“A few boards are all,” the woman answered.
“When can I take a look at it?”
“How about today?”
“I’m on my way to work right now, but I could drop by this evening. What’s the address?”
“Fifteen ten Maple Avenue.”
“I’ll see you then. Sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”
“It’s Beabots. Mrs. Beabots.”
CHAPTER TEN
LUKE TWISTED THE crank doorbell at Mrs. Beabots’s house. He was surprised that he felt a bit nervous about this interview. He’d taken over a dozen carpentry and handyman jobs in the past year, but for some inexplicable reason, this one had felt different to him ever since he answered the ad. He could hear light footsteps on bare wood floors. Now they hit carpet or a rug. Through the beveled glass, he saw a short, white-haired woman coming to the door.
“I’m here,” she said with a lilt to her voice. He remembered now that she had sounded quite cheerful on the phone. Perhaps that was the reason he’d wanted the job. Working for someone pleasant was always a plus these days, and not to be taken lightly. The homeowners at his past two extra jobs had acted as if he was ripping them off when he told them the hours he’d worked and total cost of his labor. He’d learned his lesson. He bid the job now, giving a complete estimate prior to beginning the work. People who did not work with their hands seldom truly understood the precision and care that carpentry required. Luke was a perfectionist and he just couldn’t do a job if he didn’t do it right. He hadn’t even seen this woman’s carriage house, but judging from the massive Victorian porch where he stood and the four large stained and beveled-glass windows, he felt as if he’d just won the lottery.
He could only hope this employer would pay him.
The door swung open. “Mrs. Beabots?” he asked.
She tilted her head coquettishly. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was flirting with him. She smiled at him, and it was a smile so genuine, he felt his misgivings melt.
“You’re a handsome one, you are,” she said with not a single whit of guile.
Luke dropped his jaw and snapped it shut. He had never in his life heard anyone be so unabashedly blunt. “Thanks.”
“Hmm,” she said, scrutinizing him from head to toe. “You look trustworthy and that’s imperative for this job,” she stated flatly.
“Thanks, again,” he said, assessing her as critically as she was him. Her eyes were clear, direct and intelligent. They were a deep blue color that had apparently not dimmed with age. He noticed that she wore mascara to intensify her eyes, very red lipstick and a touch of blush on her cheeks. She was dressed in a lime-green summer print dress and a white cardigan. She wore slip-on pink-and-lime-green-plaid topsiders, just like the ones Jenny had worn in the summer. Crystal bead earrings that he thought could possibly be antique aurora borealis dangled from her ears. Mrs. Beabots was clearly fashion conscious and proud of her appearance. Her back was ramrod straight, and she walked with purpose and direction. He realized that she was undoubtedly a woman of many facets.
“Let’s go see my little house.”
Luke’s brows furrowed. “Pardon?”
She smiled again. “The carriage house. When I was a little girl, I always wanted a playhouse. My father wouldn’t build one for me. Terrible with his hands, don’tcha know. He didn’t have a single skill to say scat about.” She took a step toward him, carrying a huge ring of keys. She shut the door behind her.
Mrs. Beabots kept talking as she grabbed the wrought-iron handrail and made her way down the front porch steps. “When my husband, God rest his soul, and I bought this house, I always considered the carriage house my playhouse. I wanted to think my husband was kinder to me than my father.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Luke offered.
“Don’t be. My father was all right, I suppose, as fathers go. He just didn’t care for children too much.” She looked up at him. “You are a tall one, aren’tcha?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luke chuckled under his breath. He hadn’t had this much physical assessment since he went to Great Lakes Naval Base for training.
She babbled on as they rounded the side of the house and passed by the hydrangea bushes and leafed-out forsythia. Yellow remains of tulip leaves flopped over river stones that formed the borders of the flower beds. He noticed there were very few weeds.
She glanced up at him as he observed the flower beds. “Oh, those will be planted with my annuals next week,” she said, as if she were reading his mind. “I have a boy who does my yard work for me. Lester’s his name. He’s about twenty now. I’m not sure. I think he’s always lied about his age. Came here from Kentucky. Runaway, Ann Marie told me.”
“Ann Marie?”
Mrs. Beabots nodded. “Best friend I ever had. She died a few months ago. Ann Marie found him, you know.”
“Found him?”
“Wandered into town on foot, he did. That was two years ago. She was out there on the boulevard doing her fall bulb planting. Lester had been wandering around and saw her on her knees, humming to herself. Ann Marie was always singing to herself. Anyway, Lester just stood there watching Ann Marie and when she turned around to grab the tulip planter, he handed it to her. He told her he liked diggin’ in the dirt. They worked together all that day, side by side. He had no place to stay, so Ann Marie took him home. Fed him, too. He’s still pretty scrawny if you ask me. Ann Marie arranged for him to get a job with Burt Nealy. Burt owns a landscape business and that huge tree nursery on the west side of town. Anyway, Ann Marie talked Maddie Strong into renting that apartment she has up over her coffee shop to Lester.”
“Sounds to me like your friend nearly adopted him.”
