Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  It’s for Austin.

  Thinking about his talent, how she could create a better life for the boy reset her determination. She checked her phone for text messages or missed calls. He hadn’t responded to the text she’d sent this morning. She’d try again when school was out.

  “Sorry,” she muttered and fetched the drywall. “I guess I need to buy a trash can.”

  One more thing for her list, which was growing like Jack’s beanstalk.

  Cole hadn’t reacted to her temper fit. “Getting a Dumpster for construction debris will be part of your contract.” He dusted his hands on his jeans. “I can help with the boxes in the basement.”

  She tried to hide her dread. They had to be dealt with, and now that her house was clean, she didn’t want to bring them into the living room. She’d have to suck it up and work in the basement.

  She could do it. Her lamps would brighten the place. The sooner she went through the boxes, the sooner she could get rid of them, turn the space from a dark, gloomy dungeon into a ... less dark, less gloomy area.

  Once the boxes were gone, could she get a concrete floor poured? Jack’s beanstalk had grown another branch.

  Did she want Cole around? Which was better—having him see her fear or having him around for company and support?

  She didn’t need his support.

  What was wrong with company? Friends, she reminded herself.

  “Are there outlets?” she asked. “So I can plug in the lamps.”

  “There should be. There’s an overhead fixture which, if the bulbs are good, should help now that you’ve got power.”

  Why hadn’t she noticed? As if she’d seen anything other than what was right in front of her, and most of that through her phone’s camera.

  “I’ll check,” she said.

  Her palms went wet, her mouth turned to sandpaper. Clenching her fists, she headed downstairs, ears perked to see if Cole followed.

  Feeling a modicum of relief when she sensed his presence behind her, Morgan marched to the basement door. Flung it open. The stairwell lay in darkness. She fumbled for the flashlight app on her phone. A second light joined hers.

  Sucking a deep breath, she descended, one hand on the rail, the other sending a beacon ahead of her.

  If she didn’t stop, she could do this. Cole hadn’t said a word.

  She reached the bottom step and moved her phone’s light across the space. The boxes hadn’t miraculously disappeared. Her phone revealed a large overhead fluorescent fixture in the center of the room. Morgan flipped the switch on the wall.

  Nothing.

  “Guess it needs new bulbs,” she said. “Given how everything else in the house is gone, I shouldn’t be surprised. Do you think the whole fixture’s dead?”

  Cole stood behind her, and she realized he couldn’t get around her on the narrow stairs. She sucked in another mega-breath and stepped onto the basement floor.

  Still not speaking, Cole moved past her and illuminated the fixture with his light. “No bulbs,” he said. “There’s a chance the entire fixture’s bad, but I’d go for the bulbs being the issue.”

  “Would it make sense to go to a warehouse store in Salem, or can I get what I need at the Tool Shed?”

  “Bigger selection at the warehouse stores, but you could get the essentials locally. Your call,” he said. “For a few starter items, it’s easier and faster to shop in town.”

  “Would you mind another shopping trip?” she asked. “You have a truck today, and things like trash cans won’t fit in my car.”

  If she asked, then it was her decision, not Cole trying to run the show.

  “Glad to help.”

  “Let me talk to my neighbor first, set up a time to meet with whoever’s in charge of their handyman slash construction company.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  What? He wasn’t going to be her shadow? Had she gotten through to him? “I was locked in a basement storage room when I was five. I was alone for hours. My parents thought I was at a friend’s house.”

  Why had she blurted that out now?

  He paused, his gaze capturing hers. “Scary.”

  “Terrifying. Apparently, there are still triggers.”

  “Like dark basements.” He stepped closer, extended a hand.

  To her surprise, she accepted it.

  It was nothing more than a gentle squeeze. His hands were warm. Chalky traces of whatever he’d been working with filmed them.

  She squeezed back, stood on tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss across his cheek, feeling the faint scrape of stubble against her lips.

