The Fixer Upper (39 page)

T
ee was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees just since sundown.

“Hey, you,” he said, kissing me. “You ready to go?”

“Yep,” I said, turning around. “Do I look all right? You said to dress warm.”

I’d put on a pair of khaki slacks and a soft turquoise cotton-knit sweater, along with a pair of turquoise leather flats that Lynda had brought me from California.

“You look great,” he said. “But then, I think you look great in everything, including your dead uncle’s overalls.”

And then he did a mincing pirouette of his own. “What about me? How do I look?”

“Fabulous,” I said. “But then, I think you look fabulous in everything too.”

We walked out to the Prius and drove off.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” I told him.

“No place fancy. I thought we might have a picnic.”

“I love picnics, but in the dark?”

“This is sort of an indoor picnic,” Tee said. “At my place.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt.

We pulled into the drive at Carter’s house, and walked down the path to Tee’s place. I hadn’t actually been there since the night before the storm. The tree that had smashed through his roof had been cut up into logs that were stacked neatly near the back door to Carter’s house. The back-porch lights shone on the little house, illuminating a bright blue tarp covering the roof.

“Bobby Livesey’s supposed to start working on the roof sometime this week,” Tee said, opening the pottery shed door. “The tarp keeps things pretty dry, but it does get kinda chilly at night.”

I stepped inside. Dozens and dozens of lit candles cast a cozy glow on the old brick walls. There were candles in Mason jars, candles in silver candelabra, candles in dime-store votive glasses, and candles in brass candlesticks. Except for the bed most of the furniture was pushed to the sides of the room, and covered with more tarps. But in the middle of the room, a large oriental rug had been laid with a red-checked picnic cloth. The cloth was set for two, down to gold-rimmed china, cut-crystal wineglasses, silver flatware, and a small arrangement of white roses that had been poked into a silver teapot in the middle of the cloth.

I turned to Tee. “You did all this? For me?”

“You like?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and showed him just how much I loved his idea of a picnic.

“This is the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me,” I told him, laying my cheek against the warm flannel of his shirt.

“I’m just glad I didn’t burn the place down,” he said, pulling me closer. “Fire trucks really would have ruined the ambience.”

“Nothing could ruin this,” I said. “And, did you say something about dinner?”

“I did,” he said, taking me by the hand and showing me the sofa cushion that was my designated seat for the evening. “Be right back,” he said, disappearing into the tiny kitchenette.

A moment later, he was back, carrying a large black-and-gold tole-painted tray. A roast chicken had pride of place on the tray, and I could see a cut-glass dish of potato salad, a small dish of deviled eggs, a plate of grapes and sliced apples, and a plate with two chocolate-frosted cup-cakes.

“Tee!” I said. “Did you fix all this food yourself?”

He did another exaggerated pirouette. “No. But I paid the lady who caters all the fancy parties in town to fix it. That counts, right?”

“Absolutely.”

He set the tray down, went out to the kitchenette, and came back with a tarnished silver champagne bucket—complete with a bottle of iced-down Mumm’s.

“Sorry,” he said, plopping down on the cushion beside mine. “I just unearthed the champagne bucket from Mom’s silver cabinet down in the basement. I didn’t have time to actually polish it.”

“It’s beautiful. The whole table is beautiful. I am totally impressed,” I said.

“All this stuff was kinda shoved in boxes down in the basement,” he said, popping the champagne cork. “I think Dad felt kind of overwhelmed by trying to keep up with polishing and cleaning it after Mom died, so he packed it all away.”

“Your basement sounds a lot more promising than the one at Birdsong,” I said. “All I’ve found in our basement is what looks like thirty years’ worth of back issues of
Mechanics Illustrated
and
Field and Stream
, along with cartons and cartons of old business files from Dempsey Mills.”

He poured both of us glasses of champagne, and I was too overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness to point out that we were drinking out of red-wine glasses that were just the
teensiest
bit dusty.

We clinked glasses. “To us,” Tee said. “And death to our enemies!”

“Or at least jail,” I said, taking a sip of the champagne.

