Ashes To Ashes

by Gwen Hunter

  Robyn had been with us that day, sharing a meal, sharing Jack’s enthusiasm and his eagerness for the new project. I wondered if they were sleeping together even then. The memory of Robyn soured my mood, darkening my thoughts like the lowering clouds darkened the day.

  Turning into the final phase of Davenport Hills, I followed the truck path into the future golf course. Thick mud sucked at the tires, forcing me into four-wheel drive and, even with the increased traction, the mudbath-of-a-road was difficult to navigate. Peter Howell, the surveyor, the architects, and the grading subcontractor were all standing in the drizzle, their hands in their pockets and mud up to their ankles. Several plot maps and sets of plans were protected beneath a temporary roof, a tilted sheet of plywood, supported on crossed 2x4s, over the makeshift work table. Rain dripped off one side.

  I braked gently, letting the Jeep suck down into the mud as it halted. Pulling out an umbrella, a silly little thing given to me by my mother a few years ago as a Christmas gift, I stepped onto the boggy ground, opened the umbrella, and shook out its ruffles. It might be macho to stand around getting wet, but as I had nothing to prove, I intended to stay dry.

  "Gentlemen," I said as I reached the little group.

  "Mrs. D.," they chorused.

  "Ma’am," someone added a beat later.

  It seemed my preference for titles had been made known. "How does my husband’s plan stand up under the light of day and the wet of rain?"

  "So far," Peter said, "the preliminary drawings look like they’ll eliminate most of the drainage problems. We may lose the three lots we talked about yesterday, a loss of over three-hundred grand, not even factoring in the added costs of resurveying the course and putting in the new road. But it looks reasonably feasible."

  Reasonably feasible, huh? Yesterday it had been great. Perfect. Wonderful. Today, it was reasonably feasible? What was Peter trying to tell me? I nodded sagely, as if he had said something profound. "The state’s still reimbursing us for the roads, so that much of the added expense is covered," I said thoughtfully, giving myself time to think, watching the subs. They were men’s men, brawny, dressed in denim and logger’s heavy boots. And scowls.

  And it hit me. A fine group of men’s men, standing in the rain, having a talk about the manly subjects of moving earth and resculpting the topography of the land, and little old me with a ruffled umbrella intruding on the masculine powwow. I started a slow burn, and looked at the surveyor and the grading sub, narrowing my eyes at them, widening my smile, ladylike in the way that Scarlett O’Hara was ladylike when she closed a business deal. Predatory. "I would certainly appreciate the lowest cost possible for this portion of the project, gentlemen. So far," I said, with careful emphasis, "you both have done well by DavInc, and I think a little compromise on profit margins would be a fine return," I finished, twirling my pale pink umbrella. The "so far" was an almost-dare, and they knew it.

  Okay, so I was baiting them with my femaleness, a plump little hen crashing an all rooster party, watching for a reaction. I really didn’t want to play this game, the game of manipulation that women played with men, a game of reward and punishment, the game played because men didn’t respect straight talk from women as they did from other men. The umbrella threw water droplets in an arc around me. Spattered the men. Peter grinned and looked down at the mud. Cavenaugh and Wright, the golf course architects looked on with interest.

  "I don’t expect you to eat your shirts, but some consideration on this matter is expected," I said into the silence of the morning. "And any cooperation at this juncture would make a difference down the road. DavInc would very likely remember your assistance in some future tangible way." Umbrella-twirling aside, I was surprised and pleased at the words flowing from my mouth. This was me talking, being reasonable and sincere, with just a hint of steel in my voice, the tone I used when I negotiated with a noncompliant patient. I turned to Waddell Youngblood, the grading sub. He was staring down, frowning, scuffing his toe in the mud, moving earth, even in his off time. "Wade."

  He kept his eyes on the rut he was building, ignoring me. Waddell—Wade to the boys—had a world-class beer belly. "Wade," I said more firmly. "It’s been hard since Jack died. I want to keep this project going for all the subs and contractors if I can. I don’t think it would be fair to anyone to dump this project, declare bankruptcy or sell out, although frankly that would be a lot easier than trying to finish all this." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the surveyor flinch at the thought of bankruptcy. Peter Howell turned away, hiding a smile.