  Heat rising to her face, she darted up the stairs. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  COLE STOOD, FROZEN in shock. What had he done? Said? More like what he hadn’t done or said. He ran his fingertips where her lips had been, southerly stirrings making themselves known.

  Morgan obviously didn’t like being told what to do, even if it was for her own good. Dare he start looking in boxes? She didn’t like being down here, and she’d told him why. He sensed it wasn’t something she shared easily.

  Using his phone for light, he got out his box cutter and started slitting the cartons open. He wouldn’t look inside, just save her some work. He unstacked some boxes, but couldn’t get far without destroying the path through the basement. He could do more when he returned for the next drywall mud coat.

  Back upstairs, he fetched the journals Morgan had dumped in the bedroom and brought them to the sofa. Forward or backward? Since he’d already read the final entries, he’d back up, one book at a time.

  He’d gotten through a third of the next journal, his suspicions neither confirmed nor eliminated, when Morgan walked through the front door.

  “Tom, the head guy of the handyman team, is coming at seven tonight. Will that work for you?” she asked.

  “Not a problem.” Cole stuck a scrap of paper to mark his place and stood. “Ready to go shopping?”

  Fifteen minutes later, they wandered the aisles at the Tool Shed. He held his tongue on offering suggestions.

  Wait for her to ask.

  He discovered by hanging back and keeping his mouth shut, she did ask his opinions.

  “Should we go to Thriftway, too, as long as we’re here?” she asked. “They might have a better selection for basic housewares. And I need food.”

  He agreed, and by the time they got to the house, it was pushing six. When he offered to go home and come back for the seven o’clock meeting, Morgan pulled the deli chicken she’d bought from the bag.

  “Why not stay? I have plenty to share. Of course, it’ll have to be picnic style. I brought bedding with me, so we’ll have a place to sit instead of standing at the kitchen counter. I brought my silverware, too.”

  “Works for me.”

  Cole and Morgan set their purchases in the dining room space to deal with as needed. After they put away the perishables, Morgan set dinner fixings on the kitchen counter—a chicken, potato salad, and a bag of tossed green salad. “Hope this is okay. The card table is too rickety, plus—no chairs.”

  He grinned. “My kind of meal.”

  “I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid.”

  Cole had figured that, or she wasn’t going to get into cooking until her house was more in order. Either way, he was having dinner with Morgan.

  She spread a large quilt on the middle of the living room floor. “Plastic plates and heirloom silver. Quite the picnic.”

  “Eclectic is good.” Cole filled his plate and took it into the living room, sitting cross-legged on the quilt.

  Morgan joined him. “I should have bought wine. To celebrate my first meal on Elm Street.”

  “Another time.” Cole scooped up a forkful of potato salad. Her first meal, not their first meal. That would have been expecting too much. However, he wasn’t getting vibes that this would be their last meal together here.

  “I slit more boxes,” he said. “Save you time when you’re ready.” He watched
her body language, but she didn’t tense. Maybe admitting the reason for her fear had given her courage.

  They finished eating, and Morgan gathered the plates and silverware. “I’ll handle cleanup. I’d appreciate it if you’d put the new bulbs in the basement fixture. See if that was the problem.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  Cole carried a stepladder to the basement, then rearranged a few boxes so he could install the light bulbs in the overhead fixture. A flip of the switch said it had been the bulbs, not the fixture.

  Score one for Cole.

  “All done and working,” he said when he entered the living room.

  Morgan folded the quilt. “I should have bought something to offer Tom when he comes over. I don’t even have a coffee pot yet.”

  “I’m sure he won’t expect it. He’s here on a job estimate.”

  Promptly at seven, a vehicle rumbled up the drive. Footfalls thumped up the porch steps. The doorbell rang. Morgan jumped to answer it.

  Cole stood, tempted to follow, but held back. Morgan asked who it was. Good. Did she know what Tom looked like?

  Someone says they’re coming over at seven, the doorbell rings at seven. Odds were pretty good it was the right guy. Still, Cole’s cop training said you couldn’t make assumptions.

