by Jessica Berg
“Not if you had to run and dribble at the same time.”
“Look who’s talking. Didn’t you rip your shorts twice in gym class, on the same day?”
“That was a nasty rumor started by Prissy-Crissy-Pees-Her-Pants. She just wanted the attention taken away from her for a while.”
“Right.” Phoebe folded her hands in her lap, her gaze following the lazy traffic. “I like it here. It seems like a good little place.”
Yeah, it does. To escape their father’s haunting death, both had tried making lives. Both had failed miserably. Combined, they had one failed marriage, a broken-off engagement (courtesy of Phoebe), and a horrible aversion to the only home they’d ever known. She would never forget the image of their father’s dead body dangling across the saddle of Scout, his faithful buckskin. The ranch they’d grown up on, the ranch that had made and killed their father was no longer a home.
This, Grace sighed, will have to be it. If it wasn’t, they would forever be running from a ghost they couldn’t outrun.
“We’ll see. We’ve only been here for a short while.”
Phoebe, intent on being the silver lining to Grace’s little black rain cloud, nudged her gently. “They might have shopping malls around here.”
Five Ford F-350s roared past. “I think the feedlot won out on that battle. I think you’d have to drive into Wichita.”
“Shopping spree! That’ll be fun.”
“Come on. Let’s get to work.” At Phoebe’s pout, Grace continued, “I’ll make a deal with you. If you work hard for the next week, I promise we’ll take a day and go shopping.”
Phoebe’s face lit up. “Now, that’s a compromise.”
Grace chucked her ice cream container into the garbage. “Come on, Phoebe. We’ve got a phone call to make.”
* * *
That night, Grace lay awake, body shaking with each thunder crack. Fat raindrops splattered against the windowpanes and fell in torrential streams down the glass. Never a fan of storms, she hid under the blankets, careful not to let the hotel comforter touch her face. Next to thunderstorms, hotel comforters came in second on her phobia list. She bit off a shriek at the next crash. Telling herself to grow up, she peeked out of her blanket fort and glanced at Phoebe snoozing away.
“Yeesh. At least she’ll be sleeping when we get blown to Oz.” Unable to take the suffocating atmosphere around her, she slipped out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. Not wanting to be caught with her underwear around her ankles when she met the Wizard, she did her business and washed her hands with the hotel’s bar soap.
“They call this soap?”
Lightning lit up the room, and thunder exploded over the hotel. Windows shook, and she swore the Munchkin’s theme song played overhead. She refused to run to her bed and studied herself in the mirror. For two in the morning, she didn’t look too bad. Then again, she wasn’t company-ready, something her mother always strove to instill in her two girls. With a huff and habitual eye-roll, she stuck her tongue out at her reflection and hoped somewhere her mother knew both she and Phoebe were rebelling against everything she had ever tried to teach her daughters about being the perfect woman.
Her mother’s ideal men for her two daughters had crashed and burned. On the outside, Kevin had looked like an Irish god, flowing black hair, Ireland green dancing in his eyes. He had charmed his way into her heart, then her body. Forged a fortress inside her and locked her inside it. She clenched her fists. And she’d let him, had thought he was protecting her from the world with his wealth and status. If only she’d listened to her father.
She broke her mirrored gaze. Looking into them was sneaking a peek at the same green depths as his.
Her lungs constricted. Pain squeezed tighter, tighter. She embraced the pain, welcomed it with anger. If only she hadn’t left the ranch. She could have been there for him. Could have saved him. As a child, she’d followed her father like an adoring lap dog. The barn, the stables, the never-ending expanse of land called to her and fed her soul like it did his. The ache expanded like a mushroom cloud.
She snapped open her eyes, saw her father’s gazing back at her. Those eyes had once danced with mischief and love, could tame a wild beast, convey emotion without saying a word. Tears balanced on her lower lid and fell to the cheap white hotel sink below. She would give anything to take his battered Stetson and run, him chasing her, then snatching her up and falling to the ground with laughter. What was the last thing he’d said? Grace’s mouth moved silently, “Keep the home fires burning, Gracie.” She whispered, “I will, Daddy, when I find a home.”
