by Clare Revell
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I know I said I’d give this venture six months, and I’m only too aware it’s not even been one yet, but maybe I should admit defeat, give up and return to Ely.”
“Grace, you hated your job here, you know that. You couldn’t wait to leave. I’m sure God has a reason for this, so just allow Him time to show you.”
Wasn’t she allowed to fail at anything? Everyone else could so why not her? “You sound like Elliott—the bloke who lives next door. I neither want nor need another God-loves-me lecture, Rick, because from where I’m sitting it sure seems like He hates me.”
“Grace, you know that’s not true.” Rick’s tone turned scolding. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come down?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. You sound exhausted, and the last thing you need after a two day shift is a four hour-drive to look at a pile of rubble.”
“Pfft. If you need me, I’ll come.”
“I’ll be fine, honest.”
“OK. Well, promise you’ll ring if you need anything.”
“I promise. Love you. Night.” She hung up and put the phone on the table. Her new start had turned into an end before it had even begun.
She rubbed her head, the all too familiar pounding beginning, along with the flashing lights of the aura. She needed sleep; otherwise, she’d be fit for nothing in the morning.
~*~
Tuesday dawned as grey as any other day since the funeral. Grace’s head pounded as she walked downstairs to open the shop. She’d spent the previous day watching numerous men in hard hats and yellow jackets, moving around the ruins of the house checking it. Trade in the florist had been brisk, people coming in to commiserate or just to gawp at the destruction. At least they felt sorry enough for her to buy flowers whilst they were there.
Elliott came over just after nine-thirty with coffee and a man in a suit, hard hat, and yellow jacket. “Grace, this is Simon Templar, the surveyor.”
Grace shook his hand. “Hi.”
“Can we talk in your office, Miss Chadwick? It’s not good news I’m afraid.”
Her heart sinking to the soles of her shoes, Grace nodded. “Sure.” She led the way out the back. “How bad is it?”
“The house, what’s left of it, needs to be demolished.”
“Can’t you just rebuild the broken bit?”
Mr. Templar shook his head. “No, it’s the foundations.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Elliott looked at her. “Remember the cracks in the walls and the sloping floor?”
“Yeah.” She still couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the sloping floor.
Me. Templar continued. “The foundation is crumbling; it’s not strong enough to support the weight of the house. It’s falling down bit by bit, and if we don’t demolish it, it will fall on its own, causing far more devastation. The tree falling on it was actually a blessing. The whole house could have come down at any time with you in it.”
Grace sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. “So, what happens now?”
“I have a crew coming this morning,” Mr. Templar said. “We need to demolish the house today.”
“But my things?” She glanced up. “Can’t I at least go in and get my stuff?”
“It’s too dangerous. Any slight vibration might bring the whole thing down on top of you.”
Grace wrapped her arms tightly around her middle.
“Who was Tilja insured with?” Elliott asked.
“I have no idea,” she shrugged. “All the papers are in the house. I haven’t had chance to go through them yet. It’s over, Elliott. I have nothing left.”
6
Elliott stood outside the house, hard hat in his hand, rucksack on his shoulder. “I only need two minutes.”
“I can’t even give you that,” Templar told him.
“Look, Simon. I know where the papers are—at least where they should be. I’ll be straight in and straight out.”
Joel came running out. “El, wait! You’re not doing what I think you are.”
“Yes, I am.”
“After the way you treated Grace for doing the same thing?”
Elliott touched his arm. “Difference is I know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, really? That house is ready to fall down. It falls on your head, then what?”
Elliott winked. “It might knock some sense into me.” He donned the hard hat and ducked under the tape cordon. He raised a hand and waved as Joel called after him. He probably deserved every thought his brother had right now.
The front door stood ajar and he squeezed through. The hall and bedrooms were a total wreck. Sliding past fallen brickwork, he stepped over a branch and then clambered over the main trunk into the lounge.
The ceiling gaped and bowed above him, daylight peeking through a hole. Dust hung in the air.
Beams creaked and swayed as he shifted debris, searching quickly.
Finding the laptop, he hoped the case had protected it. Then he grabbed a few pieces from the dresser, throwing them into the rucksack along with the laptop—the horse and rider, the brass bell shaped like a lady in full Welsh costume, and a music box shaped like a weather house. Climbing back over the debris, he tugged on the desk to open it. The wall behind it moved and the floor shifted beneath his feet.
Elliott froze. Telegram prayers sped from his lips to the ears of His Lord.
The movement stopped.
He gently pried open the drawer and was relieved to see the box marked ‘important papers’ still there. He tucked it into the rucksack and glanced around. His gaze fell on the picture of the Last Supper. He knew Tilja had loved that one. He reached above the fireplace and grabbed it.
As he did, the fireplace began to buckle.
Bricks began to fall towards him.
Elliott moved as fast as he could to the door, tossing the picture and rucksack over the tree before diving after it. Brick dust rose behind him, the house moved. Prayers fell from his lips as he pushed up, grabbed the things, and staggered his way to the front door.