“You still sound kind of conflicted about all this business with Hodder and the FBI,” Tee said, frowning. “What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I really thought I’d be so relieved, once I got out of that church, knowing I’d done what the feds wanted me to do, and that I was finally off the hook. But I don’t know. I felt sort of…dirty. Because I’d stooped to his level.”

“You couldn’t stoop to his level, Dempsey,” Tee said. “He’s scum. He put you in a bind, and you did what you had to do to get out of it. Stop beating yourself up and comparing yourself to him.”

“I’m trying. But you should have seen the look on Hodder’s face, Tee, when he walked into that church. He was beyond pissed. Murderous. That’s the best way to describe it.”

“Well, yeah. You had him over a barrel, and he knew it. He was
busted, unless he dealt with you. And let’s face it, he was handing over a big old wad of cash to you. I’m sure as far as he was concerned, you were the real criminal in the room.”

“He made that point,” I said ruefully. “Called me a stupid, pathetic bitch.”

Tee shrugged and bit into a deviled egg. “Consider the source. Hey, speaking of the cash, what did you do with the money?”

“It’s in the suitcase, under my bed. I get the willies thinking about it. I guess Jackson Hodder or Camerin Allgood will be along to collect it as evidence in the next day or two.”

I hesitated, and then went on. “Alex said…he said the only reason I was turning on him, you know, blackmailing him, was out of revenge.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “He said I wanted revenge because he wouldn’t sleep with me. He even said Licata told him he should have, uh, slept with me to keep me quiet. But then Alex said he’d rather, uh, sleep with a pro than an amateur like me.”

Tee’s face reddened. “Lying sociopath son of a bitch.”

“I hauled off and slapped him as hard as I could,” I said. “I forgot I had my keys in my hand. Tee, I slapped him so hard I drew blood. Also, I, uh, kinda kicked him in the nuts.”

“Good for you!” Tee said, chuckling. “I’d pay to see the film of that.”

I shuddered at the mention of film. Were a roomful of federal agents even now sitting around, watching me bust Alex Hodder across the chops? Not to mention the footage of me kicking him in the nuts?

“It did feel kind of good,” I admitted. “In an awful way.”

Tee busied himself fixing me a plate, slicing off some of the chicken, adding a deviled egg and some potato salad.

“So,” he said, trying to sound offhanded. “Not to put you on the spot or anything, but have you had some time to think about what we talked about earlier?”

I took another sip of champagne. “A little bit.”

He handed me the plate. “Look, Dempsey. I promised myself I wasn’t going to pressure you to stay here. Tonight was just going to be about us. And our future together. But that was before I heard the crap that asshole Hodder tried to lay on you. I don’t know who you were before
you came to Guthrie, but I don’t believe you were anything like what Hodder accused you of being.”

“I was an idiot,” I whispered, blinking back tears. “And remember—I told you in the beginning, I did have a crush on Alex. I guess maybe I turned a blind eye to what he was doing. God help me.”

Tee put his wineglass down so abruptly it sloshed champagne onto the cloth. “I’d like to get my hands on that guy. He used you! He saw a young, vulnerable girl, and he manipulated you.” He reached over and cupped my chin between his hands. “You are nothing like the person he described.”

“You only see what you want to see,” I said. “You don’t really know what I’m capable of doing.”

“No,” he said. “I see you as you are. Today. Here’s what you’re capable of, as far as I can see. You took a run-down ruin and made it into a home. You finally stood up to your father. You dealt with your mother. You inherited an irascible old lady and her dog, and saved both their lives. And you not only stood up to a crook, you brought him to his knees. You’ve become a part of this community, Dempsey. You can’t leave now.”

He let go of my face and took a sip of champagne. “Wow, big speech, huh?”

“Wonderful speech,” I told him. “I think maybe you missed your calling by not going into politics.”

“Politics!” He made a wry face. “I’d rather write about the rascals than become one of ’em.”

“Guthrie’s not such a bad place,” I said slowly. “But I do wish there was a Starbucks. Or maybe just a Whole Foods.”

“It ain’t Camelot. But Guthrie is a good place, with good people. You go back to D.C., and what? Pick up where you left off?”

I shook my head. “No, there’s no going back there, even if I wanted to.”

He leaned forward, so that our foreheads were almost touching. “What do you want, Dempsey?”

