by Ginny Aiken
Other books by Ginny Aiken
Silver Hills Trilogy
Light of My Heart
Song of My Soul
Spring of My Love
0, - 46&A
He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
Philippians 1:6
Wilmont, Washington
When geriatric oak floorboards whine, wheeze, and creak their objection to a woman's presence, she should accept it as a sign that she's in for a rough ride. I instead glared at the testy wood. "Don't you dare give way ..."
"Speaking to yourself?" Marge Norwalk asked.
I stumbled. The Gerrity mansion's century-old floor griped again. "I didn't hear you back there. You startled me."
"Lucky for me you didn't crouch and attack from one of your slice-and-dice martial arts positions."
"Lucky for you but lousy for me. I'm surprised I was so distracted."
"What's on your mind?"
"You have to ask?"
Marge placed a well-manicured hand on my shoulder. "Relax. Noreen's in the audience. She already signed for a bid paddle and even waved her checkbook at me. She intends hers to be the final bid-"
"That doesn't mean she'll hire me-"
"Stop." Marge's expression squashed further argument, so I let my mentor continue. "She assured me she would hire you because I endorsed your work. Over the years she's bought enough antiques from me to know I won't lead her astray on the choice of a decorator."
"Even one whose membership in the American Society of Interior Designers isn't dry on the books yet?"
"Even so."
The butterflies in my stomach chose that moment to morph into buzzards. Without this high-visibility job, my new business, Haley Farrell's Decorating $ense, didn't stand a chance. How could it?
Up until last week, when I hung out my oh-so-tasteful, gilt-lettered shingle over the mailbox at the Wilmont River Church's manse, I'd given away the fruits of my education in exchange for a lousy paycheck from a local furniture store. I consider the time I put in as a saleswoman at Rodgers and Faust Furnishings my requisite career purgatory. So do many others in my field.
But to go out on my own? Just on the encouragement ofmore like kick in the butt from-Marge and the advice of the members of the church's missionary society?
"I still can't believe I let you badger me into quitting that job," I said. "Unemployment's a luxury I can't afford, and you know it. Dad still has a stack of Mom's medical bills to pay, and she's been gone for a year now. I can't make things harder for him."
Marge wagged a plum-nailed finger. "Now, Haley, is that any way for Pastor Hale Farrell's daughter to talk? Where's your faith, lady?"
Loss emptied my heart; a sour sensation filled my gut. Then, with determination, and before the memories had a chance to return in full Technicolor, I beat them back and turned to my tried-and-true friend, humor. "Hey, I'm a preacher's kid, don't ya know? We're the black sheep in the fold."
A frown pleated Marge's forehead. "More nightmares?"
Red rimmed the edge of my awareness. I shoved the bad stuff away again. "No more than usual. But let's not talk about it, okay? I think what I really need is another application of your infamous hobnailed boots to the hind side of my wimpy courage."
Marge's shoulders relaxed. "For a woman who's come as far as you have, I can't believe a little thing like the launch of your own business can turn you into such a sissy. Where's that killer instinct that made you a brown belt in ..." She floundered for the name of a martial arts discipline. Then she waved. "A brown belt in whatever. If you can flip men three times your size onto their backs-"
"Only twice my size."
Marge swatted my shoulder. "Whatever. If you can lob behemoths without breaking a sweat, success in the business world's going to be a piece of cake. Remember, if I can do it, you can do it. Just picture difficult clients flat on their backs after you toss them."
"If you say so."
The sound system crackled to life. "Get going, Marge. Your adoring public awaits."
Marge wrinkled her nose, her chic wire-framed glasses bobbed, and she stepped toward the mansion's adjoining parlor and dining room, where the auction was set to take place. "You mean the status grubbers, don't you?"
"I don't think they all come to grub status. Tom and Gussie Stoker are here, and Gussie's a sweetheart with a passion for the past. The others from the missionary society just love the excitement of the bidding and always hope they can score a bargain or two."
