Fatal Fixer-Upper (11 page)

8

––I recognized the voice, and so, obviously, did my cousin. He was smiling unpleasantly when he turned around. 'Evening, Ellis.'

'Stenham.' Derek nodded curtly, but his eyes were examining me. I forced a smile.

'Hi, Derek. Sure. Everything's fine.'

'We're just having a friendly conversation,' Ray/Randy explained, inching a little closer to me, putting him and me on one side, Derek on the other. 'About a family matter.' He put emphasis on the word
family
.

Derek didn't seem at all intimidated by the larger man, and his smile was every bit as unpleasant as Ray's had been.

'I think under the circumstances we're almost family, don't you?' He waited for a moment to hear Ray's reply, but when Ray didn't make one—in fact, it looked like he flushed angrily—Derek continued, his voice gentle. 'I know just as much about old houses as you and your brother. More, since those replicas you're putting up these days are held together with spit and plumber's putty. And if anything happens to Avery's house while I'm working on it, and I think you had something to do with it, there isn't a hole deep enough for you to hide in, Stenham.'

'Oooooh!' Ray grinned, squaring his shoulders. 'I'm quaking, Ellis.'

It was Derek's turn to flush angrily, but without sounding like he was twelve years old and about to get involved in a schoolyard squabble, there wasn't much he could say. His fists clenched, but he didn't move, and Ray smirked as if he had won some kind of victory. He swaggered off, bumping Derek with his shoulder in passing. We stood and watched him make his way down the sidewalk, edging people aside as he went. He got into a black truck similar to Derek's and pulled away. I got a glimpse of a white sticker on the door and recognized the Stenham logo from Ray's—Randy's— shirt. Derek turned to me. 'You OK?'

I nodded. 'Thanks for rescuing me.'

He shrugged. 'You didn't look like you were doing too badly on your own.'

'How much of the conversation did you hear?' My hands were a little unsteady, and I shoved them in my pockets.

'Enough. I used to get into fights with Ray and Randy when I was a kid. They're not concerned about fair play, and they've never heard that it's wrong to pick on someone smaller.'

'I've had run-ins with them before, too.' I nodded. Granted, there is a bit of difference between the tricks they played on me when we were small and what Ray (or Randy) had seemed to threaten tonight, but I didn't want Derek to think I was one of those damsels in distress, incapable of taking care of myself.

'Then you know what you're dealing with. Keep your eyes open on the way home.'

I promised I would and watched him walk away across the street before I turned and hurried up the hill toward Aunt Inga's house again. The whole incident had made me re-evaluate the comfort of a bowl of macaroni and cheese behind my own closed door.

. . .

'You wanna do
what
?!' Derek said.

It was the next morning, and we were standing in the kitchen. I had spent at least half the night tossing and turn ing, my mind abuzz with the unsettling encounter with my cousin. It had been worth it, though. Those hours lying awake trying to think of other things had given me an idea for what I wanted to do with Aunt Inga's broken pieces of Blue Willow pottery. And Aunt Inga's kitchen counter. That idea was what had gotten this response from Derek.

'I thought you'd be happy,' I said. 'It's better than a concrete counter, isn't it?'

Derek muttered something. I waited. 'I suppose,' he said eventually.

'It's not like I'm asking
you
to do it,' I pointed out. 'I'll handle it myself. I've done mosaic before. On smaller surfaces, and with little pieces of glass, but I'm sure it's a similar process. All I need is for you to tell me what materials and tools I need. And maybe just stand by when I'm starting out, to make sure I'm doing it right.'

'That's all, huh? You sure there isn't anything else?'

I shook my head. 'I think that ought to do it. Except . . . you could be a little more encouraging. I'm not stupid, you know. When it comes to interior design, I probably know more than you do. No offense, but it's my field. I majored in textile design, but one doesn't graduate from Parsons summa cum laude without picking up a few interior design credits along the way.'

'I'm sure,' Derek said. 'Here.' He handed me a funnylooking plastic and metal tool, round with a small serrated wheel underneath. When I stared at it blankly, he added,

'It's a scoring tool. When you run it over the wallpaper in the hallway, it makes little holes. Then, when you spray the walls with adhesive remover, it'll seep into the holes and make it easier to take the wallpaper down.'

'My kitchen counter . . .' I began, with a sideways glance toward it. Now that I'd had the idea of turning Aunt Inga's broken dishes into a countertop, I was eager to get started.

'Can wait till next week.' And with any luck, his tone said, by then I would have forgotten all about it and gone on to some other fleeting fancy.

