“Everyone in my industry uses these products,” I added.
“Not in my house,” she said, sniffing with contempt. “I was told you did custom woodwork. Is that true or not?”
“It’s true,” I said mildly, although I was getting fed up with her attitude. I could tell that Wade was fuming.
“Then that’s what I want. I won’t accept anything less. No cheating.” I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her frown lines deepened.
“It’s not cheating, Mrs. Jorgensen,” I said through clenched teeth. “But never mind. I’m happy to do the sculpting work for you. But as I said, it’s expensive and time-consuming. I just wanted to offer you an efficient alternative in case you didn’t want to pay for the extra—”
“I thought I made myself clear,” she said. “I want to win this contest at all costs. Money is not part of the equation. I want quality work.”
“And you’ll get it, I promise you.” I gave her another big smile—fake!—and made a mental note to ask Dad just how close his friendship with Matthew Jorgensen was. Because if they were just casual acquaintances, putting up with this woman was not worth my aggravation.
She glared back. “I certainly hope so.” She huffed impatiently as though she were dealing with recalcitrant children. “And don’t forget, I want my orangery built in plenty of time for the tour.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” How could I? Our original purpose in taking the Jorgensen job had been to construct a charming Victorian orangery on the side of her house where French doors led to a small, flower-filled yard.
I had thought an orangery—or greenhouse, or solarium, or conservatory, or whatever you wanted to call it—would be a fun challenge for me and my crew guys to tackle. Petsy had already ordered the massive kit from England and it was now sitting in her backyard, waiting to be put together.
“I’ve already pulled the permits for the orangery construction,” I continued, “so that won’t hold us up. But as I explained earlier, my team has a full schedule this week, so the earliest we can get started on your orangery is next Tuesday morning at eight o’clock. And I can begin the wainscoting repair at the same time, if that works for you.”
“I’m not happy with the idea of waiting, but I suppose I’ll have to. Please be on time.”
“Of course. I’ll drop off the contract tomorrow afternoon.”
“My husband will sign it and write you a check.” With that, she turned abruptly, walked out to the foyer, and disappeared through a door, her high heels tapping furiously against the polished wood floors as she moved.
Apparently we were dismissed.
“I guess we’ll show ourselves out,” I muttered.
Wade turned and looked at me. “Shannon, she’s awful.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have shown her the website.”
“We always show clients that website. It’s beautiful and most people love it.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Of course, most people are smarter and nicer than this one.”
It wasn’t often that Wade said something harsh about a client, but I couldn’t blame him for feeling that way.
“Funny how she’ll buy a mail-order orangery kit,” I mused, “but when it comes to wood paneling, she insists on having the so-called real thing.”
“Good point.”
I took one more glance around the dining room. In Petsy’s defense, the wainscoting panels were exquisite. Or they would’ve been if they hadn’t been allowed to disintegrate over the years.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would’ve loved to immerse myself in the Jorgensens’ woodworking job. But my guys and I were swamped with work. It didn’t make sense to spend my time doing this when I could spread out and do six different jobs and accomplish a lot more.
Especially when this particular client had such a lousy attitude!
As we walked to the front door, I shook my head. “Fake onlays. Give me a break.”
“She’s a piece of work, for sure.”
“Maybe I should’ve explained that the original Victorian decorators cheated all the time.”
“Not sure it would’ve helped,” Wade groused, then broke into a grin. “Wait’ll she finds out about the polyurethane corbels we’re using in her orangery.”
Horrified, I looked up at him. “Oh God, don’t tell her.”
“Believe me, I won’t say a word. All I need is for her to come at me with a frying pan, yelling, Fake! Fake!”
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help it. It was so unreasonable. Nobody could tell the difference, and the polyurethane pieces were so much lighter and easier to work with than the old plaster forms.
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, I decided, as I walked over to my truck and unlocked the door.
After climbing up to the passenger seat, Wade pulled out his tablet. “Since you’re going to be stuck on this woodworking job, we’d better work out a new schedule.”
Grumbling, I shut the door and started the engine. “What we really need to do is hire another carpenter.”
• • •
I spent the rest of the week with Wade and two of my crew guys across town at the Spauldings’ house, renovating their old kitchen and laundry room. The rest of the crew was working with Carla at my friend Emily’s house. She wanted us to refurbish the front veranda railing and lay down a new concrete walkway in preparation for the Home and Garden Tour.