  Morgan invited the man in. He looked familiar. Cole extended his hand. “Cole Patton. I’m with the Pine Hills PD. You’re fire?”

  Tom, standing about six-one, blond buzz cut, hazel eyes, and looking like he could pose for one of those firefighter calendars, shifted a clipboard and accepted the handshake. “That’s right. Tom Limbaugh. I head up the handyman group. Your neighbor, Layton Forsythe, said you wanted an estimate.”

  Morgan swept her arm around the room. “There’s a lot to be done, and I’m on a fixed budget.”

  “Not a problem. We’re always happy to work with clients,” Tom said.

  Cole stepped closer to Morgan. “I’ve done a couple small jobs with your crew, but I don’t think our paths have crossed.”

  “Given there are ten of us, working different shifts, that’s quite possible,” Tom said.

  “Ten? I didn’t realize Pine Hills Fire had that many qualified construction people,” Cole said.

  Tom smiled. “We draw from the surrounding towns as well.” He turned to Morgan, his smile widening. “How about you show me what you want done?”

  Morgan went to the kitchen for the notes she and Cole had made. “Cole’s a licensed contractor, just not in Oregon. I was hoping he might be included on your crew.”

  Tom threw Cole a scrutinizing gaze. “If he’s worked with us before, we might be able to fit him in.”

  “He did some drywall repair for me,” Morgan said. “You can look at it, see if he’s up to your standards.”

  Cole bristled. There was nothing Tom would find fault with in his work.

  Half an hour later, Tom had made his notes. Cole had to admit, the guy knew his stuff. The few times he’d pitched in with their crew had been paint jobs, and he hadn’t seen how they handled the kind of projects Morgan needed. His concerns she wouldn’t get quality work eased. He’d still remind her to get references.

  He prepared himself for her reaction when he brought it up.

  “I’ll have numbers for you tomorrow,” Tom said. “I’ll give you choices, like we discussed.”

  Morgan walked Tom to the door, Cole right behind him.

  “My schedule is first shift Saturday through Tuesday. I’m available after work, or on my days off, if you can fit me in,” Cole said.

  Tom gave Cole another assessing glance, then shifted his gaze to Morgan. “See what I can do,” he said, still focused on Morgan.

  Why did Cole think that if Tom hired him, he’d stick him with the worst of the grunt work? He could hear his father laughing.

  If you’d stayed with me, you’d be ordering people around, not taking orders.

  Chapter 21

  MORGAN TURNED DOWN Cole’s offer to stay and help her go through the boxes. “You need to be up early tomorrow,” she said.

  “I’ll come by after shift to put on the next drywall coat. Will you be around?”

  “Don’t see why not. Text me when you’re on your way.”

  Once he’d left, she admitted that she didn’t want the distraction of his presence tonight. When he was around, only half her mind was on task. The other half was on Cole. What he smelled like, how blue his eyes were—like the Mediterranean Sea. She recalled the view from the hotel room in Monaco, how she’d wished she could go out and enjoy the beaches like a normal person. Instead, she’d met the prince, been the guest of honor at a cocktail party she was too young to enjoy.

  Boxes. Boxes. Boxes.

  Morgan descended into the basement, which didn’t seem so frightening now with the glow from the overhead fixture erasing the shadows. She had a trash can and lots of plastic bags to dispose of any more unwanted guests.

  She set a timer for twenty minutes. The way her mother had broken her practice sessions into smaller bits when Morgan complained her hands were tired and she’d rather go play with friends.

  Of course, that had stopped with tutors and home schooling. There weren’t friends to play with anymore.

  Grasping the flaps of the first carton, Morgan closed her eyes, held her breath, and opened the box.

  No rats. Towels. All different shades of blue. Could she use them? Would she even want to? She held one up. Threadbare in spots. A quick perusal said they were all in the same basic condition. Old and worn.

