by Tracy Brogan
“That’s pretty much what every person doing a remodel wants. I’ll do my best, but keep in mind we’ll need electricians and plumbers and general carpenters. Back home I had a crew I trusted, but here I’m going to have get quotes and references. Everything we order will have to be shipped from the mainland, and that won’t be cheap. Plus, once we start taking down walls, there’s just no telling what we’ll find. This is going to be a huge project, Gigi.”
Her grandmother patted her shoulder lightly. “I have complete and total faith in you, Peach. And the good news is, I’ve lined up a great crew of available men.”
“You’ve hired a crew already?”
“Just some local fellas, but they’re all strong and they work cheap.”
“What’s that smell?” Chloe asked, coming into the room from the kitchen. Her two thick braids bounced on her shoulders as she walked.
“Which smell?” said Gigi. “The sour smell or the dank, musky smell?”
“Um, the musky smell, I guess?” Chloe looked at Emily as if she’d know which odor was currently assaulting her daughter’s nostrils.
“I think the musky smell may be a dead squirrel in the attic, but I’m not certain.”
Chloe covered her head with her hands as if that dead squirrel might drop down on it at any second. “That’s nasty, Gigi.”
“Oh, if you want nasty, you should smell a dead possum. Of course, those things are nasty even when they’re alive. Beadiest little eyes you ever did see. And long, spiky claws.” Gigi squinted and curled her hands into her own version of spiky claws, pawing playfully at Chloe’s head and making her giggle.
“Maybe one of the workmen you found for me is an exterminator?” Emily asked hopefully. “That would be handy. And how about a foreman? Is there a foreman in the bunch? Because I’d like to talk to him first.”
Gigi took off her glasses and breathed on the lenses before wiping them with the edge of her striped shirt. “Tiny Kloosterman would be the best one for that job. He’s the most responsible.”
“Tiny Kloosterman?” That sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
“Don’t let the name fool you. He’s strong as an ox and nearly as big, plus his tether allows him to go anywhere on the island.”
Emily had to let that one sink in for a second before she could respond. “His tether? Did you get me a chain gang to remodel this house?”
The glasses went back on as Gigi shrugged. “Of course not, but like I said, I have a tight budget to stick to. Tiny might have a little issue with authority figures. He didn’t do so well in the military, but he loves to punch his fist through drywall, so he’s sure to come in handy for tearing stuff down.”
The military. Now she remembered him. He was from one of the newer families. Newer meaning his ancestors had moved to the island sometime after 1910. He’d gone off to enlist in the navy the moment he turned eighteen, so he’d been gone for most of Emily’s childhood. Apparently he was back and in need of something to keep him out of trouble.
Emily began to perspire. The cottage was warm to begin with in spite of the breeze, but the enormity of what she was about to undertake was what really heated her up. This was the first remodel she’d ever done without Jewel. Without any crew that she had a relationship with. It was ten times more of a job than she was expecting, and her foreman was on a tether. The odds were stacked against her, but she was going to make this happen. No matter what.
“Gigi, I think I need to meet with Tiny before we officially hire him. I need somebody I can totally trust. Does he have any references?”
Gigi pursed her lips for a moment, thinking. She tapped an index finger against her chin, thinking some more. “I suppose his parole officer would be a good source of information. Or better yet, Judge Murphy. He’s the one who tried Tiny’s case, so he’s got all the goods on him. Of course, I could also ask your second cousin, Father O’Reilly, but I think he has some confidentiality issues.”
“Why is the carpet squishy?” Chloe picked up her foot and looked at the bottom of her sandal.
Gigi turned around. “No idea, but it’s up to your mother to fix that now. Come on, let’s go take a look on the second floor. You can see the Petoskey Bridge from the window. Wonderful view.”