If he’d asked me that question earlier in the day, especially right after I’d left New Macedonia church, I probably couldn’t have told him. But
as improbable as it seemed, I’d found some answers in the few short hours since then.

The words just seemed to tumble out. “I want to finish what I started. There’s so much left to do at Birdsong, and we’re almost out of money. Mitch says old houses hemorrhage money. He wants the place sold as soon as possible. But, even if I could sell it, what happens to Ella Kate? It’s her home. And Shorty’s. I can’t just put her out on the street, like a broken piece of furniture. If I had a job, maybe I could buy Birdsong from Mitch myself. He did promise to split any profits with me. Who knows, maybe he’d let me make payments or something.”

He nodded, his face serious. “So, what’s the answer?”

I chewed on a grape. “You know of any openings in this neck of the woods for a disgraced junior lobbyist?”

“Hmm,” Tee said. “No, but I do happen to know of a firm that’s looking to hire a feisty, energetic young attorney for a general practice.”

“That sounds vaguely interesting. Maybe you could give me a referral?”

He leered at me over the top of his wineglass. “I could give you more than that. A lot more.”

“Be serious,” I told him.

“I’m serious as a heart attack,” Tee said. “Just think about it. I’m not ready to totally give up practicing law, but running the newspaper is taking up more and more of my time. And Dad’s got more work than he can handle. He’s been talking about trying to slow down a little. Come work for us. If not for me, for Dad. You love him, he loves you. It’s a no-brainer. Just think, we’d be Berryhill, Berryhill, and Berryhill.”

He kissed me deeply, as though that would seal the deal.

“Hey,” I said, pulling away. “Was that a merger offer or a marriage proposal?”

“Both,” he said, pulling me back into his arms.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “Berryhill, Berryhill, and Killebrew.”

He stood up, gave me his hand, and pulled me to my feet. “Agreed,” he said, pulling me toward the bed. “Now, can we finish these negotiations a little later?”

It was later, much later, in fact, that we hashed out all the details of the merger proposal. I’d drifted off to sleep, with Tee’s arms wrapped securely around me, when I heard my cell phone ringing. Terrified that it might be a call about Ella Kate, I stumbled, naked, toward the chair where I’d left my pocketbook.

I grabbed the cell phone.

“Hello,” I said breathlessly.

“Dempsey?” It was FBI Special Agent Jackson Harrell.

“Jack?” The room was near freezing. I groped around in the dark for something to wrap around me, and managed to come up with the checkered tablecloth. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” He was crowing. “What could be wrong?”

I held the phone away and looked at the clock at the bottom of the phone’s readout screen. “Jack, it’s nearly midnight. Are you drunk?”

“Drunk, hell no,” he said indignantly. “I just thought I’d share a little good news with you, is all. Are you near a television?”

I looked around the room and saw Tee’s tiny flat-screen television, and then I remembered. No electricity.

“No,” I said impatiently. “There’s no TV. Why? What’s happening?”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Harrell said. “’Cause if you did have a television, I’d tell you to turn on CNN so you could watch your buddies Alex Hodder and Tony Licata doing the perp walk.”

“They’ve been arrested? When? The U.S. attorney said it might take a while.”

“She meant hours, not days,” Harrell said, chuckling. “We had agents waiting for Hodder when he got off the plane. And by the time they’d escorted him out to the main terminal, what do you know? Somebody had leaked the news to the press. Your friend Shalani from the
Post
was there, front and center. I think you’ll be seeing a story tomorrow or the day after, clearing your name. Girl? You shoulda seen Alex Hodder trying to walk with his jacket pulled over his head. And he’s still limping from that nutcracker you put on him. I tell ya, Dempsey, it was a beautiful sight.”

I yawned despite myself. “That’s good, Jack,” I said sleepily. “It’s fantastic. Thanks for letting me know. I’m sure I’ll see the footage in the morning. Good night, Jack.”

And then I remembered that suitcase under my bed at Birdsong.

“Oh, yeah. Jack, wait,” I said. “What about the suitcase? Will you be sending a U.S. marshal or somebody to pick up the money?”

There was a long pause. I could hear voices in the background, and then static.