  They might make good rags, or bedding for Bailey. She went upstairs for her purse and found a pen to label the boxes. When her timer went off, she’d found more towels, magazines, old newspapers too crumbly to deal with, and clothes. Plus, a box of half-used candles. She’d categorized the boxes as keepers—she had the one with towels so far—trash, and charity. One box of clothes made that category.

  She’d gone through all the boxes Cole had opened. She’d need help getting them upstairs so she could open more.

  Morgan set her timer for another twenty minutes. She didn’t need help. This was her house, her project. She dragged the boxes labeled trash near the base of the stairs, which gave her access to another layer of boxes.

  Using a kitchen knife, she opened six more. She added a recycling category when she opened a carton filled with empty plastic water bottles. Another held empty soda bottles.

  She thought of what her mother would say, watching Morgan do manual labor. Your hands, Morgan. Be mindful of your hands.

  All those years of being what her mother called mindful hadn’t made a whit of difference.

  The sharp tingling told Morgan it was time to stop. She shook her hands, trying to dispel the painful pins and needles, then did some forearm and wrist stretches and her spider finger exercises. She’d work on more boxes tomorrow.

  Back at the inn, she lay on her bed, thinking about tomorrow and the boxes. She hadn’t found anything remotely worth saving—rags didn’t count—or anything that hinted at who all the contents belonged to. If it was Uncle Bob, she should go through all of them. If it was renters, why not just call someone to haul it all away?

  Could there be a connection to the graffiti? Even if there was, would she recognize it? Would it matter?

  You know you’re too curious not to look in every box. Who knows? There might be a treasure in one of them.

  If she was going to spend this much time moving boxes, she ought to pull out her wrist braces.

  Nothing like advertising your failures to the world.

  They don’t know who you were. They don’t know you’re a failure.

  MORGAN WOKE EARLY THE next morning, wanting to squeeze in time for a visit with Bailey before she had to be at the house for her delivery. She let the front desk know she’d be checking out and to have her bill ready.

  “We hope you enjoyed your stay,” Mrs. More Cheerful said. “Do you want to keep everything on the credit card on file?”


  “Yes, and I did, thanks. Would it be possible to find someone to help carry my bags to my car? If not right away, I can come back whenever it’s convenient.”

  “If you’ll come back after breakfast, I’ll have someone to help you.”

  When Morgan returned after a quick meal at Sadie’s, Mrs. More Cheerful beamed. “You’re in luck. I’ve got a hunk-and-a-half working on a room heater today. He’ll be happy to help you with your bags. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Morgan went upstairs and finished packing. After verifying she hadn’t left anything behind, she called down to the desk. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

  A familiar voice said, “I’m here to help with your luggage.”

  When she opened the door to Tom, his polite smile turned to surprise, then a broad grin. “Morgan. We meet again.”

  COLE SHOWED UP EARLY for shift, hoping to have time to talk to Detweiler or Kovak before roll call.

  He tapped on the door of their shared office. No response.

  “Looking for me, Patton?” Detweiler’s voice carried down the hall.

  Cole stepped aside to let the detective unlock the door. “I found something interesting about the graffiti on the old Elm Street house. I wanted to run it by you.”

  Detweiler motioned him inside, and Cole took a seat in the visitor’s chair. He explained how he’d been helping Morgan, and about the journals she’d found. “I tried to track down the kid who wrote them at Oregon State, but hit a dead end. Going there seemed to be his goal, but the journals stopped before he mentioned being accepted. I couldn’t find him in school yearbooks or graduation records.”

  “Maybe he went somewhere else.” Detweiler tapped his fingers on a stack of file folders sitting on his desk. Body Language 101 said the man was impatient to get to work, although he kept his gaze focused on Cole.

  Cole explained the feelings he’d gotten when he’d talked to Rich. “There’s a secret in there, Sir, and I’ve got a niggle that Kirk Webster was either the one who wrote the message on the wall, or the one the message was talking about. I’d like to proceed.” Cole held up a hand. “Before you tell me niggles aren’t enough to open investigations, I know that, Sir. It’s just something that won’t let go.”