The ceiling came down around him as he moved, hitting his arms and bouncing off the hat. His heart pounded. Would he get out in time or would this be the last stupid thing he ever did? Coughing hard, he made it to the fresh air.
Someone grabbed his arm, yanking him up the path, away from the danger zone.
“Idiot!” Joel’s angry voice filled his ears. “In fact, you’re the most idiotic idiot on the face of the planet whom I have the misfortune to know.”
“Probably.” He coughed hard, brick dust irritating the back of his throat.
“Elliott!”
Running footsteps made him glance up.
Grace appeared next to him. “What are you doing?”
“Exactly what I just asked him,” Joel growled.
“I’m fine.” Elliott held out the rucksack and painting. “For you.”
Grace looked at him. “Me?”
“You said you had nothing. It’s not much, just a few bits. Your laptop, Tilja’s papers and what I could grab before the ceiling came down.”
“Thank you, but as you said, it’s not worth risking your life for.”
“You tell him, because he sure ain’t listening to me,” Joel muttered. He turned away and stomped down the path to their house. The only consolation to Elliott was that he wouldn’t stay mad for long, he never did.
Elliott looked at Grace. “You need to call the insurance company. Unless you’d like me to do it.”
The wrecker arrived, vibrations from the loud engine causing more crashing and piles of dust to issue from the ruins.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Grace whispered.
Joel came out with his laptop. “I’m going to the library. They want everyone out of the neighboring houses whilst they do the demolition.”
“You can sit in my flat,” Grace said quietly. “And Elliott can use the phone there.”
&nbs
p; Joel smiled. “Thank you.”
“Thanks.” Elliott gently took her arm. “Come on.” He gave the hard hat to one of the workmen and drew Grace across the road to safety.
Grace followed him upstairs and stood by the window, riveted to the wreckers as they moved in to demolish her house. Joel settled on the couch behind her, his tapping fingers soon setting into a regular rhythm.
Elliott opened the box of papers and pulled out the one he needed. Then he reached for the phone. It was answered on the second ring. “Could I speak to Jason Derbyshire, please? It’s Elliott Wallac.”
After a brief pause, his friend’s voice echoed down the line. “Elliott, long time no see, buddy. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Tired…the baby is keeping us up most of the night.”
Elliott chuckled. “That’s what babies do.”
“Very true. So, what can I do you for?”
“I’m calling about an insurance policy on forty-three Carnation Street, Headley Cross.” He explained quickly.
“Problem with that is the title deeds along with all the policies are still in Miss Chadwick’s name.”
“And it’s still owned by a Miss Chadwick. She inherited the house at the end of December and the change of ownership is in progress. Her lawyer is handling it.” At least he assumed the lawyer was doing his job there. “But my point is, yes the storm damaged the house, however the surveyors report said the foundations were crumbling. The building’s insurance policy is paid in full until October. As is the home contents insurance. Grace had nothing of her own in there apart from a few clothes.”
He sighed as Grace ran from the room. “Joel, go with her.” His brother nodded and ran after her. Elliott turned back to the phone. “I’m not asking that. I can fax the reports to you.”
“We’ll need to send someone over…”
“It’s being demolished as we speak.” Elliott turned to the window, watching the brickwork crumble. “Like I said, the foundations were rotten. It was an underlying problem. Grace’s aunt died just before Christmas, and Grace is only now starting to go through the papers. It’s only the middle of January now, if that.”
“OK. Let me see what I can do.”
“Time is of the essence on this one.”
“OK. Go ahead and organize the rebuild for now—draw up the plans and fax them over. I don’t see a problem with us covering the cost, but I need to take it to the boss, see what he says. Give me a day or two, and I’ll get back to you.”
~*~
Grace stood in the rain, watching the house fall. She didn’t bother to rub away the tears streaking her face. She didn’t even know why she was crying. Except it really was the end. No more memories, no more being able to sit in the bedroom, surrounded by the lingering scent of perfume and lavender drawer liners and the other little things that reminded her of her aunt.
For a few short days, she’d been able to pretend the last few awful weeks hadn’t happened and her aunt was still there, just on holiday and Grace was housesitting. Now that illusion was gone, too.
The phone in her pocket rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, Gracie. Did you get the logos? The email bounced back.”
“Hi, Faith,” she managed. “Yeah, I did. Sorry, I didn’t get back to you.”
“Is the logo all right? Because I can do another.”
“It’s great, thank you.”
“You OK? Sorry, silly question. Rick told us about the house.”
“They’re demolishing it now. Elliott is ringing the insurance people.”
“That’s good.”
Grace jumped as a huge piece of wall fell. “I have to go. I’ll call you later, if that’s OK.” She hung up and slid the phone back into her pocket.
Elliott appeared beside her. “Hey.”
She rubbed her hands over her face, hoping her tears weren’t too evident. “Did you get through?”
“Yeah, I did. It shouldn’t be a problem, but they’ll get back to me in a couple of days. Have you given any thought to the rebuild?”
Grace frowned. “The what?”
“How do you want the bungalow rebuilt?”
She shrugged, grief once more tearing through her. “It doesn’t matter.”
