A Place to Call Home

by Jessica Berg

  Dominick darted his gaze around the room and cleared his throat. “Well, ladies, this is a mess.” He leaned against the fireplace. “This will take some time and money. A lot of time and money. It wouldn’t be bad if you didn’t need bathrooms put in. That’s where it’s going to bite you.”

  Grace and Phoebe traipsed downstairs after him. Grace stood in the foyer and nervously played with the waistband of her ripped jeans. She wiped her face with her white T-shirt and only managed to smear dirt and wood debris over her forehead and cheeks.

  Phoebe slung an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never given up.”

  Phoebe tucked a stray black hair behind her ear. “We can do this.”

  She studied Phoebe for a second. “It’s a little difficult taking you seriously with the outfit you have on today.”

  Phoebe made a sweeping motion down her white tube top and hot pink running shorts. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Nothing. If we were going to a roller rink after this.”

  Phoebe pouted. “And here I tried to say something nice to you. You’re mean when you’re stressed.”

  “I’m not stressed. I’m a little …”

  “Stressed,” Phoebe stated emphatically. She gestured to Dominick for backup.

  He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I don’t want to get in the middle, but I’m thinking the problem lies in the color paint chip you’re sporting. Pink paint chips would go much better than that awful green.” He slid his gaze to Grace. “And there is nothing wrong with a roller rink.”

  Phoebe brushed at herself and failed. “That’s it. I quit.”

  Dominick stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the two women before him. Odd. Strange. But, like his grandma, he liked a little spice in his life. His eyes locked with a pair of green ones. His heart beat faster. “Don’t worry, ladies. You’re in good hands with my crew and me. We’ll have this place open for business in no time.”

  Grace spoke first, “Thanks. When you’re done with the estimate, you can either find us here or at the Super 8 motel.”

  “High living, huh?”

  “Yup. Got to live somewhere, and it sure isn’t going to be here until I’m personally assured all ghosts and spiders have vacated the premises.”

  Dominick chuckled. “Good plan. See you ladies later.”

  * * *

  “Hate to see him go, but love to watch him leave.”

  Grace playfully punched Phoebe’s arm. “Didn’t you swear off men since Brett.”

  Phoebe picked at the hem of her pink shorts. “Right after Brett left me at the altar, I swore to myself I’d never trust another man. But my heart is healing. Let’s just say I’m keeping my eyes and heart open. You?”

  Grace sunk to the bottom step and scraped patterns in the dust on the floor with her shoe. Was six months enough for the wound to heal? How long must she mourn for a relationship that never fulfilled her, for a man who had sabotaged her dreams, who had deserted her in her time of greatest need when her father died? Her head pounded. She massaged her temples. “I don’t know, Pheebs. Sometimes I wish Dad were here. He’d know what to do.”

  Phoebe sat beside her and enfolded her in a half hug. “You deserve to live life to its fullest. And Dad would tell you when the horse bucks you off …”

  “… you get right back on.” Grace finished the cliché. Scrubbing her face with her dirty hands, she sighed and peered at the front parlor. “That room”—she gestured toward the closed French doors that cut the room from view—“I should feel something toward it, but I don’t. Why not?”

  “We were so young. You were three. I was two.” Phoebe held Grace’s hand. “I’m not surprised about the lack of emotion toward this house or that room.” Phoebe tightened her grip. “Maybe your brain refuses to remember?”

  Grace stood and brushed her pants off. “Well, enough of memory lane. Oh, and as for the swearing off men thing, I’ve realized one thing, Pheebs. Not all men are morons like Kevin and Brett. When the right ones come along, we’ll know it.”

  “Like Carpenter Hottie?” Phoebe picked up a paint scraper, held it to her chest like a lover. “Maybe he’s The One.”

  * * *

  A figure in the trees put down his binoculars and reached for a gun. Sticking the butt of the weapon to his shoulder, he relished the weight, the feel of the smooth wood, the beauty of the grain. His father would have given it to him. Had he lived. But Jeremiah Wallace had cut his father’s life short with a bullet between the eyes. He had watched, a small sniveling boy in the corner, sucking his dirty thumb, a habit his father had tried to beat of him. But no amount of belts would beat the vision of his father falling like a tree, splat to the dirty floor of the run-down house. He had tried. Crisscross patterns of red-ribbed scars on his back testified to his demons, an evil intermingling of his father’s work and his own.