  "I’m doing the best I can to step into my husband’s shoes and save this project. He was always fair to you subs, standing behind you when you needed help, loaning money when you had a temporary shortfall. He wouldn’t want me to leave you hanging with bills unpaid, or sell out to another developer who might bring in his own subs." Waddell Youngblood’s eyes crept up and met mine briefly. I sighed. Wade was not a happy camper. Wood Blankenship, the surveyor, lived up to his own name, his face carrying all the emotion of a superior poker player. He was giving nothing away. Neither were the others.

  "Okay," I said, suddenly not caring if I appealed to their manly pride or not. "It’s like this. Money’s tight. I don’t want to slow down business taking new bids from subs all over the state to open Phase Four and redesign this golf course. I could, but I’d rather not. I’d rather count on all you boys being fair and helping out in this tight spot, redesigning this golf course."

  Angus Cavenaugh pursed his lips and studied the muddy mess on Waddell’s shoes. He was waiting his turn as I dealt with a first class redneck.

  "I’d rather be able to say to the new man at Taylor, Inc., that I have the best, most reasonable subs in the state. I’d rather put in a good word for you all, instead of having to be brutally honest and maybe cost you a bid for the apartment project going up next door to Davenport Hills."

  That got all their attention. Finally. "Thought Mr. Davenport had put a restraining order on Taylor’s project," Wade mumbled.

  "He did. The new man and I came to a satisfactory agreement yesterday. Provided he doesn’t back out, the court order will be rescinded effective the day I receive a written proposal, as early as next week. It would be sooner, but the man needs a secretary." With those words, I had a thought. If you can’t beat ’em, buy ’em out. "Wood, your wife was part of the administrative cuts made at Bowater last year, wasn’t she?"

  Wood Blankenship was a long, lanky fellow with dull red hair and a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. We attended the same church, and even on Sunday, he carried the chaw, the soft packet of flavored tobacco leaves tucked into the back pocket of his suit pants during the sermon. "Yes’am. She was." Wood had inherited financial problems from his father, and it was an open secret that he had taken a beating when Flo lost her job. He had four kids, three in college, and a house to pay for. Losing the second income had been a blow to the family.

  "Tell her to call Mr. Alan Mathison. I’m sure Taylor, Inc. has phone lines by now. Tell her to say I referred her. Some of you met Mr. Mathison out here the other day. Blond guy in a hunting jacket?"

  Waddell grunted and raised his brow in a partial sneer. Wood’s eyes lit up. "Thank you Mrs. D," he said, not looking at his surly friend. I had the feeling Wood was about to sell Waddell out. "I’ll tell her to call. Well ’scuse me folks. I got work to do, trimming down a bid. Uh, later, Wade."

  Bingo. Wood Blankenship stepped from the group to his truck. He wasted no time getting to his calculator and the topographical maps drawn for the original phase four project. I had made a friend. Wade went back to playing in the mud, his brow furrowed down over his eyes. Wade was a little slow today. I turned away. "Peter. Anything I can help you with?"

  "Got it covered, Mrs. D."

  "I imagine you expect some consideration from Cavenaugh and Wright, as well." Cavenaugh’s voice was laced with the faintest trace of ridicule.

  "Mr. Cavenaugh, what kind of trees do you see around you?" I
t wasn’t the non sequitur it seemed, and the instant spark of light in Cavenaugh’s eyes proved it to me.

  I hadn’t studied the trees around us, but Cavenaugh had. Trees that were able to thrive in wet ground were specific according to species. I knew that because Jack and I had discussed it one evening when we were planning the location of our home. I had been big with child and drowsy and contented, all curled up in our big bed, plat maps spread out all over my tummy.

  He told me our house would have to be further away from Nana’s than originally planned, because certain trees were growing where we wanted to locate the barn. Those trees meant the drainage was poor. Jack had seemed like the most intelligent man I’d ever known; the best man I had ever known. Seemed like . . .