Marge dipped her head. "You're right. They're not all bad just most of them. You watch."
As Marge went to the podium, I scoured the room for Noreen Daventry's distinctive raven head. My-I hopedfuture client is an attractive woman, one blessed with not only good looks but also a family fortune and a late husband whose death had made a generous contribution to the original kitty.
I found Noreen in the middle of the second row. She'd chosen the best seat in the house, the house she expected to own by the end of the day. The aisles were clotted with attendees scoping out the best seats before the sale. I excused myself to those already seated and, with the folds of my long green cotton dress clutched in one fist, I scooted toward my quarry.
Noreen turned up the power of her blue eyes in response to my hello. "I saved you a seat."
As I sat, I noticed the man to her left. I swallowed a groan.
Noreen draped an arm around the hunk's shoulders. "You know Dutch Merrill, don't you?"
"Not personally." I bent and tucked my black leather backpack purse under the chair to hide my reaction to Dutch.
None of what I know commends the guy. He graced the pages of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer on a regular basis over the last two years. A general contractor, he was taken to court when a house he built slid down one of Seattle's many hills in an extended heavy rain. Shoddy workmanship and substandard materials were alleged. The jury found him not guilty, but the verdict hasn't restored his reputation.
"Dutch," Noreen said in her lush, fudgy voice, "this is Haley Farrell, the interior designer Marge recommended. I'm glad you two can meet today, since I want you to work together on the remodel of my glorious new home." Her blue gaze touched every corner of the room.
Dutch nodded at me, then said to Noreen, 'Aren't you counting unhatched chickens?"
"Not at all. I want this house."
As if that said it all. But since Noreen Daventry said it, I suppose it does say it all.
Dutch sat back, humming.
I choked down a laugh when I recognized the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Maybe the shady builder wouldn't be so bad to work with. He had a sense of humor.
Just then, Marge clapped her gavel on the podium. "I can feel everyone's excitement this morning."
If she hadn't described the audience as status grubbers only minutes earlier, I'd never suspect that the elegant, thirty-nineyear-old businesswoman at the podium held anything but warm affection for them. I know where I stand with Marge; everyone who knows her does. Marge doesn't suffer fools, and she lets them know it.
The chatter died down to a low rumble. Marge went on. "Let's get started, shall we? We have a marvelous collection for sale today, and we begin with this turn of the century ..."
When Marge's rapid-fire patter became pure gibberish, I gave up hope of following the bids. Paddles rose and fell at a furious pace. And the money some people will pay for pieces of ... well, to be honest, junk? I can't believe it.
A couple of choice items did sell at a bargain, and I wished I had seed money to buy them. I can see the Gustav Stickley table as the focal point in a family room, and an excellent jewel-toned Kirman rug went for a song.
Noreen se
emed to appreciate the advice I gave her on the dining room suite for twenty. The walnut table boasts an exquisite patina, developed over a century's application of rich oils, and the chairs, in spite of their hundred-plus years, still wear their original handworked tapestry. The sideboard and china cabinet are just as desirable. Noreen hovered around seventh heaven after her purchase.
That's when I took the time to check out the room. The six-foot-wide sideboard would look perfect against the dining room's left-hand wall, across from the Carrara marble fireplace. Placement of the massive china cupboard, though, would need more thought. The room's six windows eat up wall space, but I can't wait to dress them in dupioni silks-
Noreen's nails dug into my arm. "What do you think of that desk?"
Startled from my premature designs, I skimmed my auction catalog for the blurb beneath the photo of the piece. "I imagine it stood for years in the library. I see no reason to take it away, unless you don't win the house after ... all ..."
I let my voice die a slow death at Noreen's glare. "Which of course won't happen, since I know you'll get in the final bid and, no doubt, win."
I have to be way more careful. I can't afford to alienate my intense potential golden goose with my blunt tongue. Noreen means business, and anyone who crosses her, even by chance, stands to lose a limb or two.
