Secrets of the Tulip Sisters

by Susan Mallery

  “So speaks the woman who hasn’t dated since her divorce six years ago.”

  “I’m very comfortable in my ‘do as I say, not as I do’ role in our relationship. Come on. You can’t tell me you’re not the tiniest bit flattered. You have to be.”

  “Why? Because he’s staring at me? I don’t know what he wants, but I doubt it’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Kelly turned at the corner and headed toward her friend’s house. “I’m very clear on my place in the universe.”

  “Meaning?”

  Kelly waved her hand in front of her midsection. “I’m average at best. Not beautiful, not pretty, not ugly. Just regular.”

  If Griffith was looking for a fancier version of a Murphy, he should check out Olivia. Kelly hadn’t seen her sister in forever, but she would literally bet the farm on the fact that Olivia was still gorgeous and glamorous and wearing a designer something. Not cargo pants bought on sale from an online farm equipment supply outlet.

  “It’s a family thing,” she continued. “I take after my dad. We’re sensible people. Hardworking. Ordinary. My mom and sister are the...”

  “Exotic tulips in the garden that is your life?” Helen asked drily.

  “Not the analogy I was going to use, but sure. It works.”

  “You’re selling yourself short,” Helen told her. “Worse, you’re saying bad stuff about my friend and I don’t appreciate that. You’re not ordinary. You’re lovely and funny and hardworking.”

  “It’s amazing you don’t want to have sex with me right now.”

  “Stop. It.” Helen glared. “I mean it. Kelly, you’re great. Griffith finally got his head out of his ass long enough to notice you.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. I used the phrase for effect. What did you think?”

  “Well done.”

  “Thank you.” She shifted to face Kelly. “I’m serious. You’re obviously over Sven. Take a chance on a great guy.”

  “We don’t know he’s great.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  Kelly had, too. The problem wasn’t Griffith. Not totally. Nor was it her still recovering from the end of a long-term relationship. She was embarrassed to admit that while Sven had surprised her when he’d said it was over, she really hadn’t missed him. Or felt all that upset. Which was sad because after five years, shouldn’t she have been at least a little crushed? What did it mean that she’d gone on without much more than a blink? Hadn’t she been emotionally engaged at all? And if she hadn’t been, what was the reason? Had he not been the one or was she somehow stunted?

  Not a question she really wanted answered. Although Sven had pointed out that she’d never been in love with him. Which was true, if disconcerting to find out from a man.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” Helen asked.

  “If I slept with Griffith?” The list was really long—where was she supposed to start?

  “Whoa, I was going to say if you talked to Griffith. I find it fascinating you jumped right into bed with him, so to speak.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Too late now. You’ve subconsciously told me everything.”

  “I haven’t, and it wasn’t subconscious anything. I spoke out loud.” Kelly pulled into Helen’s driveway.

  “You’re trying to distract me with facts,” her friend said with a grin. “But I see you for what you are.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that is.”

  “As you should be.” Helen lowered her voice. “You’re a sex-starved single woman who desperately wants to get involved with Griffith but you’re afraid.”

  Words spoken in jest that were just a little too close to the truth. Not the sex-starved part. Sex was fine, if not the amazing, earth-shattering experience the media claimed, but still. She did find Griffith intriguing and attractive and...

  “He’s annoying.”

  “Liar, liar.”

  “He can be annoying.”

  “Better.”

  “I want him to leave me alone.”

  Helen sighed. “At the risk of repeating myself, liar, liar.”

  Kelly growled in the back of her throat. “You’re annoying.”

  “That is absolutely true. Just say it. You’re interested. Intrigued, even. He’s hot and you have no idea why he’s suddenly interested, but you don’t hate it.”

  “What I hate is being that transparent.”

  Helen hugged her, then opened the passenger door of the truck and slid to the ground. “Only to me, my sweet. Only to me. My advice is simple. Say yes.”

  “He hasn’t asked me anything. In fact all he’s done is stare at me and be everywhere I am.”

  “Then go find out why. Oh, and start keeping condoms in your purse. Just in case.”

  With that, Helen waved and walked into her house. Kelly waited until the living room lights came on before backing out of the driveway and heading home.

  Kelly had no plans to take the condom advice, but confronting Griffith might not be such a bad idea. Maybe she could find out what he was up to. Because as nice as it would be to think he was interested in her, she knew for a fact her luck wasn’t that good. Besides, he was Griffith Burnett. Even if she got him, she would have no idea what to do with him. Sad, but true.

  2

  Most people thought the main difference between a tiny house on wheels and one that wasn’t had to do with size. But Griffith Burnett knew differently. It was about weight. If you were going to be pulling your to-hundred-square-foot tiny home all over the place, you didn’t want to be weighed down. No granite countertops, no thick wooden flooring, no wrought iron railings on the upper deck. But if your two-hundred-square-foot home was going to stay in one place, then he knew a great hard-surfaces vendor who could hook you right up. And because your tiny home was...well...small, you could get first-class material at remnant prices.

  He stood in the center of what could, in a pinch, be called his manufacturing facility. In truth it was two warehouses connected by a covered walkway, but not only was it a start—it was his.

