“You know it,” she said.
***
1:18 p.m.:
Contrary to the antiques dealer’s prediction, business was still brisk. Maryellen buttoned up her sweater. Unfortunately, the weather was getting a little too brisk.
***
1:25 p.m.:
Maryellen made the call to leave outdoor items on Laney’s lawn, but dispatched the teardown committee to condense the remaining yard sale items and put everything on tables in her garage.
***
2:10 p.m.:
The rain didn’t seem to distract or detract shoppers by all that much, if at all. In fact, people seemed to enjoy the cozy, indoor bazaar experience.
***
2:45 p.m.:
Maryellen called half-price among a rush of end-of-the-day bargain hunters who’d arrived sopping wet, but eager to load up on overlooked finds they knew they’d pay double for at the thrift store.
***
3:20 p.m.:
Maryellen sent the last shopper home with a box filled with two-for-ones on anything of equal or lesser value.
***
3:48 p.m.:
Thunder rumbled in the distance as the teardown committee braved the downpour to load outdoor items and the dribs and drabs strewn across her garage onto the Salvation Army donation truck that had backed into her driveway.
***
4:38 p.m.:
Overstuffed moneybox in hand, and backlit by a bolt of lightning, Maryellen took a deep, satisfied breath and closed her garage.
***
4:40 p.m.:
Laney let the damp cardboard box of unsold Kustom Kandle and Happy Chef samples she couldn’t bear to see relegated to a thrift store drop to the floor of the garage with a thump. She pushed the garage door button. “You were embarrassed by me?”
“People were talking,” Steve said.
“About?”
“Things you were saying.” His voice was almost inaudible over the wind and the grind of the closing garage door as it closed. “That scene with Sarah.”
“What do you mean, that scene? We were just making up.”
“In front of everyone?”
“She’s my best friend,” Laney said.
“Hard to overlook that.”
“She’s moving away.”
“Where did the two of you disappear to?”
“We needed to talk.”
He shook his head.
“For your information, she asked me to list her house.”
Steve passed the family room and headed for the refrigerator. “I need a beer.”
Anticipating his next stop at the recliner, Laney headed for the family room and sat on the remote. “You know, we do need the money desperately.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Then what do you have a problem with?”
“Shh,” he said.
“Are you shushing me? Better not be, because I have every right to say or do whatever I want to do, particularly when I’m the one who’s bringing in most of the—”
“Seriously, Laney.” He put his index finger to his lip. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“That whooshing sound?”
“You mean the wind or the rain?”
He shook his head.
She resisted the urge to bolt across the room and shake him. “The house always makes weird noises when it’s windy.”
“You set the washing machine on delay for some reason?”
“No, but I ran a load this morning before I grabbed the last of the yard sale stuff.”
“Did you hear it end?”
“Course not. I was already at the yard sale.”
And then she heard it coming from downstairs, like running water …
Rushing water.
They moved together toward the basement door.
He opened the door.
She looked down.
Water filled the basement almost to the top of the first step.
***
5:34 p.m.:
Five thousand one hundred sixty-six dollars and twenty-nine cents.
$5,166.29!
$166.29 more than Lisa Manning claimed she brought in at her sale, and not over a weekend extravaganza, but in one not entirely dry day.
As rain pelted the windows in sideways gusts, Maryellen picked up the money she’d set across the carpet in paper-clipped stacks of like denominations. Starting with the hundred-dollar bills, she put the cash back into the strong box, rechecking her totals down to the pennies she’d spread out in twenty-five-cent piles.
$5,266.39.
Five thousand two hundred sixty-six dollars and thirty-nine cents!
She closed the money box, twisted the lock, and relished the sheer heft of so much coin on her way down the hall to Frank’s office.
Couldn’t wait to watch his slump-shouldered exhaustion give way to elation.
“Got a total,” she said.
He looked up.
“And it’s over five grand!”
“Great!” he said.
While it wasn’t the enthusiastic fabulous job she’d expected and he made no particular move out of his chair to dance around the room with her like she’d hoped, Maryellen couldn’t help but smile. “$266.39 more than Harmony Hills Church made in two days.”
“Really great,” he said.
His hangdog expression reflected otherwise.
“I know it’s not quite the $7,500 you’re looking for—”
“Need.”
“Need,” she said, a knot of disappointment forming in her chest. “If need be, we have enough left over to do a mini-sale.”
“Not before next Friday,” he said.
“You know…” The knot in her chest transitioned into a fiery anger that began to spread through her body. “It’s not exactly easy to pull in $5,200 in one day.”
“Not easy at all,” he said.
“That’s right.”
“I can’t imagine what could have been done better,” he said.
“I hope you mean that, because I did this to help you, even though I—”
“Hope.” He shook his head.
“Hope?”