“That she did. She was always like that. Helping folks who needed help. Lester doesn’t talk much, but I know he misses Ann Marie something fierce.”
Mrs. Beabots continued walking and telling her story. “Anyway, the boulevard was all Ann Marie’s idea. She started planting the plums and apple trees out there over twenty years ago. Then she designed those curving beds and planted all the perennials herself. The pink tulips and daffodils for spring. Black-eyed Susans, pink cone flowers, Shasta daisies. Labor of love, if you ask me. Ann Marie always made everything beautiful.”
Luke looked over his shoulder at the boulevard down Maple Avenue. “My kids love the boulevard. They make me drive down here just to see the changes in the flowers.”
“You have children?” Mrs. Beabots stopped dead in her tracks. Craning her neck, she looked up at him. “So you’re married?”
“No. Not anymore,” he said with enough sadness that the bitterness of it caused him to wince.
Mrs. Beabots reached out and touched his forearm. “When did your wife die?”
“How could you know that?” he asked.
“It’s in your eyes. I can always tell. I see the same look in my own reflection. It’s never the same after our precious ones pass away, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” he replied simply.
“Well, then you and I have that in common,” she said and dropped her hand. She turned and started walking again.
The carriage house was enormous. It was over two stories high, with a steep gabled roof that Luke thought could house an attic or valuable storage space. The white exterior paint was peeling, and there were a good many rotten fascia boards. He could plainly see old termite damage. The windows were intact, but the sills were split and most likely could not be filled and repaired.
This job, to be done correctly, was going to take far more than just a couple coats of paint.
“This is some playhouse,” he said, looking up to the gutters and rooflines.
“Even as a child, I believed in thinking big.” She went to the side door. “I have it padlocked.”
Luke though
t it a silly thing to do. If a thief wanted anything in the rickety old building, all he had to do was give the rotted door a good shove.
Mrs. Beabots inserted the key into the lock, unhooked the latch and turned the old black doorknob, then stepped inside.
Luke followed her as she turned on several ballasts of overhead fluorescent lights. Slowly, Luke walked around the carriage house and assessed the building. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Beabots, that your playhouse needs a huge amount of work. The foundation boards are rotted and need to be replaced. It needs a new roof. Shingles and new gutters. I recommend downspouts to keep the runoff away from the foundation. I need to brace that top beam up there. It’s got two rather large cracks, and I wouldn’t want this roof to cave in. So slapping on a coat of paint would be a waste of your money.”
Mrs. Beabots smiled brightly. “I knew I could trust you. I knew it when I talked to you on the phone. I felt in my bones. You’re hired,” she said with enthusiasm.
“You’re kidding?”
“No. I know what the carriage house needs. My problem is that this is a small town. People talk about a lot of things. Most of the people who used to talk about me are dead. But some aren’t. Every year, I’ve had workmen come to the door and offer to fix my carriage house, but I’ve always turned them away.”
“You didn’t trust them.”
“I did not. I can always tell. Every year, the roof gets worse, and now it’s imperative the work be done. How much will you charge me?”
Luke looked around. “It will take me a couple days to work up an estimate. There are a lot of materials to consider.”
She nodded. “I’ll give you my charge card for the materials and arrange for the Indian Lake Lumber Yard to give you carte blanche. You just figure out how much I’ll owe you for your labor.”
“That’s very fair.”
“Fair is the only way to live your life, Mr. Bosworth.”
“Luke. Please call me Luke.”
“Then we have a deal?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Beabots lifted her dainty hand, spit into the palm and held it out to Luke. “Shake on it.”
Luke bit back his laughter, spit into his palm and shook her hand. “Deal.”
“Very well, Mr. Bosworth,” she said, leading him through the door and carefully closing the padlock.
* * *
LUKE PARKED HIS truck at Redbeard’s Marina. Now that he was going to be working weekends for most of the summer, he would have to find a babysitter. He knew they wouldn’t like going to yet another day care or a sitter’s house, but there was no way around it.
He felt terribly guilty that he didn’t have more time to spend with his children. This money from Mrs. Beabots would help a great deal in paying off his credit cards and the hospital bills. Once more, he would be able to keep his head above water. But only barely. His main concern was where the next job was going to come from after he finished Mrs. Beabots’s playhouse.
Luke walked up to the dock and peered down the beach to where Red stood waist deep in the water instructing a group of about eight children. Red had just grabbed Timmy’s hand and was using him to demonstrate floating on his back. Timmy was an apt pupil—Luke could tell, even from a distance. He was surprised at the flood of pride he felt for his little boy.
“He’s doing just great,” a woman said as she headed toward Luke from the Indian Lake Yacht Club. He recognized her as Julie, Red’s wife. She shielded her eyes with her hand. “You must be Luke Bosworth.”
“I am,” Luke said. “And you’re Julie Taylor.”
She extended her hand and Luke shook it. “I saw you last week on orientation day, but I was so swamped I didn’t get a chance to meet you formally,” she said.
