by Jessica Berg
Before Phoebe could defend herself, a drunken cowboy belted out Journey’s “Oh, Sherri.” With a squeal, Phoebe spun around on her barstool, lost control, and landed with a thud on the beer-soaked floor. Every eye in the bar, including the singing cowboy, zeroed in on her. Phoebe flushed scarlet red, pulled herself off the floor, sat daintily back on the barstool, and straightened her clothing with studied calmness. After several awkward seconds, people returned to their previous activities, and the singing cowboy rejoined Steve Perry’s stunning vocals.
Dominick patted her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Phoebe shook her head and darted off to the bathroom.
Grace finished her drink. “Phoebe has a hard time dealing with public humiliation. She’s probably in the bathroom bawling her eyes out as we speak.” Grace stood, relief etched on her face. “In fact, we should get going.” She shuffled her feet. “Thanks for the drinks.” She dashed off toward the bathroom.
He spun back toward the bar. With a scowl, he swallowed the rest of his beer. Why of all the towns in the good old U S of A had she picked his?
No longer finding the bar scene to his liking, he drove home. After paying the babysitter, he sat beside Lilly’s bed, watching her sleep. Grabbing the portrait of his late wife, he traced the contours of the face he’d kissed. “I remember the first time I saw you. It truly was love at first sight.” Dominick chuckled at the memory. “But I don’t think it was the same for you. As I recall, you called me an egotistical, puffed up, buffoon … or something like that. You were right. I was, but somewhere along the way, you changed your mind about me, or did you learn to love me?” A single tear dropped onto the glass and ran down his wife’s face. Gently he brushed it away. “I miss you so much. Why did you have to go and leave me all alone?”
With a sigh, he caressed the frame and reverently placed it back on his daughter’s dresser. He kissed Lilly’s cheek. “Goodnight, princess.” She made a little squeaky sound and squirmed deeper into her small bed. “At least I’m not completely alone,” Dominick reminded himself, but he knew it wasn’t the same.
He traced his wife’s lips. “You’d approve of her, dear. I don’t think she likes me. Don’t know why, though. You liked me just fine, didn’t you? What should I do?” She’d tell him to shut up and do something about it.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and kissed his daughter’s cheek one last time. “Sweet dreams, my little one.”
Chapter 7
Grace sat up with a jolt, placed a shaky hand to her throat, and swallowed. The knife had sliced her throat, severed her life from her. For a second, she was surprised she was still alive.
She plodded to the motel sink to run the cold tap water. Splashing water on her face, she tried to forget the dream, the same dream she’d had over and over again. Only this time, the knife had sliced her open, and she wasn’t the only one being slaughtered. She twisted the faucet shut and sat on her bed. The mattress sagged and squeaked under her, an odd comfort.
Phoebe still slept the slumber of the innocent. Phoebe, too, had become a victim of the knife, her eyes unseeing. Dead. And Grace had sat there and watched. Groaning, willing the image to leave her head, she hid her head under the pillow and waited for the dawn.
Friday morning’s sunbeams crept around the hotel curtains and filtered on Grace’s face. Turning away from the attacking sunlight, she groaned in her pillow, tuned out Phoebe’s reminders to get ready.
“Go without me,” she mumbled incoherently from under her pillow, her nose and right eye peeking out from under the pillowcase. “I don’t want to go to work today. I don’t want to see him. And I most certainly don’t want to look at another paintbrush.”
Phoebe finished brushing her teeth, swiped mascara on her eyes, checked out her butt in the mirror, and launched herself next to Grace. “First of all, we don’t work. We delegate. Secondly, I’m not sure who ‘him’ is. And thirdly, you love to paint.” Phoebe studied her fingernails and attacked a cuticle with a vengeance. “After all this is done, I’m getting a manicure.”
An epiphany had Phoebe bouncing her butt on the bed. “Guess what you promised me that you haven’t done yet?” After getting no answer, Phoebe lifted one side of the pillow and yelled, “Take me shopping!”