  Cavenaugh lifted a brow and glanced at the trees. He wasn’t surprised at what he saw. He knew what I was driving at.

  "If Cavenaugh and Wright had done their jobs, and not missed an obvious sign that the ground would have drainage problems when the drought passed, we wouldn’t be having this last minute foxtrot, and I wouldn’t be facing a costly problem. There should have been drainage adjustments made when the topographical survey was evaluated for this project. That was your job, not Jack’s. So, yes, I expect some consideration. A lot of consideration."

  Angus Cavenaugh opened his mouth, closed it and pursed his lips again as he thought through the implications. Finally he lifted an arched, aristocratic brow. Waddell sneered. Though the men were impossibly different, their mannerisms were similar, and so was their meaning. The little lady should be home, birthin’ babies and cookin’ an’ such. I bristled, but managed to keep a tight lid on my rising temper, knowing I had to get out of here fast, or risk blowing my top and losing whatever I might have gained in the last few minutes. Peter, however, was having a ball, a wide grin on his face. "Peter, call my cell if you need anything. And, at some point, we need to take a look at Prosperity Creek. I spotted some extensive erosion problems from this heavy rain."

  "Yes, ma’am. I’ll take a look at it today and come up with some recommendations. Get back to you soon."

  "Fine. I’ll be at the office, gentlemen, awaiting your bids for the restructuring of this project." If I’d had a hat, I might have tipped it. Lacking that, I twirled my pretty little umbrella once more and slogged my way through the mud back to my Jeep.

  I was sweating and damp and shaking all over at my own audacity. The last time I had talked down to a man like that it was to a half trained ER doctor who had callously told a family that their mother, a seventy year old woman, was dead, and that they had done all they could, but her heart just stopped. The woman was, in fact, sitting in another room, waiting for her family to take her home, her wrist bandaged up to cover the stitches suffered from a fall. The doctor had not bothered to verify his patient’s name before he called a family conference. The family had been hysterical, the woman’s husband on the verge of a heart attack himself. Not a pretty picture.

  But when the young doctor tried to blame an even younger nurse for his own error, I had faced him down, and set the record straight in front of witnesses. The doctor had never forgiven me, and I had never forgotten the incident. Now, I had faced down a group of hostile men and walked away in one piece, the nominal victor.

  Climbing into the Jeep, I sat, my feet hanging above the ground, out of the mire, and paused to consider what I had just done. I tried to convince myself that my success wasn’t so impossibly strange. The attitude I had adopted both with the doctor and the men in the clearing was the same one I’d used in dealing with recalcitrant patients over the years, the moderately drunk, the needle-shy, the overanxious, the belligerent, the oxygen-starved, all reacted well to the strong mother image who explained the reward and punishment aspect of life. My method could be summed up in the image of Nana, a trimmed switch in her hand, a resolute look in her eye. "You reap what you sow, my girl. Now, bend over and take your punishment or go home to your mama. No other choices." Not the stick or the carrot, but the choice between punishments.

  To see it work in other areas of my life was astounding. I should try it on Jas. Closing my umbrella, I started the motor and pulled the Jeep around, turning the vehicle out of The Swamp. I had accomplished something else as well. I had discussed the water problems in public. If the men who were after me heard about it, and if my dreams had been trying to tell me something I knew, but didn’t yet recognize, and if the mud and water of Prosperity Creek were really the heart and soul of Jack’s problem, then my stalker might pay me a visit. If . . . if . . . if.

  I fingered the 9mm belted across my torso. Hidden beneath Jack’s jacket gave me an ace. I would have to use it at close range, if I needed it. I probably wouldn’t hit anything more than twelve feet away. Any closer, the attacker would have a good chance of killing me before I got the gun drawn and ready to fire. I needed some hand-to-hand combat training, sneaky little things a short, slightly rounded female could pull on a bigger opponent. I stretched my shoulder and ribs, pulled against the thumb joint inside my brace. The pains were still there, the muscles so tender any roughhousing would be agony. I wondered what nasty little tricks Wicked could teach me. And I wondered if I would be able to move tomorrow at all.