Each step creaked as they went up the wide stairs, and Emily mentally added that to the list of things she’d need to address. Her face got a little hotter, her breath a little more labored. All she was doing was standing there, but on the inside it felt as if she was running at top speed. Through an obstacle course full of rattlesnakes and scary clowns. She needed some air.
She pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, half expecting her foot to go right through the wood. It didn’t, thank goodness. She tentatively stomped her foot, then boldly jumped up and down a few times just to see what cracked or creaked or splintered. Her highly scientific testing strategy suggested the porch was sturdy enough, in spite of its appearance. With any luck, it just needed some power-washing and a fresh coat of paint.
She stepped over to the railing and knew one thing was for certain—the view from here could simply not be beat. The cottage sat on a low hillside near Anishinaabe Trail, and from this spot, Emily could see an abundance of gorgeous old trees on the property just down the slope. Through a small clearing she could just barely see the rooftop of old Bridget O’Malley’s little pink house, but past that was an unparalleled view of Lake Huron and the Petoskey Bridge. With the sun high in the sky, the water glittered gold and the breeze smelled like fresh heaven. This was what this cottage was all about. This was its best feature, the view, and that’s what Emily needed to play up.
Her mind started processing. Bringing the place into the twenty-first century was her number one priority, but keeping the historic Victorian charm was essential, too. Nearly all the summer homes and cottages of Trillium Bay were Victorian, with lots of lacy woodwork, gables with high-pitched roofs, and intricate color palettes. The town library should have some old photographs so she could see what color this place used to be, because right now it was sort of moldy green with mildew accents. Not very appealing. No wonder Gigi was losing her renters.
Now she wanted Emily to turn this place into an upscale one-family unit instead of the summer-worker flophouse it had become. That was a tall order, but Emily owed her. Not just because of the loan, but because Gigi had confidence in her. Gigi believed she could do it, and quite frankly, Emily needed this victory, because doing a spectacular job on this renovation would show her family she was reliable and responsible. She could do great work, and she was a successful businesswoman, in spite of her recent turn of fortune. A lot was riding on this flip. It wasn’t just about the house. It was about her reputation and her pride. No, not her pride. Her worth.
“So, let me get this straight,” Bryce said to Ryan over the phone. “Our dad is supposed to play poker with her dad? Our dad. And her dad. That’s . . . I don’t even know what that is. What the hell is he even supposed to say?”
“I have no idea.” Ryan shook his head and stared out from the balcony of his hotel room at the setting sun. “All I know for sure is that her father is the damn chief of police for the entire island, with access to weapons and jail cells. He could probably make our dad disappear. You know, maybe toss him off the Petoskey Bridge in the middle of the night? And then be in charge of the damn investigation! That’s what I would do if I were him and she were my daughter.”
“Nice loyalty, bro.” Sounds of chaos echoed over the phone. Someone was yelling, and someone was crying. A typical Sunday evening for Bryce, wife number three, and their two children.
“I’m loyal, Bryce. I didn’t say I was going to throw Dad off the bridge. I only said that if I was Harlan, I’d throw him off the bridge. Totally different.”
The crime rate for Trillium Bay had to be so low as to be nonexistent, but Harlan Callaghan did not look like a friendly, easygoing kind of guy. It seemed entirely plausible that tossing a man off
of Petoskey Bridge would seem to him like an entirely plausible solution.
“You have to go, too,” his brother said. “To the poker game. You can’t let Dad go alone. You know how ethical and honest he is. Can’t you just hear it now? ‘Hey, Tag, I raise you twenty.’ ‘Oh okay, Chief, I’ll call you, and oh, by the way, I’d like to call your daughter, too.’ What the fuck?”
“I know. I know. Listen, I’ll see if I can go, but it’s only for the old guys.” Ryan rubbed his forehead, hard, as if wishing he could push some good ideas into his mind. It kind of worked. “You know, maybe this isn’t a bad thing. I mean, if Tag comes clean to her dad, that could be the end of things right there.”
“Uh . . . because he throws Dad off the bridge?”