Grace rolled over and peered owlishly at Phoebe. “Now I have a headache, thanks to you. You go ahead and take the Buick. I need some downtime. I can always bring the truck.” At Phoebe’s scowl, she smiled. “I’ll bring you Dairy Queen.”
After Phoebe left, she brought out her scrapbook. It had been ridiculous to pack it, but too many precious memories were housed in it to leave it in some storage box. In it were the moments, both big and small, that defined her. Ribbons from showing horses in 4-H, pictures with her father next to his beloved horse, Scout, and only a few snapshots of her with her mother filled the first few pages. She bent to pick up the newspaper clipping that fell to the floor.
The article delineated in objective words the day her world fell apart. Not a single reporter who had interviewed her or Phoebe had captured the horrific nightmare of their father’s murder. Her tears smudged the clipping as she caressed her father’s face smiling in black and white. She kissed the image of the man who was her world and inhaled, wishing to get one last whiff of leather and horse and Brut. Tucking the article safely away, she moved on to the next two.
The story of her and Phoebe’s kidnapping had made the front page news of the Beacon Town Crier and their hometown newspaper, the Hill City Gazette. The same house she and Phoebe bought stared back at her from the black and white photograph. She didn’t need to read the article to know what it said. She’d read it many times, trying to picture even the slightest image of the man who’d kidnapped them or the house he’d holed up in.
Nothing but blackness.
Roy Muldoon, a nasty small-time drug dealer, had decided to take his two-year prison sentence out on the man who’d put him there—Jeremiah Wallace. After kidnapping them, Roy had fled east, trying to outrun the cops. It had all come to a head on a sweltering June night in the old mansion outside of Beacon, Kansas. Shots had been fired. Roy Muldoon had died. A young boy had been found in the house. Authorities had presumed the young boy was Roy’s son. There had been no way to tell; the boy had refused to speak.
What happened to that boy. He probably ended up in the foster care system, poor thing. She couldn’t do anything about Roy’s son, but she could do something about her future. She would renovate the old mansion, make it beautiful and useful again, and in the process maybe, just maybe, her life could be renovated too. Placing the scrapbook back in her suitcase, she left the hotel room with a renewed sense of purpose.
On her way out of town, she picked up burgers, fries, and Blizzards from Dairy Queen and barreled off toward the house. Keeping the old truck from bouncing off the road and the French fries from bouncing out of their box, she maneuvered the truck into the driveway and hopped out. Several men hollered their greetings and asked for their food. She replied by smirking and stuffing a salty fried delicacy into her mouth.
“You should be nicer to my men.”
“What in the world happened to you?”
Covered from head to steel-toed boots with a brownish, poo-smelling substance, Dominick cringed. “You don’t want to know.”
She plugged her nose and stepped back. “You reek. Did you find the cow pies out back a little irresistible or what?”
He smirked and leaned a little closer. “There are many things I find irresistible.” He backed up a few inches. “Cow pies aren’t one of them. There was a mishap with your sewer line this morning. You will find Phoebe out back crying and trying to bathe herself out of a Dixie cup.”
At Grace’s raised eyebrow, Dominick held up his hands in surrender. “Seriously, that’s all you pretty much want to know. By the way, Phoebe won’t be offering to help me anytime soon. Don’t be surprised if I come to you.” He walked to the side of the house, turned on the garden hose, and
sprayed himself off. He shook himself like a dog and hollered for Phoebe.
Phoebe, muttering, trudged around the corner. “I will not help you. No amount of money will convince me otherwise.”
Despite a twinge of pity, Grace burst out laughing. Toilet paper clung to Phoebe’s right ear, and the only spot that wasn’t brown was the left side of Phoebe’s face. The Dixie cup must have run out of water. Phoebe, with her arms crossed over her chest, darted death rays at her sister.
“Looking good, sister.”
“Shut up. Don’t even talk to me.” Tears swam in Phoebe’s eyes and spilled over, creating white streaks on her right cheek. She sniffled and wiped her nose with a brown-colored hand. “I’m covered in someone else’s poo.”