She swiped at her tears, wishing she could wipe away the suffocating sadness. With a frustrated snort, she crawled back into bed and dreamt of her father’s eyes and another set, sinister, watching her every move.
Chapter 2
The next day dawned with vivacious pink and purple streaking across the sky. The pasture behind the Victorian farmhouse, revitalized with last night’s rain, sprang to life with yellow and purple wildflowers. Cows lazed in the morning sun, watching their babies frolic. In the tree belt surrounding the house, birds sang and danced from treetop to treetop, serenading Grace and Phoebe as they yanked and pulled at a weather-beaten window shutter.
“Holy butter snap!” Grace used her arm to swipe at her brow. She shaded her eyes and glared into the sky. “Is it always this hot in June? It’s not even 8:00 in the morning, and I’m already sweating.” Grunting, she gave another futile tug at the shutter. “And this darn thing won’t budge.”
Phoebe ran to the rusted-out Ford truck they’d rented for the renovation. “I got just the thing,” she cried as she dug around in the truck bed. “Aha!” She did a booty shake and held a crowbar as if it were an Olympic gold medal.
She reached for it when Phoebe came beside her again. “Phoebe, you do realize the ’80s are over, right?”
“That’s why I’m trying to bring them back.” Phoebe smoothed out her hot pink shorty shorts.
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.” With a grin, she faced the stubborn shutter. “I would love the pleasure of teaching this shutter who is boss.”
“Be my guest.”
She slammed the crowbar into a tiny crevice between the shutter and the side of the building. “One, two, three!” Grace lunged against the bar, and a loud cracking preceded the gaping hole in the side of the house.
Phoebe and Grace stared at the hole and at the shutter that hadn’t budged an inch. “You have got to be kidding me. What is this thing made out of ?”
Grace slammed the crowbar back into place, counted to three, and pushed her weight against the bar. Another crack. This time the shutter crumpled to the ground in a sad heap of wood and nails the size of railroad spikes.
Phoebe touched a nail. “I take it whoever put this up didn’t want it coming down again.”
Grace kicked the broken shutter and started on the other one. “What color is this anyway? Puke green?”
“Green and yellow with a layer of brown in between.”
“Awesome,” Grace grunted as she levered another shutter off the house. “I’m trying to think positively about this. I am. I won’t have to work out today.”
“The day you don’t work out is the day the sun will turn pink.”
“Hey, you’ve seen my butt when I don’t work out. Something’s got to keep the fat off my hinder, and it’s running.”
For the rest of the morning, Grace tackled the remaining window shutters, her mind continuing the play-by-play of her failed marriage. He’d wooed her in college and proposed one year later and vowed to honor and love her six months after that. For six years, she’d mistaken the outlandish presents, exotic vacations, and multiple houses at her disposal as love. They were merely tools of deception Kevin had known how to wield with expert precision.
Locked in her self-made tower, she became his wife. She had disappeared. In her stead, a pampered princess. Lonely days had eroded at her until only a mirage of her former
self remained. After two years of marriage, the nights stretched on with emptiness. Usually late and slightly disheveled, Kevin’s excuse never changed: work was rough. His boss was riding him. In year four, she found out he was riding the boss. She had forgiven him for his first betrayal. His second betrayal, she would never forgive.
She gripped the crowbar, swung it over her head, slammed it into the ground, again and again. Sweat poured down her face. She swiped it away, pounded the crowbar into the ground until a football-size hole gaped at her. Much like the hole Kevin had left in her heart.
A hole she’d fill up by becoming the person her father would be proud of. He hadn’t raised her to be a princess. She grunted in frustration. Her father had instilled the importance of good, honest, hard work. To do anything other than that was spitting in the face of God. She vowed never to become that princess again. She rested her forehead against the rough paint, played her thumb over her naked ring finger. Even though there was freedom in no longer having it strangled by an allusion of love, invisible chains still bound her heart.