  Rubbing the back of his hand across his dried lips, he settled his right eye to the sight. Grace’s head appeared in the crosshairs. He licked his lips and steadied his index finger on the trigger. Her auburn hair swayed as she walked along the back porch. His finger twitched. She twirled around, apparently dancing to whatever song belted from the house. She flashed a smile. His heart stopped.

  He’d have to wait for a better time. He eased his finger off the trigger. “I’ll pop you off later, ladies,” he promised.

  Chapter 3

  The alarmed wailed its 6:30 a.m. battle cry. Grace flailed an arm out to smack the snooze button. Muttering curses into her pillow, she flopped onto her back and lay in the darkness, staring at the blinking red light on the smoke detector. Huh, wonder if it works. Visions of her and Phoebe fried to crisps in their beds didn’t appeal to the senses. She swung a leg out of bed and nearly screamed in agony. Whimpering, she tested the other leg. Just as painful.

  Not surprising after yesterday’s workload of ripping off shutters, pulling the various noxious weeds surrounding the house, and running from squirrel babies she’d found in the attic. She flexed her calf muscle, feeling as if she’d been mowed down by a bakery truck. At least it was a bakery truck. She slipped her feet into pink, fuzzy slippers.

  The morning sun crept through the narrow slit in the faded hotel curtains. Light streamed across Phoebe’s face. She grunted, drooled, and flipped away from the invading sun. Grace shook her head in amusement as she trudged to the bathroom.

  “Yikes!” The hair on the left side of her head stuck to her scalp, while the other side stuck straight out. She whipped her hair back into a manageable ponytail and brushed her teeth. After putting on her running clothes, she slapped a hat on her head, slipped the room key into her sock, grabbed her iPod, and slipped out the door.

  Inhaling in the fresh morning air, she set out at a fast walk. She caught herself singing out loud to the tunes pumping into her ears. “Don’t judge me,” Grace stated to a squirrel who’d stopped fiddling with an acorn to study her, “you’d listen to Eminem too.” Warmed up enough to settle into a medium-paced run, she steadied her breathing, and the rhythm of her legs took her across town.

  A few people driving by looked at her with curiosity. She waved. Passing a mom strolling along with her baby girl all decked out in pink lambs reminded her of the old nursery. Her marriage had hit rock bottom in year six. She had have lived with the infidelity, had gotten over the sexual insecurity, had endured his boring, rutting missionary style all to become a mother. He’d led her to believe he wanted children. She’d quit taking the pill and started taking prenatal vitamins until one morning, she caught him lacing her morning yogurt.

  Fighting the urge to stop in front of the 7-Eleven and weep, she ran harder. Her sneakers pounded the pavement until the only pain left alive was physical, and the sting of two years of betrayal sweat from her body. As she neared the hotel, Grace shoved her emotions back into their hidey-hole. Eventually, she’d have to deal with it all, but
today was not the day.

  “Where did you run to? Timbuktu?” Phoebe asked as soon as Grace stepped into the hotel room.

  “Nope, just through some neighborhoods and down Main Street. The diner we ate at yesterday looks like it has a good breakfast menu.”

  “You are insane, you know that, right?” Phoebe concentrated on applying mascara. “You could lose a toenail.”

  She tore off her shoes and laid spread eagle on the bed. “I sure as heck hope not. My feet are too cute in flip-flops.” She peered at Phoebe. “Why are you putting on makeup?”

  Phoebe huffed and rolled her eyes. “Did you see how I looked yesterday when Carpenter Hottie came around? A girl can’t look like that when a cute guy is lurking around every corner.”

  “You are beyond all hope. I’m addicted to running, and you’re addicted to mascara. Even combined, I don’t think we’d come close to making a semi-normal person.”