'Fine,' I said. 'Be that way.' I did a precise about-turn on my heel and stalked out into the hallway where I took out my frustrations by running the scoring tool violently up and down and all around the walls. Derek laughed and got busy. The rest of the day progressed in the same manner. Silently. Apart from spending a few minutes talking to Mr. Todd, who came to give a quote on cutting the grass, I didn't speak a word. Derek clanged and banged down in the basement, redoing the kitchen plumbing, and I seethed. He went to lunch at his usual time, and I had my usual tuna on whole wheat at the now-controversial kitchen counter.

At four forty-five, he cleaned up his tools and asked me to pay him for his first week's work. I was still laboring over the walls, tediously peeling off slivers of paper that had been there for one hundred years and were loath to relinquish their hold on life. I was coming to see the truth of what Derek had told me: renovating a house always takes longer and costs more than you think. Writing the check was painful; not because he didn't deserve the money but because I knew it was only the first of many such checks I'd have to write. Derek left to get to the bank before it closed, and I went back to stripping wallpaper. It was tedious and annoying work, although strangely satisfying.

Between yanks I kicked myself. Dammit, what was it with me and men? Why did I always end up working with these egotistical jerks who made a career of preventing me from doing what I wanted? I was paying Derek's salary, dammit; didn't that entitle me to some say? If I wanted new kitchen cabinets, and I was willing to pay for them, shouldn't I be able to have them? And I'd bowed to his wishes and found a compromise for the concrete counter, but now he'd ix-nayed that, too. He was just like Philippe: nothing was ever good enough unless it was his idea. For fifty cents I'd fire him, except I needed him. He worked damned hard for his $ a week, and if he could make Aunt Inga's house look like Kate's B and B when it was finished, that was worth quite a bit of aggravation. Still, I wished he could be a little easier to get along with. And not quite so goodlooking. Because, let's face it, the fact that I found him attractive only served to make his attitude toward me more irritating.

By seven o'clock, I'd had enough. I'd missed enjoying dinner out yesterday, so I figured I'd treat myself tonight instead. And instead of heading into downtown, in case I ran into Ray or Randy again, I pulled the bike I'd found out of the shed and pedaled in the other direction instead. I ended up at a cinder-block place called Mario's, out beyond the edge of town, where I indulged in several slices of shell-fish pizza, telling myself I'd work them off on the ride home.

By the time I was coming back to town, it was going on ten o'clock, and things in Waterfield were dark and quiet. As I pedaled along the ocean road, all I could hear was the crashing of the waves below the cliffs, the rhythmic sound almost drowning out the soft whirring of my textured bicycle wheels. There was no moon in the sky, but the stars were brilliant, and the black sea rippled with foamy crests. The cool breeze puckered the skin on my arms and whipped my hair across my face, and I breathed deeply, enjoying the change from the stuffy streets of New York. Other than a few guests whiling the time away on Kate's front porch, I didn't see a soul.

Leaving the bike propped up against the corner of Aunt Inga's house, I made my way up onto the front porch. I hadn't turned on any lights before going out, and by now, everything was dark. It took a minute to fumble the key into the lock and open the door. I snaked my hand around the jamb, searching for the light switch, and found it eventually, but although it switched over with an audible click, the light didn't come on. The bulb must have burned out, or maybe the electricity was off. Maybe Derek had shut it down at some point during the day and had forgotten to turn it on again before he left. Just to make sure, I tried the switch again, several times, with no luck.

As I was standing there, I heard a sound from down the hallway. It sounded like a footfall, and then a shadow moved in the darkness. I froze, and a voice broke the silence.

'Mmrrrow?'

All the air left my body on a whoosh, and I sagged. Behind me, the front door swung shut as I bumped it with my elbow. The lock latching with a snick made me jump again.

'Dammit, cat,' I said weakly, leaning against the closed door, 'you scared me half to death.'

The cat sneezed. As it came closer, soft feet padding on the hardwood floors, I realized it was Jemmy, coming to wrap himself around my ankles, the tip of his striped tail tickling the back of my knees. I had forgotten to fill his bowl before I left, and now he was making nice to get me to feed him. I choked back a slightly hysterical laugh and bent to run my hand across his head and ears. 'OK, Jemmy. I'll get you your food. Just head for the kitchen. I'll be right behind you.'