“No, because Harlan is sure to be entirely against it. Tag won’t keep seeing her without her father’s approval. Would he?”
“Her father’s approval? I understand the entire island is historical, but you do realize you have not actually traveled back in time, right? I don’t think he needs her father’s permission for what he’s doing.”
Ryan couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I’m just grasping at straws here.”
“Do you need reinforcements? Do I need to send Jack out there?” More yelling and crying in the background. Ryan loved Bryce’s kids, but they were chronically loud.
“No, not yet. I think the bimbo’s sister may be my wingman on this. She’s every bit as against this thing as we are.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because she’s the woman I met at the airport. I don’t think she currently likes me very much since I called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, but like me or not, she and I are now on the same team.”
“What team is that?”
“Whatever team that can get Dad to come to his senses and come home.”
Chapter 11
Joe’s Cuppa Joe Coffee Shop was buzzing with people trying to get their Monday morning caffeine fix as Emily made her way toward the counter, past hipsters with their laptops and earbuds, a gaggle of moms with chubby babies stuffed into ergonomic front-carriers, and even April, May, and June, the diabolical Mahoney sisters. They were sitting in a booth with Olivia Bostwick, casting spells, no doubt. Sunlight poured in through an abundance of oversized windows and bounced off of the polished brass fixtures, while outside on the patio several other customers sat at the collection of wooden tables, enjoying the view of the water while sipping five-dollar lattes.
“Just a regular coffee, please,” Emily said to the freckled, bespectacled cashier behind the register. The girl blinked at her slowly and pushed her dark-framed glasses against the bridge of her nose with one thumb. “What kind of regular coffee?”
“Um, just . . . black coffee.”
“We have fudge frenzy, milli-vanilla, fofana-banana, or blueberry bonanza. Those all come in regular.”
This made Emily’s head hurt. It was simply unfair to offer so many options of coffee to a woman who had not yet had her coffee, especially when she’d barely slept at all last night. Her mind had been a pinball machine with ideas for the cottage bouncing off one obstacle after another. So many details and so many things that could go wrong. It was overwhelming, but she was meeting her crew tomorrow, and she’d need a decent plan for them to follow. Currently, her best plan was to get herself some damn plain coffee.
“Do you have any that’s just, oh I don’t know, coffee flavored? Like, French roast or medium blend or something?”
The girl turned around to look at the list of coffees written on the blackboard behind her. Sort of like she had no idea. Which seemed quite likely.
“See?” Emily said, pointing over the cashier’s shoulder. “There on the bottom left it says regular coffee.”
“Huh. I’ve never had anyone order that before.” She shrugged and turned back to the register. “That’ll be a dollar fifty.”
“I’ve got it.” Ryan’s voice breezed past Emily’s ear, and she turned to see him standing right behind her. His nose was a little sunburned, which was cute. Which was therefore aggravating. She didn’t want to think Ryan Taggert was cute. She’d made a point of not speaking to him at church yesterday, just so he’d know she didn’t think he was cute. But he was. And she did. His sunglasses hung from the neckline of his light blue T-shirt, which was also cute, and kind of stupidly sexy for no logical reason whatsoever. Twinges and ripples and flutters filled her body, also for no logical reason, other than the fact that he was just . . . sexy. But he’d called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, and in spite of all the nicey-nice chatter the rest of them had fumbled through during that charade at church yesterday, he was not someone she wanted to be . . . rippling and fluttering over.
“I can pay for my own coffee. I know how precious your money is to you Taggerts.”
He grimaced. “I got this, Emily.” He handed the girl a ten-dollar bill. “Make that two regular coffees, please.”
The cashier shrugged again and shook her head, as if wondering what was to become of the world if everyone started getting unflavored, un-chemically enhanced coffee with no milk, foam, or sprinkles. “Suit yourselves.”
“Do you have a few minutes? I was hoping we could talk,” Ryan asked as they walked to the other end of the counter to collect their drinks.