  Phoebe waved her lipstick tube in the air. “Crazy women need to be beautiful.” She tossed the tube to Grace. “Load up.”

  Reed’s Diner did indeed have an awe-inspiring breakfast menu. Both Grace and Phoebe ordered the Kansas Sunrise Breakfast Platter and dove in with reckless abandon. Halfway through the double order of hash browns, Grace leaned back, unbuttoned her jeans.

  Phoebe glanced at her expanding stomach and gave her green shorts an appreciative pat. “Glad I wore gym shorts and mascara. Any hot guys come around, I won’t have a stomach roll, and my eyes will be stunning.” She circled her hand at Grace. “You, however, are in a world of hurt. You got muffin top even with your top button undone.”

  “How did you know I undid my top button?”

  Phoebe flicked a glance at the barstools filled with old men across from them. “Honey, everyone saw you unbutton your pants.”

  “Whatever. Who cares what they think anyway? I like hash browns.” She slumped farther in the booth and rubbed her extended tummy. “Maybe a little too much.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Maybe Carpenter Hottie likes squishy women.”

  She chucked a crumpled napkin at Phoebe’s head. “I don’t care what Dominick thinks.” She tapped her temple. “Didn’t you get the message? I’ve given up on men. Especially ones who have nothing better to do than look good all day.”

  Phoebe reached for the bill. “Actually, my dear sister, you said yesterday you hadn’t given up on men. The lady doth protest too much.”

  “For that, you’re paying.” Passing the pie display with fantastic willpower, she paused at a bulletin board displaying posters and advertisements for people willing to mow lawns and a dog breeder selling Puggles.

  “I’ve always wanted a Puggle,” Phoebe stated from behind Grace.

  “They’re cute. I’m not sure how Mrs. Sloucombe would like a new pet in my life. She’s kind of jealous.”

  “No offense or anything, but your cat wouldn’t care if you died.”

  “Ouch. That hurt.” Grace pushed open the door and stepped into the withering heat waves.

  “Stating the obvious. Speaking of your cat, did you leave her at the old house?”

  “Yeah. The hotel maid might not like being attacked by an obese grey furball.”

  Phoebe opened the creaky passenger door. “Good plan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Leaning against a black Chevy, the owner of the deep voice took off a black Stetson, revealing blonde hair, cut in a military-style. His gray eyes didn’t quite make eye contact, and his smile revealed a glimpse of white teeth. Dimples softened his chiseled, square face. “Are you two ladies Grace McIntyre and Phoebe Wallace?”

  Grace stepped forward. “Yup. That’d be us. What can we do for you?”

  “My name’s Andrew Carnegie, not at all any relation to the rich ones. I heard you were fixing up an old house and could use some help.” Handsome and built like a fighter, the shy smile didn’t fit.

  “We hired a contractor, Dominick Carson. If you’re looking to help, he’d be the one to talk to.”

  “That’d be great.” Placing his Stetson back on his head, he climbed into his truck. A sweet smoke smell emanated from the vehicle, teasing her nose. Something about it tickled a distant memory. She’d smelled that somewhere, but where? Shaking off the sensation, she waved in return to his friendly salute as he reversed.

  “Well, Pheebs, that was … Pheebs? Earth to Phoebe.” She waved her hand in front of Phoebe’s face.

  “What?” Phoebe jumped. Wiping a hand over her face, Phoebe grinned stupidly. “He was so pretty.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” She touched Phoebe’s forehead with the back of her hand. “Not warm. Now, I don’t want you going off half-cocked for a man you hardly met. Remember what you said yesterday?”

  Phoebe grinned as she opened the passenger door. “When the horse bucks you off …”

  With a huff, Grace opened the driver’s door, hopped in, and slammed the old truck into reverse, forcing the gears into drive. Why did the handsome cowboy give her a case of the heebie-jeebies? She shook her head. Must be the lead from the old paint. Stashing the stranger to the back of her mind, she guided the old truck over the pothole-ridden highway.

  “I take it the county workers are on strike for a longer coffee break,” Grace announced as she maneuvered the truck onto the poorly graded gravel road. The truck they’d rented came with unlimited rust and limited shock absorbers.

