by Julie Hyzy
“Not a clue.” I dragged an old chair over and stood on top to see if I could determine anything. Not that I would recognize a load-bearing wall versus one that wasn’t. Nor could I figure out why the beam was so much wider than the workbench itself. I’d never looked at it closely before—it had simply always been there and I’d accepted it as a given. “Hey, this is odd,” I said. “The beam looks as though it’s attached to the top of the workbench.”
“Exactly. Which means we can’t simply tear the thing out without first making sure the floor above won’t crash down on top of us.”
I got down from the chair. “Let me know what the project manager says.”
“Frederick had a marvelous thought about this,” she said. “I wanted to show you when you came in, but you needed to see the bench first.” She curled her finger and started back toward the laundry area.
“Frederick was here today?” I followed her. “I thought he was your silent partner.”
She giggled as though I’d said something truly witty. “Frederick is here every day.”
“How strange that we haven’t run into each other yet.”
“I keep forgetting that you haven’t met him. You will.”
When we returned to the area near the stairs, she made a beeline for a long, shallow plastic bin with a hinged white top, like the kind I kept under my bed to store sweaters. “I can’t take credit for this,” she said, “it was all Frederick. He’s the one who ran over to the Emberstowne historical society this afternoon. And good thing he did.”
“What did he need at the historical society?”
“Blueprints for your house.” She pulled up three packets of rolled drawings and stretched one out. “Isn’t this a find? We can study these and know precisely how to restore the interiors.” Catching herself, she added, “I mean, if you think that’s a good idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said. It was true. I spread my hands along the edges of the blue-tinted paper in order to get a better look at the drawings. This was like finding gold. I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice.
Hillary’s face lit up with what may have been the first genuine smile I’d ever seen on her. She was clearly taken aback by my reaction and it occurred to me, belatedly, that she’d probably been as leery about working with me as I was with her. Worse for her, in this situation, she was the one with something to prove. The pressure on her to succeed must be sky-high.
Up until now I’d been the one under the microscope. Even though Bennett had accepted me—had practically taken me in as family—Hillary had remained aloof. Recently, however, after she’d learned about my possible blood relation to Bennett, she’d begun to warm up a little.
Here, in my home, I wielded the power. She needed to work to make me happy with her changes and suggestions. Although I’d understood our new dynamic on a logical level from the very start, it wasn’t until this moment, after her spontaneous reaction to my happiness, that it had hit home.
“Frederick says that they’re probably not as old as the house,” she said. “But they’re the closest thing to an original plan that we have. Frederick borrowed them from the historical society and promised we’d return them no later than Monday morning.”
“I didn’t know that the historical society kept records of every house.”
“Not every,” she said with a little shrug. “Most, though. I think some were lost or misplaced through the years. Frederick was delighted to find out that yours were there.”
Each of the three rolls she’d pulled up was actually a set of multiple sheets. I flipped through them slowly, seeing the floor plans to my first level, the bedroom level, even the attic, before returning to the drawings of the basement.
“I can’t really read these,” I said. “I mean, I can figure out where the walls are.” I traced a finger along the line that represented the wall in front of us. “But when I look over here to where the workbench is, I don’t see it.”
“Which is why Frederick and I think it wasn’t considered permanent. The foreman will get a chance to study these tomorrow, but I think it’s good news for us. If it isn’t part of the original structure, that means that we can tear it out. Won’t that be fun?”
Chapter 5
Bootsie ran in and out, occasionally keeping me company while I dined alone at the kitchen table. As it was Friday night, I knew that Scott and Bruce wouldn’t be home from Amethyst Cellars until very late. Tourist season was always good, but business at their wine shop had really taken off this year.
After cleaning up, I pulled out the blueprints and took to studying them again, one room at a time. Although my house hadn’t undergone major changes since it had been built, there were a few notable updates, mainly having to do with bathrooms. From the looks of it, the original structure had had one bathroom, up on the bedroom level.
A powder room had been installed much later, on the main floor near the back of the house. Two additional full baths had been added through the years, making three total on the bedroom level. These added conveniences had allowed me to open my home to boarders in the first place. My roommates had their own private bath, I had mine, and there was a spare. We used it for guests, but it provided the option of opening the house to another boarder, if we ever decided to expand our little family.
My cell phone rang.
“Hey, Grace,” Adam said when I answered. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours, too,” I said.
I’d gotten to know him enough to expect cheerful banter. Today he skipped that and asked, “How are plans for your benefit coming?”
“Really well. We had our final walk-through today. I’ll have to get there early tomorrow to oversee things, but I think we’re all set.”
He made a noise I couldn’t decipher. “That’s great.” His voice was off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something has come up.” He pulled in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Grace, but I’m not going to be able to make it to the fund-raiser tomorrow night.”
“What happened?”
“I have an aunt who’s sick. More than sick; she’s probably not going to make it through the weekend.”