My eyes had gotten a little more used to the darkness, and I could make out shapes of furniture and boxes as I shuffled along behind Jemmy, working hard not to step on him or kick him inadvertently. When I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, I jumped another foot or so, and then started breathing again when I recognized myself in the gilt-framed mirror Aunt Inga had hanging in the hallway. Another cat-shaped shadow met us just inside the kitchen door. Inky must have been waiting there, daintily allowing Jemmy to take care of things, as a proper lady should. As soon as I stopped, they both began twining themselves around my legs, loudly demanding sustenance. The kitchen light didn't work, either, so I decided that the problem was with the electrical system itself, and wasn't just an issue of burned-out bulbs. I'd have to go down to the basement and have a look-see. Derek had shown me the breaker box earlier in the week, just in case something like this happened, and I was pretty sure I'd be able to figure out which breaker to flip.

Both felines were vocalizing impatiently, wondering why I didn't just get them something to eat. The dark was no problem for them, of course. The idea of handling a manual can opener in the dark, and slopping wet and smelly cat food into two bowls without being able to see what I was doing, was a daunting task, however. I decided that they certainly wouldn't starve if I made them wait five minutes while I lit a candle and went down to the basement to see if I could get the lights turned back on. If Derek showed up tomorrow and discovered that the cause of the blackout was a tripped breaker that I'd been too chicken to reset, I'd never live it down.

Two minutes later, I was standing at the top of the basement stairs peering into the black void below. The flickering flame of the fat, scented candle I had taken out of the bathroom gave a faint glow to the top two rickety steps, but beyond that, all was darkness. And whereas I wouldn't say I'm afraid of the dark, I'm at least respectful of things like mice and spiders. The dirt basement gave off a musty, earthy smell, and it took real effort to convince myself to take the first step onto the stairs. So far, so good. I took another, and—when the wood under my feet wobbled—shot out my free hand to grab the makeshift railing. When it gave, separating from the stairs and swinging out into the dark, I hung on for dear life, until the piece I was holding broke off in my hands, and I plummeted with it, the candle falling in an arc from my hand and my voice shrieking uselessly.

Things went black after that, although it wasn't because I lost consciousness, just because the candle went out. I hit the floor like a sack of cement, with a groan and a grunt, and lay there, catching my breath and marveling at the fact that I was alive. When I thought I could move again without doing myself further injury, I rolled over and began taking stock. My hands smarted, but I couldn't feel anything worse than some abrasions with gravelly dirt from the basement floor embedded in them. My face hurt as well, but it seemed to be due to yet more scratches and not anything serious, like a broken nose. One of my legs twinged—probably because I had landed on it—and upon investigation, I discovered that I had ripped my favorite jeans and skinned my knee. It protested loudly when I tried to get up, so I stayed where I was a little longer, and contemplated my situation. Things could have been worse. I was still very much alive, if not entirely whole. But my injuries were minor compared to what could have happened. I hadn't broken anything. The stubby candle had been snuffed out on its way down, so the house wasn't on fire. And the dirt floor had probably been more forgiving than a concrete floor would have been.

Still, I didn't want to spend the rest of the night on it. Groaning, I pulled myself up and half crawled, half walked over to the steps, pushing aside broken pieces of railing as I went. Damn Derek, anyway; he'd been up and down these stairs every day for a week: if the railing was loose, shouldn't he have reattached it? I knew he'd been busy with other things, and repairing a broken basement railing isn't glamorous or fun, not like redesigning a kitchen or restoring a stained glass window, but shouldn't it have occurred to him that the loose railing was a safety hazard and that I could fall down the stairs one day and break my neck? It had happened to Aunt Inga. All right, so maybe my aged aunt hadn't been as steady on her feet as me, not to mention that her bones had probably been a lot more brittle, but still, oughtn't Derek to have taken care of it? It was what I paid him for, wasn't it?

Grumbling and complaining under my breath to take my mind off the pain in my knee and my smarting palms and face, I managed to make it over to the steps and to feel my way up. Because the railing had fallen, I kept to the inside of the staircase, trying not to wince as my arm brushed against the cold, dank brick of the foundation.

The steps themselves were primitive, just thick planks of rough wood nailed to risers. They scratched my already abraded hands, and I had to be careful not to pick up any splinters. Just as the hallway was in sight—so to speak; the darkness was a little less solid up there because of the windows—the step I was creeping over wobbled under my knees, and for a moment, I thought I'd go rattling back down to the bottom. Only my death grip on the threshold kept me steady, and I was able to crawl on, up into the hallway, where I lay on my stomach, panting, for longer than I care to admit.