Kicking her past in the dust, for now, she attacked the last ground floor shutter and watched with pleasure as it bit the dust. Pleasure dissolved as she craned her neck upwards. More shutters waited for her.
“Problem,” Grace yelled.
Phoebe came running around the corner, paint scraper brandished like a weapon. “What is it?”
Grace put one hand on her hip and pointed up with the other. Phoebe groaned. They both knew Grace hated ladders. The fact that they’d need a big ladder wasn’t lost on them either. They both stood facing the house, looking skyward, expecting a miracle to happen. Maybe a tall person, a giant perhaps, would magically appear and take away their worries. And while he was there, they’d have him strip the paint off too.
* * *
Dominick Carson sped out of town, trying to wrangle a cell phone and the slip of paper with chicken-scratched names scrawled across it. Never one for being late, he checked the truck’s green digital clock and cursed. Passing a black Chevy with dark-tinted windows, he turned on to the gravel drive. He glanced at the names again. Grace McIntyre and Phoebe Wallace. What are they’re doing buying that old run-down piece of junk?
He parked his truck in the front of the house. It’d been a long time since he’d been on the property, and time had not been kind. With a low whistle, he grabbed his briefcase and strolled to the front porch. Distressed high-pitched voices echoed from the back. He skirted the house.
Two attractive women, one with ebony hair and dressed like a tame Cindy Lauper, the other with wild auburn hair, ripped Levi’s, and a man’s white undershirt, gesticulated wildly between the ladder and the upper floor of the house. Crumpled shutters littered the ground at their feet, and the red-headed woman smashed one with her sneakers.
Stifling a laugh, Dominick cleared his throat. “Ladies?”
* * *
Grace, surprised by the pleasant drawl, straightened, spun on one heel. Phoebe audibly swallowed. At the saliva pooling in her mouth, she swallowed too. The man before them stood well over six feet of long, lean muscle. Curly honey-brown hair framed a rugged and intriguing face. Long eyelashes shaded eyes of melted chocolate, and his nose bumped up in the middle as if it’d been broken once or twice. A long thin scar ran from the corner of his left eyebrow to his left ear, and full lips curled back into a warm smile, revealing straight teeth.
“You two must be Grace McIntyre and Phoebe Wallace. I’m Dominick Carson.” He held out a calloused hand.
Grace, wiping her hands on her jeans, grasped his hand first. “I’m Grace, and this is my sister, Phoebe.” At Grace’s nudge, Phoebe held out her hand.
He glanced at the house. “This is some building you’ve got here.” He walked back to the front of the house. “My truck’s around front. I want to take a look at the inside. Then I can give you an estimate on what it will take to fix this beauty.”
Phoebe nudged Grace and winked. Grace lightly smacked Phoebe’s head. “Wipe off the drool, and quit ogling him.”
Phoebe whispered back, “I’m not ogling. I’m enjoying the view.”
Grace rolled her eyes. She’d been sucked in by a gorgeous man before, and she wasn’t bound to let that happen again. She checked off her first reaction to him as purely hormonal. She’d be sure to keep her hormones in check from now on.
He paused as they reached the porch, one foot poised on a broken step. “I take it Weasel, I mean, Wisel, sold this house to you?” He cracked his knuckles, drummed them on his leg at her nod. “Wisel has been trying to sell this house for the longest time. After the first buyers left in a hurry, no one from the area would buy it. Not a bad house though. From looking at the outside, the foundation looks to be in good shape. The outside issues are all cosmetic, except for the hole in the house. Looks brand new.”
Phoebe bit back a laugh, and Grace ducked her head. “We kind of put that there this morning trying to get those stupid shutter thingies off.”
“Thingies?” He winked at Grace. “Must be a technical term, huh? Well, that’s pretty easy to fix. Just try not to put any more holes in your house.”
He took the steps two at a time into the house.
Phoebe yanked on Grace’s arm. “Carpenter Hottie winked at you.”
Grace slapped Phoebe’s hand away. “Stop it.”
“Better watch out, though. Carpenter Hottie might be a little on the dangerous side. He has a scar?”
“Maybe he got it in a bar fight.”