“I heard a horrible rumor at the hot dog stand.”
Maryellen’s heart began to thump. “About Hope?”
“I just figured Larry Mitchell was talking about getting repairs done when he said, some guys have all the luck.”
“What?”
Frank’s voice was barely audible. “Happened that night.”
A jolt went thorough her. “What happened that night?”
“His wife said Laney saw them.”
Maryellen was with Laney while Tim and Hope went off toward the picnic tables. She saw Laney leave with Steve via the pool gate. What she saw in the photo wasn’t really… “Saw them where?”
“Apparently,” Frank’s voice faltered, “Hope was au naturel.”
“At the rec center?”
He shook his head. “Her bedroom.”
“Her bedroom?”
“Laney saw them through her window.”
“Saw who?”
“She took off her clothes and he followed her into the bathroom.” Frank paused. “Will.”
Will? Maryellen tried, but failed, to swallow the bitter taste in the back of her throat.
“And I thought I only needed to worry about Trautman.”
Not Tim?
Will?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Choose from six dazzling models in the Colorado Birdsong Collection and revel in arresting architectural features like dramatic foyers, standard-plus living rooms, and your choice of full or partially finished basements.
“Mr. or Mrs. Estridge?”
“Yes?” Laney dared to look down the stairs for the first time since discovering the flood and addressed the head of Rising Tides Flood Control crew, not that she could tell exactly who was who beneath the masks and hazmat-type suits.
&nbs
p; “We got the water up, the fans in place, and the furniture on blocks to prevent further damage while the carpet dries.”
“How bad is the furniture?”
“I seen worse.”
“What about the pool table?”
“My guess, it’ll dry out fine with all the lacquer on the legs.”
“That’s a relief,” Steve chimed in from the next room.
“Yup,” the water damage guy said. “But I think you should come down here anyway.”
The recliner squealed and Steve appeared beside her with a sneeze. “Smells kinda—”
“Probably ought to wear a mask,” the water guy said, handing one to each of them before they made it to the bottom of the now unsubmerged stairs.
One look at the pile of gray, mottled drywall that had once been the lower twelve inches of the rec room walls and Laney had to grab the banister to steady herself. “Oh, dear Lord.”
“Standard procedure,” Steve said like he was some sort of remediation expert.
“We stopped cutting at the water line until your insurance people can take a look but…” The real remediation man motioned toward the laundry room. “I think we figured out what caused the flood.”
“Washing machine?” Steve worked his way down the hall and looked into the laundry room. “Oh shit!”
“That’s what I thought at first, too.” The workman stepped aside so Laney could join them in the room.
What was left of it.
“Fuck,” she said. Would have leaned against the wall for support, had there been anything left that still resembled a wall.
Shards of drywall, mottled with black, gray, green, and even purple spots lay in the corner. The pipes and wooden beams that remained, as well as the now-exposed concrete, looked like they were painted with a rainbow of fuzzy, furry splotches.
“Is that—?” Laney’s throat felt like it was closing.
“Haven’t ever really seen anything quite like it.” The workman shook his head and pulled off a piece of drywall. “Your pipe basically fell out of the wall.”
Steve began to cough.
“How can that happen?”
“Not sure. Your foundation’s probably cracked.” He shook his head. “Your walls are definitely rotted through. Molded through, I should say.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Should a claim arise, it is in our best interest to address your problem immediately—From the Henderson Homes Structural Warranty guide.
Steve Estridge looked more worn out than Maryellen had ever seen him.
Green, as though he could be any other color.
She shuddered with the thought of toxic spores, fanning out like enormous, slimy snowflakes, filling their basement until the walls rotted. “How’re you holding up?”
“Been better,” Steve said. “And I’m sorry to have to bother you.”
“No bother.” She opened her front door. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Neither can I.” He shook his head. “Frank around by any chance?”
“He was holed up inside working when I left for my walk.”
Confusion added to the distress already lining his usually smooth round face. “He isn’t answering his phone.”
“That’s odd.” She stepped into the house. “Frank?”
Her voice echoed down the hall.
“He may have said he had a meeting this afternoon.” She motioned him to follow her down the hall and opened the garage door to his empty parking spot. “Must be.”
Steve’s eyes looked glassy, as though he was on the verge of tears.
“Is there anything I can tell him, or do to help?”
“I don’t know if anyone can.” He put his head in his hands. “Laney’s tests and chest x-ray came back positive for Stachybotrys, Penicillium, and Aspergillus mold.”
“Black mold,” Maryellen said.
“We both have colonies established within our nasal passages and lungs. My Chronic Fatigue, Laney’s headaches, illnesses,” he paused. “Some of her more erratic behavior—”
“All from toxic mold,” Maryellen said, before the poor man felt the need to try to qualify anything she’d said or done, particularly the moment she’d witnessed between Laney and Sarah.