“Nice to meet you.” Luke guessed her to be in her mid-fifties. She was slender, tall and dressed in chalk-white cargo pants and a tangerine-colored blouse that showed off her tan. She didn’t have a freckle on her face or arms, so Luke guessed her auburn hair was not her natural color.
“Your kids are terrific. Red has really taken a special interest in Timmy. And Annie, she’s a natural for the water, Red says. She’s such a chatterbox. Apparently, she believes there is nothing she can’t do.”
“There isn’t,” Luke replied and looked back toward the beach, where he saw Annie, wearing her pink-and-purple, one-piece bathing suit and an orange life vest. “She’s more grown up than I am.”
“You love them very much,” Julie said as a statement rather than a question.
“With all my heart,” he said. “You have kids?”
“No,” she said flatly. “And yes. All these kids become family to Red and me.”
Luke smiled. “I understand that. The best part is you don’t have to find summer babysitters.”
“That is a problem, isn’t it?”
“For me, it’s a nightmare. I don’t know what to do. I was just hired for a summer weekend job, and...”
“I’ll take them.”
“What?”
“Annie and Timmy. I’ll take them. Just on the weekends, though,” she laughed as if she had the inside track on her own joke. “I take a few extra kids on the weekends while Red is busy renting boats and giving adult ski lessons and whatnot. Keeps me busy, and I love the children.”
“It would help me tremendously,” Luke said. “This is like...”
“An answer to a prayer?” Julie offered.
“I wasn’t exactly going to say it that way.”
“Why not? I would say exactly that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SARAH MET MARY Catherine Cook at St. Mark’s School on Tuesday morning. Mary Catherine was putting together a children’s choir for the church, hoping the children’s participation would help bring back some of the parishioners who had slowly been abandoning St. Mark’s.
“You play the piano so beautifully, Sarah, and I need the help,” Mary Catherine said, clamping her plump hands together. Mary Catherine taught third grade at St. Mark’s and had four children of her own. She was barely five feet tall and as round as she was tall. What Sarah liked about Mary Catherine was that she always smiled at everyone and not a single negative remark ever came out of her mouth.
Until today.
“This is very ambitious of you, Mary Catherine,” Sarah said, “trying to get the kids together in the middle of the summer.”
“We have to do something or St. Mark’s is doomed!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know you’ve had a lot going on in your own life, but surely you’ve noticed how few people attend Sunday services anymore. Half the enrollments for the school are not from the church. The building itself needs so many repairs,” she said as Father Michael walked in the school doors.
“Father Michael. How nice to see you. We were just discussing...”
He put up his hand. “You don’t have to say it, Sarah. Our church is dying.”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”
“Really? Then let me take you on a tour,” he said, slipping his arm through hers and leading her to the school’s main staircase. “See these stairs? They’re not just rickety. They’re unsafe. I had Harry Abrams give me an estimate. Ten thousand to fix them. And it has to be done before September, when the children come back to school.”
Father Michael coughed and then coughed again, raising his arm and covering his mouth with his sleeve.
“Have you seen a doctor?” Sarah asked and looked at Mary Catherine, who shook her head.
“I had pneumonia twice this winter. This bronchial thing kicked me from here to Sunday.” He raised his head and looked at the two women. “I am fully aware, Mary Catherine, that the reason we are losing parishioners is because of my chronic ill health. But I can’t help it.”
> “You could eat better and get more rest,” she scolded.
“Has Colleen Kelly been snitching on me again?”
Mary Catherine nodded. “That’s why I made the vegetable casserole for you yesterday.”
“Hmph,” he snorted. “Even my wife couldn’t get me to eat vegetables. Nasty things. Come, Sarah, let’s go look at the church.”
They walked outside and down the cement sidewalk where newly planted petunias were bobbing their colorful blossoms in a gentle breeze. Father Michael pointed to the roof. “It needs new shingles.”
Sarah squinted and looked closely at the gutters. “The flashing along the gables needs replacing, as well. Definitely some tuck-pointing on the brick. Looks like some cracks in the foundation over there.” Sarah pointed to the corners near the back church doors.
“We need a new boiler and furnace, lights and flooring,” Father Michael said.
Sarah didn’t need a calculator to know that the repairs were going to cost close to a million dollars. “This is going to be expensive.”
“But we can’t afford any repairs, Sarah,” Father Michael moaned.
“We can’t afford to let St. Mark’s crumble into a pile of dust, either,” Sarah retorted, feeling a wave of pride wash over her. “My grandparents helped to build this church. My mother was devoted to this church. I can’t just let it...go away. And what of the school? If the church shuts down, what happens then?”
“The school board is already talking about closing it next year,” Father Michael said.
Mary Catherine turned to Sarah. “Now do you understand why I think the children’s choir would help rejuvenate things?”
“I do,” Sarah agreed. “But it’s going to need more than just a few songs on Sunday to tackle this problem.”
“Like what?” Mary Catherine asked.
“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something,” Sarah assured them tentatively. Had she just made a commitment? She looked up at the soaring spire and saw another dozen shingles that needed replacing. Her church was broke. They needed her help, but she hadn’t the first clue how one went about raising a million dollars.
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