Dutch leaned toward me and just missed a crash with Noreen's bid paddle. "Where do you plan to put that monstrosity of a china cupboard? Have you checked out all these windows? And don't forget the fireplace. I won't let you mess with perfection."
"You assume I would? I may be new to the business, but I know quality when I see it. That marble's not going anywhere-"
"Glad to hear it, but you didn't answer my question. What are you going to do with the walnut-and-glass white elephant?"
"Give it some thought, for one. I don't make snap decisions about a client's possessions. I specialize in carefully thought out, well-crafted designs and quality results."
His green eyes blazed. Bet he clicked on his memory's
"save" icon at my barb. Oh well. There went my hope for a decent working relationship. I rubbed the raised embroidery on the skirt of my dress.
Noreen wriggled; her chair squeaked. "You were absolutely right, Haley. There's no reason in the world for that mahogany desk to leave its home. And now it won't have to."
I grimaced. Dutch had made me miss Noreen's purchase of the piece. I don't like the contractor any better now than when I first spotted him next to Noreen. That he'd managed to distract me from my responsibility to my client rubbed me the wrong way.
With Dutch in the picture, the redesign of the Gerrity mansion could easily become a greater challenge than I'd imagined. I'm not so sure I still wanted the job.
But I needed it.
I focused on Marge and thought only about the items that would work in the future decor of Noreen's maybe-hopefully-new house.
Hours later Noreen had racked up an eye-popping list of stuff. Acquisitiveness somewhat satisfied, she turned again to Dutch. I couldn't help but notice how good they looked together. In a masculine way, Dutch is as beautiful as Noreen, and he makes an excellent foil for her. Was there more than just business between them? Was he the builder with whom Marge said she thought Noreen was involved?
It seemed the only conceivable reason for Noreen, who can hire anyone she wants, to turn to Dutch of the shady track record.
"For this stunning beauty," Marge said moments later, a crystal and silver epergne in her hands, "the last item in our catalog, we'll start the bidding at a bargain two hundred and fifty dollars."
Paddles flashed from every corner of the room. Marge's chatter became mush to my unenlightened ears. Finally, in understandable English, she asked, "Twelve fifty? Do we have twelve fifty for this perfect piece?"
No one moved.
With a flourish, Marge handed the epergne to her longtime assistant, Oswald Krieger. "Fair warning," she sang out.
When no other bid materialized, she smacked the podium with the gavel. "Sold! To number 321 for twelve hundred dollars."
The audience sighed. Rented metal chairs squealed as bidders relaxed.
Marge added, 'Are you ready for a break?"
A collective yes sissed forth.
"Well, then, how about twenty minutes? I'm looking forward to the sale of this grand old home. I hope you are too." Marge winked. 'And may the best man-or woman-win!"
I stood, stretched discreetly, and extricated myself from the center of the row. After I stepped on a number of feet and apologized to their owners, I burst from the dining room into the parlor and then out of the house. My goal was the nearest of the putty-colored port-a-potties that mushroomed up along the right edge of the lawn.
After much-needed relief, I strolled to the tent where Marge's favorite caterer had set out a cold lunch. The auction business pays well. Marge shares the wealth, but only by hiring the best. Still, her clients appreciate the gesture and the excellent, if pricey, food. They repay with their attendance and purchases at all her sales.
Delicious turkey on grainy bread and pasta salad hit the spot, and soon after, I headed back to the house. But my return to my seat was foiled by a gaggle of Dad's parishioners who ambushed me in the foyer. The ladies of the missionary society like their auctions.
"Isn't she marvelous?" Ina Appleton asked.
I assumed she meant Marge. "I've always thought so."
An arm circled my waist. "As are you," Gussie Stoker said.
"Thanks." I hugged her back. Gussie's advanced rheumatoid arthritis keeps her in constant pain, hampers her movements, and gives her a much older appearance than her fifty years of age. I took some of her weight on my healthy frame.