He shook his head. “No, it does matter. Your life is very much like your house.”
“Destroyed?” she managed. She turned and ran back inside the shop, tears burning her eyes again. Would they never stop? It was as if the floodgates had been opened and a river suddenly ran through her body, with her eyes being the waterfall.
She fled through the shop and up the back stairs to her tiny flat. Footsteps followed her and she tried to shut the door, but a foot got in the way.
“Grace, please, that isn’t what I meant.” Elliott pushed open the door.
“Then what did you mean?” She turned her back on him, hiding her face.
Gentle hands took hold of her arms, turning her to face him. “Without the right foundation, a firm foundation, it doesn’t matter how strong your life is, cracks will appear, and the smallest storm will bring it crashing down. Just like your house. Losing Hope undermined your faith and your foundation in Christ. Am I right?”
He was partly right, but he didn’t need to know the rest of the story.
“The wise man built his house upon the rock,” she said quietly.
“Matthew, chapter seven. A builder’s favorite story. Bradley has a quaint version of it…the floods went whoosh and the house on the sand fell flat, like that.” He did the actions as he spoke.
She managed a slight smile.
“I can rebuild the house, Grace. Either the same as before or however you want it. You could have the bedrooms at the back, or one at the front, one at the back and the kitchen at the front and lounge at the back. I just need to know before I start on the plans.”
“But it won’t be the same. It won’t smell the same or have the same memories.”
“It’ll be yours.”
Grace shook her head. “I can’t get a mortgage, and I couldn’t afford one even if I could.”
“You don’t need one. The insurance covers the rebuild and the contents. New for old. That is the point of insurance.”
“The policies aren’t in my name. And it will take months to organize that and the rebuild.”
Elliott rolled his eyes. “You can live here. You don’t pay rent on the flat, and you own the shop so no rent there either. And it won’t take months. I’ll call in a few favors. I can sketch the plans myself and get my architect friend to draw them to scale. From the money being confirmed to you moving in…” He pulled out his phone and brought up the calendar app. “…beginning of May.”
Her heart well and truly in her boots and her soul downcast, she shrugged. “Why are you bothering?”
He tucked her fringe behind her ears. “Why not?”
“Lately I really feel I’m a waste of space.”
“No, you’re not,” he said firmly, in a tone she wouldn’t argue with. “And you won’t get rid of me that easily. I live next door, remember?”
“Across the road,” she corrected.
“Whatever.” He winked. “Now, you’re coming over to my house for dinner tonight and we’re going to plan your new home.”
She sucked in a deep breath, ready to argue, but one look from those blue eyes of his, took the breath from her.
“Yes?”
She agreed.
“Good. Be there at six. And not a minute later.”
Bossy… But then she paused as her heart warmed a bit. She couldn’t even remember the last time anyone cared enough to boss her around. And why didn’t she mind that Elliott was? If she didn’t know better, she’d say the walls around her heart were starting to crack. And enough walls had cracked in the last few days to last her for a while.
And what if he wanted something in return.
That was one debt she wouldn’t be beholden to accept.
7
>
Just before six, Grace locked up the shop and clutched the bunch of yellow carnations in her hand. She headed across the road to Elliott’s house. Her heart broke again at the sight of the street lighting illuminating the pile of rubble where her house once stood. The clearing of the site would happen tomorrow.
Her headache increased. An aura tinged the edges of her vision again. She really needed something stronger than the pain reliever she’d used but of course, her meds had been destroyed along with the house.
Joel must have seen her coming because the door opened just as her finger reached for the doorbell. He smiled. “Hi, come in. Elliott’s in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me take your coat.”
She slipped out of it and went to find Elliott.
He stood next to the stove, tea towel slung carelessly over his shoulder, steam rising from the pans. Whatever he was making smelled delicious.
He knows his way around a kitchen all right. She leaned against the door, taking in the way he moved and hummed as he stirred one of the pans, tasting what he was making, and then tossing in a little more pepper.
She shook her head in wonder. “Very domesticated.”
Elliott turned and grinned at her. His brown hair stood up at all angles and his blue eyes glinted with pleasure. “I can be. Cooking makes a change from bricks and mortar, but it’s just as satisfying.”
She held out the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Thank you.” He took them, his fingers brushing against hers. “I’ve never been given flowers before.”
“Never?”
He shook his head.
Right there and then Grace resolved to give him flowers more often.
He found a vase and put the flowers on the table. “Dinner won’t be long.”
“It smells wonderful. I don’t remember the last time I cooked.”
He shot her that raised eyebrow look that had the usual effect of making her weak at the knees. “Really?”
“I don’t have time,” she explained quickly. “Between the house, shop, and account books, I barely have time to sleep. It’s microwave ready meals or toast.”
“And before you moved here?”
“Work was my life.” The words were out before she realized. She’d never admitted that to anyone before and wasn’t sure why she’d done so now. Except the fact that she couldn’t lie to him. Not like she lied so easily to other people. What surprised her more was the fact she didn’t want to lie to him. “I did eighteen hour days, six days a week.”