Warily, Grace approached Phoebe and tried to pat a poo-free area. Not finding any, she offered a sympathetic smile. “I got you a Blizzard.”
Phoebe’s eyes lit up. “You’re not lying to me, are you? That would be cruel under these circumstances.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Dominick rolled his eyes, and without warning, bombarded Phoebe with the icy blast.
“Cold!” Phoebe repeatedly screamed the word and danced about in the stream of water. The noise drew the entire construction crew.
Dominick twisted the nozzle closed. “You’re welcome.” With a haughty shake of her head, Phoebe lifted her chin, puffed out her chest, and stomped to the old truck.
Grace trotted after her. “Where are you going?”
Without a glance, Phoebe slid into the truck and stated starchily, “I’m going back to the hotel to burn my clothes and shower.” Before Phoebe stuck the key into the ignition, a voice heralded her to wait. “Is it my horrible, evil imagination, or did Noah call my name?”
Grace glanced in the direction of the voice. “It’s not your imagination, this time. It’s reality.”
She thumped her head against the steering wheel several times. “Why me?”
“Because you once took the Lord’s name in vain?”
“I said ‘gall’ not ‘God.’” Phoebe smacked her hands against her mouth and moaned. “He hates me, doesn’t He?”
“You make Him cry. What can I say?”
Noah leaned against the driver’s side door. “Hey. Are you okay?”
“Yeah … yeah … um … I’m …”
“She’s fine,” Grace interjected and gave Phoebe a supportive thumbs-up.
“I saw the whole thing from the kitchen window.”
Phoebe blushed and studied her hands wringing in her lap. “Oh.”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve had similar mishaps, although never with crap.” He drummed his fingers on the rusted door. “Do you want me to give you a ride to town? I’ve got an errand to run before coming back out and finishing my inspection of the kitchen.”
Phoebe chewed her bottom lip and immediately sputtered, “Crap. I even taste like crap.” Another tear squeezed from her eye.
“Pheebs, you’re in no condition to drive. Let Noah take you back to town. You’ll come back out when he does. Seriously, I don’t want you behind the wheel, especially in the spot I’ll be sitting later. Oh, wait.” Grace handed Phoebe the partially melted Blizzard. “Here, sorry it’s a little runny.”
Phoebe slumped out of the truck, grabbed her Blizzard, and followed Noah to his car. “I’ll get your car dirty.”
Noah opened the passenger door. “No worries. Leather cleans pretty easy.” He shut the door gently. Phoebe helped herself to a heaping spoonful of Nerds Blizzard.
Noah’s car pulled onto the gravel road, and Grace went off in search of Dominick. She found him in the kitchen cussing under the kitchen sink. His long legs stuck out from under the sink, and his upper half lay crammed and twisted to reach a pipe.
“Problems?”
His body jerked in surprise, and a sharp curse followed a hollow thump. He struggled out of the tiny space and blinked at her. Rubbing his head, he scowled. “You shouldn’t sneak up on somebody. It’s rude.”
“You hurt Phoebe’s feelings.”
“What did I do?”
“You embarrassed her. Phoebe doesn’t deal well with public humiliation.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. She wanted to get clean, so I cleaned her off the best I knew how.”
“Don’t worry about it. After a peace offering of a Blizzard and a few doughnuts, Phoebe will be putty in your hands.”
Dominick’s face crinkled in a smile. “Good to know her weakness. What’s yours?”
She wagged a finger at him. “Na-ha. Not telling.”
“I like a challenge.” He sat back on the floor and shimmied his way under the sink. “You can help me if you wish.”
“Will I share the same fate as Phoebe?”
“I sure hope not, beings I’d get the brunt of it again.”
She crouched next to his side. “Sure. I’ve been told I’m an excellent gopher.”
Dominick chuckled. “All right, my little rodent sidekick, I need the pipe wrench.”
She shuffled through the contents of the big toolbox, and after several panicked moments, swallowed her pride. “And what exactly does a pipe wrench look like?”