  “Yyyaaa, kknnooww,” Grace’s voice bounced around, every word reverberating through the pickup cab. “Neeevveerrr mmiinndd.”

  Phoebe held on to the seat to compensate for the constant motion. The truck came to a gravel-crunching stop in the driveway.

  “That was fun.”

  Phoebe planted herself on the un-shaking ground. “What were you trying to tell me earlier?”

  “Oh, I was going to say eating a large breakfast and then taking a ride in this behemoth probably isn’t a good idea.”

  “You can say that again.” Phoebe fingered her crooked eyetooth. “My teeth are loose.”

  Grace grabbed the toolbox from the truck bed. “I’m telling you, between Mr. Weasel and the loser who rented us this truck, I’m starting to believe every businessman in this town is a swindler and a crook.”

  “Except for the owner of Reed’s Diner. I like his food. And Dominick.”

  Grace rolled her eyes, handed Phoebe a paint scraper, grabbed one for herself. “Let’s get as high as we can, and you can get on the ladder and scrape.”

  “Why me?”

  “This is an unspoken agreement between us. You go on the ladders. I supervise and call 911 if needed.”

  Phoebe mumbled under her breath and started scraping off the old paint with a vengeance.

  For two hours, they scraped, swore, and scraped some more. The never-ending peeling paint loomed on and on.

  “For the love of Pete!” Grace sat in the shade and wiped her brow with a dirty forearm, consequently placing dust and paint chips where the sweat used to be. “This job sucks, and I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Phoebe grunted as she sat next to Grace. “Ditto. There are better things we could be doing, like shoving needles under our nails.”

  “I wish we could leave this for Dominick and his crew, but there is a small part of me that refuses to pay for something we can do ourselves.”

  Phoebe groaned and took a long pull from her water bottle. “Why? With the amount of money you’re getting from the divorce, we could have three such houses built.” At the glare from Grace, she pouted. “Fine. You’re a hard taskmaster, aren’t you?” She pushed herself off the ground with a grunt. “Well, this house isn’t going to scrape itself.”

  At noon, they stopped for lunch. A couple of ham sandwiches and a super-size bag of Doritos chips later, they stood in the front parlor area, hands on hips.

  “This old wallpaper needs to go, and those cupboards on the back wall could be ripped out.” Grace walked into the dining room. “This room also has some nasty wallpaper. You can
take this room, and I’ll tackle the parlor.”

  “Sounds like a deal.” Phoebe grabbed a chunk of loose, rotting wall covering and yanked. Dust and debris spewed into the air. She coughed and gagged. “This job sucks too.”

  “There is not a pleasant job to do anywhere in this old thing.”

  Phoebe fanned the air and frowned at the wallpaper. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  Grace gave a tiny wave. “Have fun.” She walked back to the parlor and closed her eyes, trying to conjure any memory. Still nothing. The only events that whirled through her head were those she knew from her father telling and retelling the story. What she wouldn’t give to hear his robust and slow voice again.

  Refusing to cry, she scowled at the old cupboards spanning the back wall, swinging loosely from their hinges. In the middle, an ornate picture window faced the back of the property. Under a gray dusting film, intricate ivy carvings weaved throughout the oak trimming. Stained glass, done in the same ivy pattern, shimmered dully at the top of the window. Under the fine dust, she made out the delicate green ivy, interwoven with purple morning glories on a backdrop of azure blue.

  Turning a steely eye at the cupboards, she stalked toward them, sledgehammer heaved high on her shoulder. Before she could bring it down, little flickers of light from the small woods behind the house caught her attention through the window.

  Having no rag handy, she lifted the hem of her shirt and erased months of dust off the glass. Sunlight, uninhibited, poured in. The trees stood like sentinels around the house, and a few squirrels played King of the Mountain on a precarious tree branch. Maybe they were the parents to the squirrel babies running rampant in the attic. She shivered. All those tiny squirrel feet. After several minutes and not seeing the pulsating light again, she recommenced her attack on the doomed cupboards. She touched one of them and shrieked as it tumbled to the floor.