"Humph!" You could always count on Penelope Harham, Wilmont's postal clerk, to dissent. As usual, her sniff wasn't enough. "Haley is utterly unqualified to preside over the missionary society, Gussie Stoker, and you know it."
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. "I'm ready to step down, Penny, and I told you that last week."
"You'll do no such thing," Gussie retorted.
"Why not let her?" Penny demanded. "It's obvious she lacks the most basic commitment to the job. Everyone knows she was chosen only because of your strong-arm tactics."
Against my loud and repeated objection, the charitable ladies, led by Gussie, their interim president, have elected me as their leader. They've proclaimed me the rightful successor to Mom's favorite position. Not wanting to cause dissension in Dad's congregation, I accepted the post but keep my eyes and ears open for the first chance to run.
"Honestly, Gussie-"
"Honestly, Haley. You're the right woman for the job."
"I don't know about that, not now that I've rejoined the ranks of the unemployed. I have to drum up business for Decorating $ense. I can't be sure Noreen's going to wind up with the house, much less hire me as she said she would. I don't have a lot of time for meetings and stuff."
"Even if Noreen doesn't buy the house, you don't need to worry." Gussie eased slowly back into her wheelchair. "Tom and I have wanted to do something about our living and dining rooms for a while now. We decided you're the perfect person for our job."
One half of me wanted to decline the Stokers' charity, but the other half wanted to do a touchdown dance at my first real designer gig. In the end, I did neither, but rather moved the wheelchair a couple of feet to give my champion a better view of the podium. "Okay, Gussie. I'll do it. I won't let you down."
"That's why you're about to become the top designer in the state of Washington. And I'm not biased."
"Nah, of course you aren't." I grinned. "You're just a wild gambler at heart."
I scanned the crowd for Tom Stoker. At my nod, he left the men with whom he'd been talking and came to take over the wheelchair again. "Thanks, Haley."
"Don't mention it. I love Gussie."
"We all do. But I still appreciate your help."
"You're welcome." I turned to look f
or Noreen. She was still where I'd left her, surrounded by a swarm of bidders, deep in conversation with Dutch. I headed over.
A brown dervish spun into my path. "Have you seen Margaret?" Ozzie Krieger asked.
"Not since she called for an intermission. Why?"
"Because, Miss Farrell, I cannot locate her."
'And ... ?"
"And she is quite late."
"I'm sure she's on her way. Just relax and give her a minute or two."
"I have already given her ten more than she requested."
My watch said thirty minutes had passed since the gavel had brought the bidding to an end. Marge had called for twenty, and Marge is always on time.
Ozzie's left eyebrow twitched, and he wrung his hands. "Do you now understand what I mean? Margaret never leaves except to go to the-" he glanced around and blushed "-latrine. She has had more than sufficient time to return. This isn't in any way like her."
Much though I hated to agree with the nebbish Ozzie, Marge's delay was unusual. I hadn't been to many auctions, but Marge and I had talked about her complete concentration at sales. She rarely took time out for lunch; she'd never disappear for half an hour.
"Tell you what, Ozzie. I'll help you look for her."
The slender man's pinched expression didn't change. "I'm much obliged, Miss Farrell. If you would please take the house, then I shall check outside again."
In those few minutes, Ozzie infected me with his anxiety. I ran up the majestic staircase to the gallery above.
"Marge? Are you up here?"
When I got no answer, I opened every door. The rooms were empty. I repeated my efforts on the third floor with the same unfortunate results.
Back on the ground floor, I asked a number of people if they'd seen Marge. No one had.
My anxiety shifted into worry. Where was Marge?
It occurred to me that Ozzie might have missed his boss in the crowded food tent. I headed out again, but instead of cutting straight across the lawn, I detoured around the perimeter of the columned house. Maybe Marge had needed a break. The intensity had to get to her sometimes, and this was a major sale.