“I’m so sorry, Adam,” I said. “You need to be with her.”
“I do,” he said. “I hate to disappoint you, but I knew you’d understand.”
“Of course. Which aunt is this?”
“One of my dad’s sisters. She’s about fifteen years his senior and the oldest in the family. My dad is quiet, reserved, and staid. Aunt Tessie is a pistol and always has been. Married four times, buried all but the most recent husband. I think he’s in shock that he’s going to outlive her.”
“I’m sorry. This has to be tough for you.”
“We saw it coming, but yeah. It is. I’m sorry to miss your party, Grace. I really wanted to be there.”
“It’s all right. I’m probably going to be busy most of the night anyway.”
“When all this—” He stopped himself. “When things have settled down again,” he amended, “I’d like to come out there and see you.”
“I’d like that, too.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” I almost told him that I missed him, but at the last second, I kept the words tight inside. I’d been too open, too transparent, too eager to be hurt in the past. Fear held me silent.
“I miss you, Grace.”
My breath caught.
I heard the back door swing open. “The boys are home,” I said. “I have to go. I know you’re facing a difficult time ahead. You take care of yourself, okay?”
I wasn’t sure if the sound he made was one of disappointment or resignation. Or both. “Talk soon,” he said, and hung up.
I brought Bruce and Scott up to speed about the workbench in the basement, showed them the blueprints, and updated th
em about Adam’s change in plans. Neither of my roommates planned to attend the benefit tomorrow, mostly because Saturdays at the wine shop were even busier than Fridays, but they had been looking forward to seeing Adam again.
“Speaking of the fund-raiser, your friend came in again this evening,” Bruce said. He turned to Scott. “I thought we’d gotten lucky and he’d found a new place to hang out.”
“Apparently not.” Scott rolled his eyes. “What did we ever do to you, Grace?”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
“David Cherk.”
“I’d hardly call him my friend,” I said.
“That’s not how he sees it,” Bruce said. Imitating Cherk’s pontificating tone, he went on, “‘Grace and I are working together, you know. She’s depending on me to bring brilliance to her fund-raiser.’”
“My fund-raiser?”
“Oh yeah,” Bruce said. “And because you’re his dear colleague, he insisted that Scott or I take care of him. Had to be one of us. He wanted to make extra sure we knew that he was working with you and that the entire event is dependent on him.”
“The guy barely tolerates me.”
“He had motive. We get these types from time to time, don’t we?” Scott asked Bruce. “Cherk is a user and a complainer and an all-around pest. Our favorite kind of customer. Not.”
Bruce shot me a weary look. “He made it sound as though you told him to come into the shop and mention your name if he wanted to score deep discounts.”
“I did no such thing.”
Bruce and Scott both managed smiles at that. “We know,” Bruce said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“For heaven’s sakes, why would he do such a thing?”
Scott waved as though shooing a fly. “Don’t take it personally, Grace. He’s one of those people who wants a better deal than anyone else, and thought that if he dropped your name into conversation, we’d throw freebies his way.”
“Did you?”
They answered together. “No.”
Bruce picked up the story. “He put on quite a show, broadly suggesting that after having to deal with Joyce Swedburg he deserved special treatment.”
Using the fingers of his hands like pincers, Scott gripped the front of his shirt and waved it in and out. “Sweat. He told us about how he worked up a sweat. Poor baby.”
“And he thinks that entitles him to a free bottle of wine,” Bruce said. “Or two.”
“How does he figure that?”
“I don’t know.” Bruce shrugged in a way that let me know he’d gotten over the annoyance. “All I can tell you is that people like Cherk—you can’t change them. He’s got this bloated sense of entitlement and believes he’s above us all. I think that’s what drives him—he truly believes he deserves to be treated better than the rest of the world.”
“That’s it exactly,” Scott added. “If he isn’t lobbying for free stuff, he’s complaining about prices, selection, or service. And he never hesitates to share his nasty mood with our employees. They cringe—literally cringe—when he walks in. I’ve seen it happen.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with him today. Especially if he made it sound as though I’d sent him there.”
“We know you better than that, Grace.”
“Seriously, don’t worry about him,” Scott said. “We only told you so that you’d know who you’re dealing with.”
When my roommates retired for the evening, I went upstairs and stood in the doorway of the spare bedroom I’d prepared for Adam’s arrival. I flicked on the overhead light and sighed.
Bootsie, who had been missing for some time, circled my ankles until I picked her up. I nuzzled her face, craving the kitten’s comfort, even though I knew I’d pay the price later. My allergies had gotten more manageable over the time we’d had her, but her saliva still caused hives when it came in contact with my skin and I hadn’t completely conquered the sneezing bouts yet.
“It’s worth it,” I said into her neck as I took a long look around. I’d stocked the spare room and bathroom with new towels and toiletries, freshened the sheets, and tidied up in anticipation of Adam’s arrival. I’d been looking forward to having him here—to getting to know him better. I was far more disappointed about this change of plans than I cared to admit.