  Back at the farm, I met the new security guard. He was six-foot-four, with a chest like a beer keg, a trim waist and hips, a firm butt, and gorgeous blue eyes. Any objections Jas might have put up about being trailed around by Bishop Jennings—Bish to his friends and clients—evaporated when she laid eyes on him. The attraction was clearly mutual, the heat practically sizzling between them. Lovely. Just lovely. All I needed was a doe-eyed Jas, too interested in a firm body to pay attention to any strangers on the place. I managed to catch Bish in a stall shortly after the two met, and threaten to cut short the possibility of any descendants if he laid hands on my little girl. After my success in The Swamp, I was feeling cocky.

  Bish politely informed me that he didn’t screw clients, a frank statement that made me blush. So much for feeling cocky. Of course, his declaration didn’t touch upon what might happen after the job was over. The temperature between the two promised that whatever happened would be like a fireworks warehouse set to the torch. It had been that way when I met Jack. And I had been the same age as Jas.

  However, his employee status did relieve my mind in the short run. And if there were problems, I’d just turn him over to Nana and let her jerk a knot in his chain. She didn’t allow cocky employees or unsuitable suitors either. Nana would straighten out the boy just as she had Jack when she first met him. I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that straight-talking conversation.

  The rest of the day was marked with mini-crises. A backloader was driven off the job site by juvenile delinquents during lunch break and ended up in Prosperity Creek. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my liability, either. It was the fault of the driver who’d left the key in the ignition.

  Waddell Youngblood needed two thousand dollars to pull the piece of heavy machinery out of the creek and get it repaired. Muddy water had been sucked into the engine, and the shop wanted up-front money. No credit for Wade, not in this part of the county. Sheepishly, he came to me. I loaned the money to him. Chadwicks have always been generous people. Especially when proven right. I could have given him an I-told-you-so stare but I didn’t want to pay for the pleasure. You reap what you sow, and the Almighty seemed to be in a tooth-for-a-tooth mood.

  The second little crisis was the sub who put in the foundations for Davenport Hills. The boss hadn’t been aware that a woman had taken over the company. When he discovered the fact, he and his crew walked off the job, refusing to "work for no female, no way". I immediately called another sub, a man whose file had been sitting in Esther’s desk drawer for months because she "had a good feelin’ about this boy". He accepted the job, sight unseen, for his original bid, and was on the site before close of business, scoping out the previous sub’s work and planning his takeover. He looked like a hardworking, earnest sort, and I li
ked him as much as Esther had.

  The sub who walked off the job wasn’t so well pleased; he’d assumed I would be unable to find a crew replacement. According to Peter, he’d expected to be begged back by a desperate female with tears in her eyes, urgent entreaty in her heart, and bucks to spend. I popped his bubble, not taking his call when he asked Esther for me. Macon, working in the office, grinned at my refusal, his expression proud. You reap what you sow, my girl. Nana had been right.

  The third crisis was a lunchtime message on the office answering machine. It was the whispered voice of my second stalker, cultured, grammatically correct, not the country boy language of the Soiled Utility Room and the gazebo, but just as frightening. Just as dangerous. "Ashlee," he whispered. Listening, I stared at Macon, his eyes holding mine. "You were a bad girl, Ashlee. You used the file. You talked too much. Your time is up. Someone will come for the file soon. I suggest you don’t resist when he asks politely, Ashlee, or it’ll be Jasmine’s turn." The line clicked dead. Without a word, I left the room as Macon replaced the digital drive with another, saving the whispered tones for the cops should we go to them. But how do you catch a phantom you can’t see? How do you prepare for the unknown?

  I considered calling the police, but there was nothing they could do. We had a dozen prospective suspects—investors all—for a crime that may have been committed against an unknown inspector sometime, and amorphous phone threats. The police would only be helpful in catching someone after we unraveled my business problems, or after an assailant killed me. A heavy weight of fear lay on me. I jumped at every sound, every quick movement for the rest of the day. My mouth dried in terror a dozen times. I reached for the 9mm twice, uselessly. The usual mini-crises of an ordinary day on a farm continued, one after another, all day long.