Eventually, I gathered myself together to feed the cats, before pulling off my jeans and washing my various injuries in the pitch dark. That done, I crawled onto Aunt Inga's bed, still sitting in the middle of the dining room, and dropped off to sleep.

The nightmares began toward the wee hours of the morning. I was falling, tumbling over and over like a rag doll, from step to step, before landing on the hard floor of the hallway with an impact that jolted my teeth together. Lying there, dazed and blinking, I heard the slam of a door, and then footsteps, coming closer. My mind screamed for action—
Someone's coming! Get up and run away!
—but I couldn't move or do anything but lie there, paralyzed. The steps halted, and a dark shadow loomed over me. With a strangled cry, I wrenched my eyes open and forced my aching body to obey the panicked dictates of my mind. Flailing my arms wildly, I felt my fists connect with something soft and heard a voice. 'Whoa! Easy!'

My arms were grabbed and held, and I blinked owlishly in the weak morning sunlight slanting through the sheer curtains. The shadow wasn't dark after all; it resolved itself into a blue T-shirt and a forelock of sun-streaked hair, under which a pair of blue eyes peered at me.

'Oh,' I said, slumping, 'it's you.'

Derek released me, and I flopped back on the bed. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. 'What the hell happened to you?'

'Fell down the stairs,' I said. He arched his brows. I added, 'The railing broke.'

'What railing?'

'The railing on the basement stairs. You know, as much as you've been up and down those stairs this past week, I would have thought you could have spent thirty minutes making sure . . .'

He was already on his way out the door to the hallway.

'While you're down there anyway,' I called after him, as I heard the basement door creak open, 'have a look at the breaker box. The lights were off last night as well.'

He didn't answer, just started down. I could hear a soft curse when the second to the top step wobbled, but then he continued past it. A minute later all the lights on the first floor blazed on.

I grabbed the excuse to swing my legs over the side of the bed and limp toward my torn and muddy jeans, crumpled on the floor. I had flopped down on Aunt Inga's bed in just a T-shirt and panties last night, and before Derek came back upstairs and could notice my state of undress, I wanted to cover up.

'What are you doing?' he asked from behind me as I stood there, balancing on one foot while trying to bend the other knee far enough to fit the hurt leg into the pants.

Surprised, I lost my balance, and would have fallen flat on my face had he not grabbed me. 'Careful.'

'I'm just trying to get dressed,' I said, my cheeks hot.

'Not on my account, I hope?' He grinned.

'Well . . .'

'Let me have a look at your knee first, OK?' He pulled me gently over to the edge of the bed and knelt on the floor in front of me. 'That's a nasty bruise. Does this hurt?' He twisted my knee, and I squealed. He let go again and sat back on his heels, looking up at me. 'Probably need to see the doctor.'

'The emergency room?' This early on a Saturday, it would have to be. 'I'm not sure I can afford that.'

'We'll figure something out,' Derek said, standing.

'Upsy-daisy.' He scooped me up, and I found myself floating across the room, like a bride across the threshold.

'My pants!' I yelped, squirming.

'Oops.' He put me back down and turned his back, gentleman-like, while I sat on the edge of the bed to finish putting on my torn jeans.

When I announced I was decent, he swung back toward me, and I added, quickly, 'I'm sure I can make it to the truck on my own. You don't have to carry me.'

His face was solemn. 'That's OK. You don't weigh much.'

'One hundred and ten pounds soaking wet,' I said. He grinned.

'I'm sure I can manage to stagger out with you.'

'If you insist.'

'I really think I must, yeah? You should stay off that leg as much as possible.'

He lifted me again and headed toward the door. This was as close as I'd ever been to him, and I noticed that he smelled of shampoo and Ivory soap, overlaid with a hint of something astringent, like paint or mineral spirits. Simple and uncomplicated. Nice.

'I thought you'd have plans today,' I said when he had loaded me into the truck and had climbed into the driver's seat himself.

He sent me a look. 'Like what?'

'Well, it's the weekend. I was thinking maybe a romantic outing with your wife, if you have one. Or girlfriend. In some out-of-the-way place that only the locals know about.'

'Nope.' He turned the key in the ignition, and the truck roared to life.

'You don't have a wife? Or you don't have plans with her today?'

He shot me another flash of blue eyes. 'Why all the questions about my personal life?'

'No reason.' Kate hadn't mentioned a Mrs. Ellis, and he wasn't wearing a ring, but in his line of work, with his hands constantly dealing with sticky and corrosive substances, maybe he preferred not to. 'Just making conversation.'

'And here I thought you were checking to see if I'm available,' Derek said with a grin.