She tapped her foot on the floor. He was doing the soulful eye thing, the bastard. “Sure. I have a little bit of time.”
He smiled, and she fluttered inside. Damn it.
They walked outside and sat in some white plastic chairs at a table in the shade of an enormous oak tree. It was another gorgeous day on the island, compliments of the chamber of commerce mandate.
“So how did you happen to find me here? Just lucky?” Emily took the top off of her coffee and blew on it.
“I texted my dad who texted Lilly who texted Chloe, and Chloe said that you were here.”
“Sounds like you were determined.” That felt sort of nice, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “I hope you plan to apologize for insulting my sister.”
“Now you’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.” Wistful smile. Damn him. “Yes, I do want to apologize. I should not have called your sister a gold-digging bimbo. At least . . . not to her face.” Ryan chuckled, and Emily felt herself doing the same, in spite of herself.
“That’s a terrible apology.”
“Well, I’ve never given one before, so I haven’t had much practice,” he teased. “And now maybe you’d like a chance to take back what you said about my father?”
Emily straightened in her chair. “Why would I take that back? He’s got no business hitting on my sister.”
Ryan cleared his throat. “Your sister is a grown woman, Emily. Barely, I’ll admit that, but old enough to make her own decisions. It’s not like he lured her into some kind of trap. He didn’t get her drunk or offer her candy. She asked him to dance.”
Emily swallowed a mouthful of too-hot coffee, and it burned all the way down her esophagus. “She asked him to dance?”
“Yes, at some square dancing thing at the church. She told you that’s where they met, right?”
“No, she hasn’t been very forthcoming with the details, and we’ve been surrounded by family ever since the whole pie tent debacle. What was that at church, by the way? Was that planned?”
“Apparently, but I was as much a pawn in that as you were. My dad didn’t tell me until we were walking back to his place that Lilly wants her dad to get to know him before she tells him the truth.”
“That’s a terrible plan. My dad’s going to be livid.”
Ryan nodded. “Everything about this smacks of terrible plan, but that’s how your sister wants to play it. My dad is willing to try it her way, although he did tell me he’d much rather just face Harlan, man to man.”
“I’m not sure that would be much better.” There really was no good way to break that kind of news to Harlan. “So, they met at a square dance? I guess maybe your dad misunderstood the
meaning of the term hoedown.”
She earned a chuckle from Ryan for that one. “Very funny. You just called your sister a ho. See how easy it is?” He gazed at her from over the rim of his cup.
“Oh, you’re very funny. So, my sister asked your father to dance, but that doesn’t mean he had any right to, you know, practice all his suave and debonair moves on her.”
Ryan burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. His T-shirt rode up a little around the waistband of his shorts and she caught a glimpse of flat, tan abdomen, and suddenly she didn’t need coffee. She needed smelling salts. Girlfriend was about to swoon. Good heavens, Emily needed to go on a few dates. Obviously it had been far too long if a tiny glimpse of happy trail had her so hot and bothered. She’d add that to her list of things to do when she got home. Get laid.
“Why is that so funny?” she said to Ryan, sounding a little more irritable than she’d intended.
He kept laughing. “Because you make it sound like he’s got some great game, Emily, but trust me. My dad has no game. Zero gameage. He was married to my mother for forty years, and I’ve never seen him so much as flirt with a secretary or a waitress. So this whole image you have of him being some kind of dirty-dog playboy is absurd. Why do you think my brothers and I were so convinced that some woman must be conning him? It’s because he’s so clueless.”
“He may be clueless by California standards, but this is Trillium Bay, and other than four years of college in Northern Michigan, my sister has not had much life experience. Seriously, Ryan. Just by virtue of being from someplace outside of this state makes him like a celebrity to her.”
He observed her for a moment. “Well, that sort of supports my theory that she thinks he’s her ticket out of here, doesn’t it?”