  The bigger of the buildings held six houses in progress. Two were headed for San Francisco, one to Portland, Oregon. Two were for a family compound in eastern Washington—or as a frustrated middle-aged woman had put it, “My sons are never leaving home. I just can’t stand stepping over them every day. I’ll accept that they’re staying put if I don’t have to deal with them and their mess.”

  The last was going to be an elegant guest cottage at a quirky Texas B and B.

  That side of GB Micro Housing made the money. Whether you wanted to spend thirty thousand or a hundred and thirty thousand, Griffith could build you a tiny home pretty much to your specifications. Single level, two levels, lofts, upper-story decks, high-end finishes or everything recovered from tear-downs. You name it. It was all about weight and how much money you were willing to spend.

  He had orders for the next couple of years and the waiting list continued to grow. He’d hired two more full-time employees, bringing his total to ten.

  He supposed a money person would tell him to use his other warehouse to fulfill the paying orders, but he wasn’t even tempted. That second, smaller space, well, that was where the real work happened.

  In the smaller warehouse, he experimented, he played, he dreamed. He would never make a cent from that work, but it also meant at the end of the day, he could know he’d done what was right. That made sleeping at night a whole lot easier.

  He went into the break room to pour himself some coffee only to find his brother sitting at one of the tables. Ryan leaned back in a chair, his feet up on a second one. His eyes were closed as he listened to something through earbuds.

  Griffith resi
sted the urge to kick the chair out from under his brother’s feet. Maybe that would get his attention, although he had his doubts.

  Ryan was currently unmotivated. The only reason his brother had come back to Tulpen Crossing was because he’d had nowhere else to go. When Ryan had blown out his shoulder, the Red Sox had cut him loose. After two years of paying more attention to baseball than college and nearly four years in the minor league, Ryan wasn’t exactly skilled labor. He’d needed a job and Griffith had offered him one—on the line, building tiny houses. It was a decision Griffith was beginning to regret.

  He nudged his brother’s arm. Ryan opened his eyes and smiled.

  “Hey, bro.”

  “Hey, yourself. Break ended a half hour ago.”

  “What?”

  Ryan blinked and looked around, as if genuinely surprised to find everyone else was back at work. “Huh. Sorry. I was listening to the game. I guess I got distracted.”

  Griffith could guess how the conversation had gone. One of the guys would have said break was over. Ryan would have said he would be there in a minute. Had the twenty-five-year-old been anyone else, the shop supervisor would have been notified. But Ryan was the boss’s brother. No one was sure if the rules applied—not even Griffith.

  He briefly thought of his parents who had always insisted he look after his baby brother—no matter how inconvenient it might be—sucked in a breath and told himself he would deal with Ryan another time.

  “Get back to work,” he said. “Now.”

  “Sure thing.”

  His brother got to his feet and ambled toward the door.

  Griffith watched him go and told himself any annoyance was his own fault. Ryan had never hustled—unless he was on the baseball field. There he could be little more than a blur of activity, but in life, not so much with the speed.

  * * *

  “I love it!”

  Olivia Murphy basked in the delighted tone and happy words of her client. Jenny was a sixtysomething recent widow who needed to sell the family home to fund the rest of her life. Getting top dollar was a priority.

  The ranch-style three-bedroom, two-bath wasn’t anything fancy. In fact hundreds of them existed in the older neighborhoods of Phoenix. Adding to that challenge were the lack of updates and the time of year. June wasn’t exactly peak selling season in the desert—not when midday temperatures routinely topped a hundred degrees. No one wanted to be looking at homes if they didn’t have to be. Winter was far more active in the real estate market.

  But Jenny couldn’t wait until winter, which meant making a splash on minimal budget. Olivia had spent hours on Pinterest, had haunted thrift stores and had begged and borrowed everything else. For less than five hundred dollars, she’d transformed the aging, very ordinary rambler into a cute, welcoming Cape Cod retreat.

  “I just can’t believe it’s the same house,” Jenny crowed. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  “I know,” Marilee Quedenfeld said, her tone a combination of modest pride and look-at-me. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The second you walk in, you feel the cool, ocean breeze.”

  Olivia kept her smile firmly in place. There was no point in saying anything. Working for Marilee these past four years had taught her that. If there was praise to be had, it went to Marilee. If there was a complaint, well, that went anywhere else.

  “You’re a genius,” Jenny told Marilee. “Everyone said you were the best, but I didn’t expect this. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” Marilee put her arm around her client. “I know what you’ve been through and this is the least I can do.”

  Words Jenny would take at face value, Olivia thought, while Marilee was probably thinking something along the lines of Dear God, why doesn’t this woman take better care of herself?

  The contrast in their appearances was startling. Jenny was short, frumpy and had obviously surrendered to the aging process. Marilee, by contrast, wore an Akris punto polka-dot A-line dress and Valentino pumps. Her hair was a sleek, shoulder-length, dark blond bob, her makeup emphasized large eyes and smooth skin. She was close to fifty, looked thirty-five and occasionally tried to pass herself off as even younger.

