Turnagain Love (Sisters of Spirit #1)
Read Turnagain Love (Sisters of Spirit #1) Online
Authors: Nancy Radke
TURNAGAIN LOVE
by Nancy Radke
THE PRETTIEST GAL ON THE MOUNTAIN
Chapter One
“How could that woman call this place ‘livable?’ It hardly qualifies as a place,” Jennel Foster muttered to herself as she dropped her suitcases on the rocky path in front of the old house.
No wonder the wealthy lady had shuddered when she begged Jennel to make the place over. The contrast between the sparkling new, but overstuffed luxury of Mrs. Van Chattan’s New York apartment and this ramshackle old house on a rocky island was beyond imagination. If only the woman had described it better!
“It’s not my idea of a second home, but my husband loves it,” Mrs. Van Chattan had said. “As if he cares. He’ll be working in places like California while I’m sitting
on some heap of rock in the middle of Puget Sound.” The woman had dabbed at moist eyes as she continued. “It’s so isolated there. I’ll be stuck in that house for days on end. You just have to make it over for me.”
Mrs. Van Chattan’s many snapshots of the ancient house had not shown the decay. In the photos, the dwelling looked empty and rambling...but livable.
In reality, it sagged with age, mildew and neglect. Fir trees towered over it, one- hundred-fifty to one-hundred-eighty feet tall, blocking out the late afternoon sun. Branches and needles covered the roof with a thick black carpet. To add to the problem, careless builders with a hodgepodge of styles had changed and altered the original Victorian lines through the years.
Just looking at the outside made Jennel want to cry. It was vitally important that this job have no hitches. Yet even as her courage faltered, she welcomed the challenge. It wasn’t her way to tackle just simple projects. The hard ones stretched her creative talents and made her grow as an interior designer.
If she hadn’t been desperate for work, she would never have accepted a redecorating job sight unseen. It wasn’t wise—she knew that—but at the time she felt justified in taking the risk.
Now, five weeks and three thousand miles later, she stared in disbelief at the old house she had agreed to restore. It was worse than her client had described.
Much worse.
Leaving her three bags on the pathway, Jennel tiptoed as lightly as possible up the broken steps and across the wide veranda, both covered with black slime mold.
A quick backward step, to regain her balance, punched a small round hole in the softened wood. She hoped the floor wouldn’t collapse under her weight, light though she was. She hadn’t paused very long during her all-day trip from Boston, and still wore her wine colored traveling suit and new high heels. Her new suit gave her an aura of style and competency—but it was designed for business meetings, not exploring.
She could just picture herself, legs flying out from under her as she skidded across the black mold. So she cautiously tried each step before transferring her weight. If she wasn’t careful she could easily end up on her fanny, putting a much bigger hole in the sagging veranda floor.
“You never do anything halfway, do you?” Jennel asked herself as she sought stronger wood footing close to the wall. It was what her mother always said whenever Jennel impetuously took on more than she could handle.
At least this time she’d get paid. She had accepted a down payment on her last job and used her own money to redecorate it, then been informed that the owner had declared bankruptcy.
In contrast, Mrs. Van Chattan had agreed to pay as Jennel went along, starting with six hundred dollars for travel expenses. Jennel considered the amount generous at first, but after buying two plane tickets and then chartering a boat for the last leg of the journey, she changed her mind. She had just spent the last seventy dollars on groceries, and from now on would have to use her own limited cash until she reestablished contact with her client.
Mrs. Van Chattan had been desperate to get someone to fix it up to her tastes. “You simply have to help me, Jennel. You know what I want. Something like this.”
Her well-manicured hands had fluttered in helpless appeal to indicate pink lace curtains and white satin pillows, French Provincial furniture and white pile rugs. “Please, Jennel. Otherwise, I’ll go absolutely mad.”
“Of course, I’ll do it,” Jennel had assured her. “But you must realize I can’t give you an estimate until I’ve actually seen the house.”
“I don’t care about an estimate. I’ve seen two other homes you’ve done. I know how good you are. I’m willing to pay whatever is needed to make this house into a home for me.”
In the end, they had signed a contract giving Jennel carte blanche to draw on an account Mrs. Van Chattan would set up after she cashed in some bonds. Jennel was to write checks on it, adding a large percentage for commission as she progressed. She had three more days before the account opened. Three days in which to settle in.
What would the interior be like? She was almost afraid to look.
The old front door protested loudly. An odor of decay and mildew engulfed her as she stepped inside the cold damp room.
It confirmed her worst fears. She had advertised herself as a “restorer” of old homes, but this island house was well beyond what she’d ever done before.
She’d have to hire help just to keep the roof from collapsing. A carpenter or two. Probably an electrician to rewire it. It might be best to call in a professional to do a complete structural analysis.