* * *
Frances and I were overseeing the last-minute setup in the basement of Marshfield the next afternoon, when David Cherk arrived. “You’re here early,” I said. “The benefit doesn’t begin for another four hours.”
He gave an insouciant shrug. “There are always details that need to be attended to, unexpected problems before a big event. I want to do another full walk-through before I return home to change into proper attire.”
“We’ll join you on the walk-through,” I said. “I’d like to go over everything one more time as well.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I prefer to make this final round on my own.” He tapped both temples with his index fingers. “Helps me to see things more clearly.”
I exchanged a look with Frances. “By all means. Don’t let us stop you.”
He winked and pointed a finger at me, gun-like. “Try not to interrupt.”
“My,” Frances said when he had retreated to the stage room, “someone ought to inform Mr. Cherk that he doesn’t own this place.”
“True enough. But neither do we, so let’s chalk his attitude up to eccentricity and get back to work.”
“You might, though.”
“I might what?” I asked. “Get to work?”
She gestured, arms wide. “You might own this entire estate someday.”
I held up a finger. “Don’t go there.”
“I speak the truth as I see it.”
“Clearly, you need new glasses.” Before she could retort, I walked away. Workers were occupied with final tasks, and the last thing I wanted to do was get in their way.
David Cherk had disappeared behind the stage. I could hear him humming a fragmented tune, but we were too far away to make it out. Frances followed as I moved closer to listen. Behind the humming, we heard the quiet but unmistakable notes of a Johann Strauss waltz, probably coming from an iPod.
She nudged me. “Look,” she whispered.
The back curtain moved. Twice, three times. We kept watching, noticing that the fabric’s movement synced with Cherk’s music. It looked like he was hitting the back of the curtain with a pointed elbow, every third beat or so.
“Is he dancing?” I asked quietly.
Frances held a hand up to her mouth. “You think that’s why he didn’t want us following him?” she asked from between her fingers. “What is wrong with that guy?”
I took her arm and led her away. She balked at my touch but didn’t fight me. When we got far enough away, I said, “Maybe the music moved him and he got caught up in it. Let’s let him be.”
Frances clearly wanted to break in on Cherk, to see what he was up to, but I had better things to do.
“Let it go,” I said. “Focus on the party tonight. Are we missing anything?”
She frowned but admitted, “I think we’re in good shape.”
I gave the space a long, admiring look. The tables were covered in linen, the chairs in the auditorium set up in precise rows. Lighting was gentle, décor was soft. I was proud of how we’d pulled it all together.
“Everything is wonderful,” I said. “Glittery and bright. I’m hoping the benefit is as successful as our preparation for it has been.”
Frances checked her watch. “Shouldn’t you be leaving for the airport? Isn’t that band leader boyfriend of yours due to land soon?”
“He had to cancel.”
“Oh?” Her tone was high-pitched and inquisitive. “He’s got something better to do?”
It was none of Frances’s business, but I did
n’t care for the implication that Adam had chosen to stand me up. “His aunt is dying.”
She looked away, but didn’t respond immediately. “Sorry to hear.” A second later, she added, “Assuming it’s true, that is.”
* * *
At quarter to seven, we were ready for the party to start. Everything was in place, the room glowed, and Frances and I made ready to greet the first guests.
Frances wore a nun-worthy eggplant pleated skirt with matching jacket over a mauve blouse. Having forgotten Frances’s penchant for purple when I was out shopping, I’d splurged and bought myself a tea-length violet-blue dress for the occasion. I was now second-guessing my color choice. Heaven forbid that anyone assume that my assistant and I had coordinated.
Frances pulled up the antique watch she wore on a chain around her neck. “They should be showing up soon.” She clucked as she looked around the room. “I wonder how much it’s killing Joyce Swedburg not to be here.”
An hour earlier, our illustrious organizer had phoned to tell us that she’d fallen ill with a nasty bout of food poisoning and wouldn’t be able to attend. Frances had taken the call.
“I can only imagine,” I said. “I feel bad for her.”
Frances gave me a “You’ve got to be joking” look. “And you wonder why you get into trouble so often. You feel sorry for everybody.”
“The woman grates on my nerves, but she worked hard to make tonight’s benefit a success. Unpleasant personality aside, she deserves to be here.”
Frances didn’t say a word, but for once she didn’t disagree. I took that as a positive.
Because the closest working kitchen was up one floor and across the main hall of the first level, and because that kitchen was extremely small, our catering staff had had to get creative about supplying food for our guests. Fortunately, we weren’t serving a full dinner. Tonight’s menu consisted of appetizers, desserts, and drinks. It had taken some precise organization, but we’d arranged to have hot hors d’oeuvres delivered from the kitchens at the Marshfield Hotel, where they had plenty of space and many hands to help.