  “Let’s go look at the rest of the house,” Marilee suggested. “You’re going to love everything I’ve done.”

  “I know I will.”

  Olivia stayed in the kitchen. It was safer there—she wouldn’t be tempted to blurt out a fact only the designer would know. While the momentary satisfaction would be great, she would pay for it later.

  Olivia had joined Marilee’s successful real estate business right out of college. She’d started as a secretary and had worked her way up to designing all the company’s marketing. As that wasn’t a full-time gig, she’d tried her hand at selling homes, but had discovered she didn’t have the right kind of personality. Marilee didn’t, either, but she was better at faking it.

  In an effort to keep from having to fill her day with secretarial duties, Olivia had started taking design classes. She quickly discovered she had a knack for more than putting together a great outfit on a budget and transforming a plain house into something wildly appealing. So far she was offering her staging services for only the cost of supplies, but she was toying with the idea of starting a real business and had the savings account to prove it. This house had been her biggest project by far. She might not be getting the credit, but she had plenty of before and after pictures for her portfolio.

  Jenny and Marilee left the house to return to the office. Olivia stayed behind to lock up and look around one more time.

  “Your assistant is such a pretty girl,” she heard Jenny say as they walked to Marilee’s Mercedes. “We should all be so young.”

  Olivia winced. Marilee would not appreciate being lumped into Jenny’s over-sixty age group, nor would she like Olivia being complimented. But that was for later.

  She checked that the rear slider was locked, pausing to admire the Adirondack chairs she’d found at a garage sale for all of ten bucks each. She’d set a thrift store tray on top of a ratty plastic end table. A few shells in an old mason jar with a little sand transformed the tired poolside into something beachy.

  Inside she’d covered Jenny’s lumpy sofa with an off-white slipcover, then added throw pillows in gray, blue and pale aqua. A textured throw rug in beige and cream covered most of the 1980s floor tile.

  In the master she’d recovered the headboard with striped gray-and-white sheets. She’d splurged on a new comforter, then had rearranged the furniture. A few accessories—starfish, a clock in the shape of a lighthouse and piece of driftwood—continued the theme.

  The master bath was pure illusion. Rolled towels and pretty jars of bath salts distracted from the outdated tile. A quick coat of white paint added a sense of freshness. She’d found a darling silk flower arrangement and put it into a child’s sand bucket. The touch of whimsy drew the eye away from the ugly tub.

  Her phone chirped. She glanced down and saw she had a text from Logan. They’d met over the weekend and he’d been trying to get together with her ever since. Honestly, Olivia just wasn’t in the mood. Yes, he was Kathy’s boyfriend and stealing him would be good fun, but for some reason the idea didn’t appeal.

  She scrolled through other texts and paused when she saw the one that had really caught her attention.

  You should come home for a visit. We could hang out. Miss you, babe.

  Every woman had her weakness. For some it was brownies, for others it was shoes, for her it was Ryan Burnett.

  The man made her crazy. She knew the reason—they’d never had their chance. She’d been cruelly ripped from his arms before they could become the most popular couple in high school. Later, at college, he’d been more interested in baseball than her, something he still had to pay for.

  She wanted to forget him and coul
dn’t. He was the promise of what could have been, of what she could have been. When she was with him, she finally belonged. She needed that—needed him. Ever since he’d moved back to Tulpen Crossing three months ago, he’d been asking her to come up for a visit. Which was ridiculous. That was the last place she wanted to be. Except for Ryan...

  She dropped her phone back in her bag and walked outside. After making sure the key was in the lockbox, she checked the front door, then drove back to the office. She arrived in time to hear Jenny raving about the marketing campaign Olivia had prepared.

  “I don’t know how you do it all,” Jenny gushed. “Marilee, you’re amazing.” She turned to Olivia. “You must learn so much working for her.”

  “I do. Every day.” She turned to Marilee. “The house is ready to go live. Shall I take care of that for you?”

  “Please.”

  Olivia retreated to her small, windowless office. She went online and uploaded the listing she’d already prepared. Then she checked on their other listings, which didn’t take very long. The number of houses they were selling would pick up again in September, but until then, they were in the real estate dead zone.

  An hour later, Marilee buzzed for Olivia to come to her office. Olivia smoothed the front of her sleeveless dress before walking down the carpeted hallway. Marilee sat on the leather sofa in her large, corner office.

  “That woman is so tiresome. I thought she would never leave. At least she liked the staging, although I have to say I was a little disappointed.” She wrinkled her nose as best she could, considering the Botox. “Really, Olivia? Starfish and a sand bucket? Is that the best you could do?”

  Olivia felt herself flush. “I had a budget of five hundred dollars. There weren’t a lot of choices. I think the unique style will appeal to buyers.”

  “We’ll see. Jenny was happy at least, although that’s not saying much.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “How hot is it out there? Over a hundred?”

  “It’s close.”

  “I can’t wait to get out of here. Roger’s place in Colorado is going to be heavenly. The views are amazing. You should go away for a few weeks, Olivia. There isn’t much business over the summer and it would save me having to cut your hours.”