Silence suspended in the air. “It’s red and big and looks like a wrench on steroids.”
She rifled through the objects again, and with an excited squeal, pulled out the pipe wrench. “Got it.”
“Good. Now can you hand it to me?”
Placing the pipe wrench in his waiting hand, she perched expectantly next to his legs. “Are you from around here?”
Dominick grunted, metal scraped on metal. “Yeah.” The pipe slipped, and a part of Dominick slammed against the interior of the cupboard. She cringed in sympathy.
“Need a Band-Aid?”
“Not yet.” He grunted and wriggled his body to get a better position. His leg brushed against her bare one and sparks of heat tongued through her body.
Liking the heat after years of lukewarm, she didn’t move her leg. He didn’t move his either. “Have you always been in the construction business?”
Dominick grunted as he tightened the elbow joint connecting the two pipes. “No.”
“And?”
A curse word emanated from under the sink. “Ow. Son of a —”
“Every time you swear, God cries.”
“Huh, doesn’t a kitten die?”
Horrified, she sucked in a breath. “That is mean.” She waited for a beat and prompted, “What did you do before becoming a carpenter?”
“Traveled.”
“Traveled where?”
“Nowhere and everywhere.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” A silence settled between them. To pass the time, she looked about the kitchen. A pot hanger suspended itself over a kitchen island, and the appliances were arranged around the room. The sink rested below a bay window, and the stove sat a counter away to the right. The fridge slumped against the wall across from the sink and stove. Slightly inconvenient.
Grace frowned at the old appliance, hoping it would receive the message and move. It did nothing but sit there and buzz. No worries. It’d be gone in a day or two, and stainless steel kitchen appliances would take their place, and a new fridge would buzz with modern efficiency.
Fortunately, the former owners never wallpapered the kitchen. No need to scrape. She envisioned a sage green paint on the wall and white cupboards with glass doors and eyed the ledge above the sink. Small terra cotta pots perched on the top and filled with fresh herbs would add a splash of nature and herbal essence to the space. She stuck her tongue out at the old paint. A soufflé would never dare to flop on her in a kitchen with green walls, glass cupboard doors, and with herbs growing in pots. It just didn’t happen.
“Can you hand me a Philips screwdriver? It will be the one with the star-shaped pattern, not the flathead,” Dominick interrupted her fantasy world, his jean-clad leg still touching hers, his movements causing friction
between them.
“I know that much.” She pouted a little and retrieved the screwdriver, handed it to him. “Where exactly did you travel?”
With a frustrated sigh, he scooted out from under the sink, still clutching the screwdriver, and stared at her. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
Grace chewed her bottom lip. “No. Not really.”
“Why are you now?”
“Wanted to pass the time by having a conversation. It’s a little one-sided.”
He burrowed back under the sink. “I like a little peace and quiet when I’m trying to work.”
She made a face. “Okay.”
The sound of metal against metal, sporadic curses, and manly grunts occasionally emerged from the abyss. She drummed her fingers against her leg, inches from his own. After two minutes of sheer boredom and adding a fruit bowl with large, shiny yellow lemons to her imaginary kitchen, she hummed. The tinkering stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” She continued humming.
“You’re humming.”
“So.”
“It’s annoying.”
Her humming stopped. “I happen to enjoy my humming, thank you.”
“It’s not how you’re humming. It’s what you’re humming.”
“You don’t like ‘This is the Song That Never Ends’?”
“Does anybody like that song?”
“I do,” Grace stated indignantly. “It’s a classic.”
He situated himself. “Well, I don’t agree. Hum something else if you insist on humming.”
She spidered her fingers mere centimeters from his leg and tapped out a ditty to accompany her hummed rendition of “Feed the Birds.”
Dominick chuckled and hummed along with her. “Now, that’s a classic.”
After helping Dominick, Grace sat on the back porch and sketched ideas for landscaping. Her thoughts never remained on trees or shrubs for long. After several failed attempts at sketching anything, she slammed her notepad on her lap. What was with that man. She barely knew him, yet it was as if she’d known him forever.