“She’s scheduled for an MRI and a battery of further tests to see where else the infection may have spread.”
A sentence from one of the books popped into her head: In milder cases a course of antibiotics, followed by medication, diet, and other treatment protocols may be effective in strengthening a compromised immune system. In the worst case scenarios…
“Could be in her brain,” he said. “It’s been in our house, growing, probably since we moved in so there’s no knowing how bad it’s going to be.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There’s this clinic south of the border…”
“Terrible.”
“Not as bad as the fact that mold isn’t covered by my insurance.”
“What?”
“According to the adjuster, mold is excluded from practically every policy in the state.”
“They can’t expect you to pay for the mold damage out of your own pocket.”
Steve slumped against her car. “The adjuster suggested I take up the damages with the builder.”
“I’m sure Star Warranty will handle an emergency like this…”
“Quickly?” Steve paused to collect himself. “According to the lady manning the phones at Star Warranty, Henderson Homes is over forty-five days late paying bills and the warranty company is refusing to do any more work until they get payment.”
“But the Pierce-Cohns—?”
“Have some sort of enhanced policy or something.”
Maryellen picked up the phone and dialed Frank.
Got his voice mail.
“Frank, I have Steve Estridge over here. He and Laney are sick from mold and his insurance company’s refusing to cover mold-related damage and apparently Star Warranty is refusing to do work on any Henderson Home. He needs your help ASAP, so please call me, or better yet, call him—”
“On my cell,” Steve said.
“On his cell when you get this.”
“Thanks,” Steve said as she hung up. “While Laney’s in the hospital, I’m staying at the Embassy Suites. He can call there, too.”
“You can’t stay in the house?”
“The doctor says none of us can even go inside until they get rid of every last spore of mold.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Stachybotrys chartarum and other molds may cause health symptoms that are nonspecific. At present there is no test that proves an association between Stachybotrys chartarum and particular health symptoms—From the CDC website.
“I guess I didn’t expect the morning sickness to come on so fast.” The paper crinkled as Hope lay back on the exam table against the current wave of nausea. “Or, be so all day long.”
“Given the rapid rise in estrogen levels, persistent nausea is not uncommon,” the Ob/Gyn said. “The good news is that significant symptoms are a healthy and positive viability indicator.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling myself, until I found out my neighbors had to move out of their house because of a mold problem.” Hope took a calming breath, tried not to think about how batty Laney’d been at the yard sale. “I got worried when I heard the wife had a lot of nausea, too.”
“I’d assume she has a number of other symptoms as well,” the doctor said.
“Strange ones.”
“Can be a tricky situation. Do you have a cough, sore throat, difficulty breathing?”
“No.”
“Allergy symptoms.”
“Nothing to speak of.”
“Have you’ve found any signs of mold in your own house?”
“No,” she said. “And as soon as I heard about the Estridges, I checked pretty much everywhere, including the small cracks I do have in my storage room.”
“Keep an ey
e out.” The doctor noted something in his file. “But I don’t think you have anything to worry about where mold is concerned.”
“That’s a relief,” Hope said. “In the meantime, I’m supposed to leave for London this weekend and I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to get on a plane.”
“Throwing up?”
“At least four times a day.”
“Eating small portions of bland, low-fat foods at frequent intervals?”
“But not always keeping even crackers down.”
“I’m hesitant to prescribe an antinauseant this early, but some women have had found some relief with ginger pills.”
“I’ll give that a try.”
“Start as soon as possible. If that doesn’t help, I’ll suggest some possible over-the-counter options.”
“Do a lot of people have this kind of intense nausea?”
“When it happens, it usually hits around five weeks.”
“I don’t think I’m that far along yet.”
“Sometimes when there’re twins—”
“Twins?” The thought of the Trautmans’ double stroller sent her heart racing. If pregnancy was going to make her this sick, it would be ideal to have her two kids in one go-around.
“The incidence rises with Clomid.”
“I didn’t take it last month though.”
He looked down at her chart. “First day of last menstrual period was May fourteenth, correct?”
“I figured out my due date has to be March second.”
“Huh.” The doctor picked up a calculation wheel and began to spin. “First day of last menstrual period was May fourteenth. We add seven days. Subtract three months. Based on the forty-week model, that gives you an estimated due date of February seventeenth.”
“For twins?” she asked. “I know they come early.”
“We still calculate the date the same way.” He examined the wheel again. “Taking the first day of your last menstrual period, due date is February seventeenth and a conception date of Saturday, May twenty-eighth.”
“Memorial Weekend.” The words fell out of her mouth like pieces of lead.
Part IV
COMPLICATIONS
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Architectural Addition Submittal Denial Process: If the Architectural Board reviews and subsequently denies a submittal, an appeal may be filed within twenty days.
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