Phoebe sighed. “Maybe it was over a damsel in distress.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Dork.”
“Ladies, you coming?” His voice beckoned from within. Grace gave Phoebe the don’t-do-anything-stupid look.
“Yup. Right behind you.”
“My age keeps dropping the longer I’m around this guy. Before I know it, I’ll be snapping my gum and twirling my fingers in my hair,” Phoebe whispered as they climbed the steps.
With another warning glance for Phoebe to behave, Grace followed her sister into the old house and stood where the future front desk would sit. Grace pointed to the weather-stained floorboards. “This is the spot where we would like the front desk. Over to the right, we’d like to have a front parlor where our guests can visit or hang out.”
She continued through the house. “Through this archway, we have the dining room. It’s pretty big and will accommodate our guests fine. The kitchen needs mainly cosmetic work and new appliances. The size is a little cramped, but we can make do with it for now. The back parlor and small study we would like to use as a private area.”
Grace and Phoebe finished showing Dominick the lower two bedrooms. One already had a bathroom attached, so not much work would be needed there. The smaller room had no bathroom.
Dominick took out his measuring tape and jotted down some measurements. “From what I can tell, this wall here” —he indicated the wall separating the bedroom from the hallway—“is a weight-bearing wall. It has to stay. We can add on to the outside of the house, making this room a little bigger, allowing me ample space to create a bathroom.”
“And how much would that cost?”
“Don’t know yet, Phoebe. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll head back to my office and run an itemized estimate for you. You’ll know what needs to be done, and what it’s going to cost.”
They climbed the open grand staircase to the top floor.
The once luxurious bedrooms lay in disarray and decay. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and dust covered every visible surface. Some windows were cracked, and one in the far left bedroom was smashed, the leftover shards of glass grinning in a cutting sneer. Water damage around the window had stained the wood floors a swampy-black.
They walked into the smallest bedroom. Here a large fireplace on the west wall dominated the room. Grace swiped her index finger along the top of the marble mantel. The single line, now free of dust, shone white in the sunshine. She wiped the dust on her shirt. Curtains,
tattered and weathered, hung limply off the rod and fluttered in the breeze coming through the broken window pane. She tugged at the loose wallpaper next to the window. Faded maroon material shredded off the wall, revealing lambs frolicking in what used to be bright green pastures. She rested her right hand on her abdomen and traced the baby lambs with her right. She’d always wanted children.
Kevin had thought they were a nuisance, had sabotaged her. Her fingers lingered on a little lamb wearing a garland of yellow and white daisies. She’d die a shriveled, old, spinster prune.
Dominick’s chuckle brought her back to reality.
When Grace arched an eyebrow, Phoebe explained, “I told Dominick how you put Mr. Wisel in his place.”
“The man seemed a little bored. A little spice never hurt anybody.”
“Spice, huh? You’re not going to get much spice in this town unless you call Bingo night at the VFW spicy. Some of those old ladies can get downright nasty. My grandma, God rest her soul, got her one and only black eye playing Bingo. She figured some ‘tramp’ was being especially flirty with my grandpa and called this lady out.” He shoved a hand through his thick hair. “I heard it was an all-out fight, two little old ladies duking it out over a man who had fake teeth and wore Depends.”
Grace laughed. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”
* * *
Dominick busied himself with measurements, discreetly studying Grace, who, for the moment, was showing Phoebe her nursery lamb discovery. Her auburn hair had worked its way from its ponytail prison. He watched as she impatiently confined it again with an elastic hair tie. The snap and sparkle in her green eyes proved her personality just might match her hair. As he measured the length of the room, he studied her face.
She wasn’t as beautiful as her sister, but her high cheekbones sprinkled with tiny freckles, her long, lean body, and her elegant nose awakened a longing in him that had died years ago. She laughed at something Phoebe said, and his attention was again averted to her eyes, captivated by the specks of fire in them. This woman was no push-over. Yet something else lurked there, something deep-rooted and haunting. He knew what it was to be haunted. Before he could avert his eyes, she met his stare. She cocked her head and lifted her right eyebrow.