It put her at a disadvantage since she didn’t know anyone on the West Coast; particularly people in construction. Perhaps Clyde Brekley, the Friday Harbor charter captain who had brought her to Turnagain Island, might recommend someone. By the time the carpenters finished the structural repairs, she could have all her designs and supplies ready.
“Both water and electricity are available,” Mrs. Van Chattan had said. “It was lived in up to last year. You’ll be able to stay there.” Based on that, Jennel had planned to make one room habitable for herself, then work around it. But whoever used to live here must have been a hardy soul.
Because Mrs. Van Chattan had said the real estate agent called his office from here, Jennel looked around for a telephone.
“Okay phone, where are you hiding?” she asked the empty rooms, searching for a telltale phone jack.
Upstairs, downstairs...she searched carefully, getting a general picture of the house as she did so, but becoming more and more concerned.
Her search ended where it had begun, in the kitchen.
No jacks. No phone.
The agent had probably carried a cellphone with him. Jennel opened her purse and took out her cellphone. There were no bars showing but she tried dialing anyway.
Nothing. She suddenly realized that Mrs. Van Chattan paid no mind to things, critical or not. No phone, no carpenter.
Then a graver thought struck her. No phone, no nothing.
Without a phone she couldn’t get Mr. Brekley to come back to pick her up. She was stranded on this small desolate island in the northwest corner of Washington State.
With a sense of foreboding, she flipped the light switch up and down.
No response. Still...the bulb could be burned out. Hopefully, she plugged in a small electric hot plate and held her fingers over the element. It stayed cold. The rest of the kitchen used gas, but she had no propane with her.
Fighting back a rising surge of panic, she ran through the house searching for the master switch. Sometimes owners broke the main circuits as a precaution when a house was left vacant.
The panel was by the basement door, with all switches closed. Frustrated, she flipped them a couple of times: open and closed, open and closed—a futile gesture; the basement light didn’t respond.
Where did the electricity come from anyway?
Nothing in Jennel’s twenty-five years had prepared her to handle a situation like
this. There had always been people around. Instant communication. Lights always went on when she flipped the switch, telephones always worked...or else a repairman was available to fix things.
The total isolation, treated with the uneasy respect of one who had never lived more than a mile away from someone else, suddenly imposed itself heavily upon her conscious.
Being alone took on a new dimension.
Emptiness, the emptiness of the western United States, meant miles and miles without another soul in sight, and sometimes days spent alone. A friend at Virginia Tech had described it to Jennel. Jo had driven across Utah, Wyoming and Montana. Distance had suddenly come crashing down upon her during an unexpected snowstorm when there had been no one but herself to rely on.
Jennel sympathized, but had not understood. Now she did.
Isolation was a tangible thing. It could be felt...creeping up on a person, under- mining one’s defenses.
Jennel glanced over her shoulder as the old house creaked loudly. If someone had been with her, she wouldn’t have noticed. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
She couldn’t allow the isolation to take over her emotions. It would require all her courage and stubborn determination to complete this job.
She’d be warm enough. She had a sleeping bag. Fireplaces stood in several of the rooms...but she’d be unwise to use them until she had all the chimneys inspected. Although she had not planned to literally “camp out,” it looked like that was what she was going to do. Her groceries lay in her boxes of supplies, stacked on the dock.
“It can’t get any worse.”
Cautiously she walked down into the basement and looked around. The musty odor of concrete pervaded the stale air. Spider webs hung profusely, denying her access.
A new surge of panic hit as she spotted a long canvas-covered object on a rack just past the bottom of the dark basement stairs. “Calm down,” she told herself. “That’s too long to be a body...or even a coffin.” She took a step forward, fighting an instinct to run. “You’ve food and shelter. You won’t die of starvation. What else do you need?”
Drinking water.
Not bothering to explore further, Jennel sprinted up the stairs and turned on the kitchen faucet.
Nothing.
Idiot! Why hadn’t she checked things before letting Brekley’s boat leave?
She knew why. Mrs. Van Chattan’s convincing descriptions and her own eagerness to get started had left her feeling secure— neither being an excuse for not checking conditions first. Once again Jennel regretted her impulsive nature.
“It’s like being in the middle of one of those situation comedies,” she groaned wryly, trying to find some humor. “Any minute now and the skunks’ll come in!”
She had to get help. The water around the island was salt, not fresh. Even the thought made her thirsty.
The sun was setting, but with the long twilight there should be light for an hour. Her father was a captain in the navy, so Jennel knew that three of anything was a signal for help. Three fires were too big a project for tonight, but three white pieces of cloth spread high on some rocks might flag down a passing boat. It was worth a try. There seemed to be plenty of them, cruising to and fro across the saltwater ...ships and barges and boats of all sizes.