in his chair. “What’s with the tent, anyhow? Y’all got something to hide?”

  Seated beside Al, Pete leaned sideways to fix a look on Little Norm. “Bill told me that woman ordered a load of paint from someplace down in Georgia.”

  “And what if we did?” Little Norm stiffened. “Sandra’s used to working with a special kind of paint that you don’t carry. She got all the basic stuff from you.”

  Clearly offended, Pete scrubbed at a drip of coffee on the counter. “I might have been able to order it.”

  “We hired her to do a job. Leave her alone and let her do it.”

  “So how come she’s hiding her work?” Junior, apparently not ready to let the subject drop, planted an elbow on the table. “She ashamed of it?”

  “No.” Little Norm rounded on him. “We put that canvas up to keep the busybodies out of our business, that’s why. Couldn’t get any work done, what with having to stop and explain ourselves every ten minutes.”

  Surprise on his face, Junior shifted in his chair away from Little Norm. “Just askin’, that’s all. No call to get your drawers in a hitch.”

  With a visible effort, Little Norm replied in a calmer tone. “Everybody will see it soon enough. She’s not only good, she’s fast. Now that we can work in peace, the job’s gonna be done earlier than we thought.”

  Usually Millie kept Al informed of all the happenings in Goose Creek, but she had not mentioned an accelerated reveal of the water tower. For once, he might have a bit of news to tell her. “When do you think you’ll be finished?”

  “We’re aiming for the Fourth of July.” With another stern look toward Junior, he picked up his soda. “That is, as long as nobody bothers us.”

  The door opened and, to Al’s displeasure, Thacker bounded into the room. “Good morning, fellow Geese. Honk, Honk.” He put his hands in his armpits and flapped.

  No one returned his special greeting, though several groans sounded from those gathered. Instead of taking offense, Thacker merely laughed, snorted, and headed for the far table. Woody caught Al’s eye and quirked one eyebrow.

  “Where’s that fancy tablet of yours, Franklin?” Pete asked.

  Wearing a surly expression, Lucy set coffee and the sugar bowl on the table in front of Thacker. Before he could comment, she shook a finger in his face. “Don’t you dare call me ‘sweet thang.’ ”

  “Okey-dokey.”

  Jerking a satisfied nod, she turned away.

  “Honey bun,” Thacker added.

  From where he sat, Al saw the scowl. Did Thacker realize how close he was to getting a cinnamon roll shoved up his nose? But with a visible effort and a hard set to her jaw, she returned to her place behind the counter.

  “I left the tablet at home.” Thacker spooned sugar into his coffee. “Apparently some people in this town are resistant to technology.”

  “That mean you’ve given up on your program?” Little Norm asked.

  Thacker took his time answering. He finished stirring, set the spoon on the table, and picked up his mug. Raising it, he met Al’s gaze. “Let’s just say I’m working on another way to help the team.”

  He winked broadly, and Al found himself the object of several curious stares. He fidgeted on the stool and hid behind his coffee mug. Being aligned with Thacker left him distinctly uncomfortable. Whatever scheme the man had going now, he wanted no part of.

  Chapter Twelve

  Okay, Suz, raise your glove. Watch the ball. This is going to be an easy one.”

  Her muscles so tight her arms trembled, Susan raised her glove above her head. As instructed, she stared at the ball in Justin’s hand. Easy, since he stood only ten feet away.

  He lowered his arm, knees bent, ready to toss the ball into the air for her to catch. Tension tightened in her stomach and she set her teeth.

  Heaving a sigh, Justin straightened. “You’ve got to loosen up. You’re going to end up getting hurt if you can’t relax.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Fear made her voice sharper than she intended, and she immediately followed with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. But the game is only ten days away.” Her tone descended into a wail. “I’m never going to be able to catch that stupid ball.”

  He stared at her a moment and then lowered his arm. “Let’s take a break.”

  She followed him to the corner of the yard where a shaft of early evening sun still illuminated the green grass. Her landlords, the Hunsakers, kept their yard immaculate and encouraged Susan to relax there whenever she liked. Not that she
had much free time, but it was nice to look out the window of her over-the-garage apartment on this small but peaceful patch of nature.

  Justin indicated where she should sit and then lowered himself to the ground a few feet away. He sat cross-legged.

  “Catch,” he said, and tossed the ball.

  So apparently their break wasn’t for relaxing. Still, over a distance of a yard or so the ball didn’t have a chance to gain frightening speed. She snagged it out of the air easily and tossed it back to him.

  “There you go.” His encouraging smile warmed a bit of the chill in her stomach, even though it was ridiculous to take pride in catching a ball that a toddler could handle. “Tell me about that soccer ball incident. How old were you?”

  “Oh, seven or eight. I was at school in gym class, and Rodney Blair kicked it straight at my face.” She caught the ball again. “I think he did it on purpose.”

  “He probably had a crush on you. Boys are weird like that.”

  She tilted her head and asked, “Did you ever kick a soccer ball at a girl you liked?”

  “No.” A wide grin appeared. “But I did cut the curls off of Angie Fricker’s hair in fifth grade. She sat in front of me.”

  “Meanie.” She lobbed the ball with a little more force, smiling.

  “Use your glove to catch this one,” he said. “So you lost three teeth?”

  The next ball dropped into her open glove thanks more to his aim than any ability on her part. “Yeah. The dentist reimplanted two of them but this one”—she tapped on a tooth—“is a crown.”

  “Can’t tell at all. Must have been pretty traumatic, huh?”

  “I remember there being a lot of blood.” She shuddered. “They took me to the nurse’s station and called Daddy. He got me to the dentist within an hour, which is the only reason they were able to save any of them.”

  The ball ping-ponged between them a few times.

  “Your dad’s been there for you a bunch.” Justin’s gaze remained fixed on the ball.