Because we were also rebuilding the short wall in front of Emily’s home where some erosion had occurred during the rains, I had gone to the building-inspection office to apply for a permit to do the concrete work. The last thing I wanted was a job slowdown due to inspection issues, especially with the tour coming up so quickly.
While I was at the inspection office, I had also applied for a permit to renovate my friend Jane’s garage starting next month. She wanted to turn the old structure into three new suites for the Hennessey Inn and I couldn’t have been more thrilled. I had helped her refurbish her grandmother’s Victorian mansion a few years ago and it was now considered one of the most elegant places to stay when traveling along the Northern California coast.
My company had several other jobs around town that Wade, Carla, and I were taking turns supervising. We were super busy and that made me very happy. Well, except for the unpleasant prospect of having to work with cranky-pants Petsy Jorgensen next week. But I could handle it. And once we got through that job, we would all be able to rest easier.
• • •
It was the following Monday afternoon and I had just called it a day at the Spaulding house. I had started to pack up my tool chest, ready to head for home, but had run into a snag while rearranging my screwdrivers.
That was the moment when Wade approached.
“Look at this,” I said, holding up my claw hammer. “Why can’t I get this to fit? It squeezed in here just fine earlier today, but now I’ve got to move all these screwdrivers around to make room.”
“It’s a question for the ages,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “Listen, I’ve got news. I think I might’ve found us a carpenter.”
I stared up at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
I stood and rested my fists on my hips. “A good one? Not just a hammer-and-nails guy, but someone with actual artistic ability?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
It was almost too much to hope for. “Do you know him?”
He grinned. “It’s a woman.”
“Really?” I blinked in surprise. Sadly, there just weren’t that many women working in construction.
“Yeah, really. Rumor has it, she’s at least as good as you.”
I laughed at his teasing tone. “No way. Who is it?”
“Do you know Bob Clemons?”
“The brick guy? Sure.” But he’s a brick guy, not a carpe
nter, I thought as I unbuckled my tool belt.
“I ran into him up at the hardware store and mentioned that we’re looking for a highly skilled carpenter. He recommended a gal he’s been working with over in Flanders. She’s supposed to be fantastic. A real artist, he says.”
I lifted my tool chest and walked with him out to the street. “Could we get that lucky?”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “Bob swears she’s amazing. What do you think?”
“I think I’d like to see some of her work. What’s her name?”
“I wrote it down.” Wade glanced at a piece of scrap paper. “Amanda Walsh.”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t think I know her.”
“According to Bob, she just moved to the area a few months ago. He gave me her number. Do you want me to call her?”
With all the jobs we were picking up in preparation for the town’s annual Victorian Home and Garden Tour, I had already hired some extra crew. I wanted experienced workers, though, so I was being picky. It was one of those good problems to have.
“Do you trust Bob?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t lie to me about this.”
I nodded slowly. “In that case, I wonder if Amanda can start tomorrow.”
Wade grinned. “I’ll give her a call and see if she’s available. Unless you want to make the call.”
I checked my watch. “I’ve got to meet my dad in fifteen minutes.” I hefted my tool chest into the back of my truck. “Why don’t you call and ask if she’s interested in the job? And if she says yes, then find out when she’s available to start. We’ll give her a try on one job, and if she works out . . .” I held up my crossed fingers.
“If she works out, this Amanda Walsh could really make all of our lives easier.” He started to walk away, but then turned back. “Will we see you at the pub later?”
“Definitely.” My crew and I had a standing reservation once a week at the pub on Main Street for dinner and shooting the breeze. They were a good group of guys, but after going through some scary moments recently, I’d made it my goal to check up on them and make sure things were going well in their lives. The casual pub atmosphere made for easy talking—and it didn’t hurt that I picked up the tab.
And that gave me an idea.
“Hey, Wade, why don’t you ask Amanda if she’d like to meet us at the pub tonight? We can make sure we all get along before bringing her onto the jobsite.”
He chuckled as he shook his head. “Talk about a trial by fire.”
I smiled. “We’ll see if she can stand the heat.”
“You’re tough, boss.”
I blinked at him, slapped my palm dramatically to the center of my chest, and said innocently, “What? I’m a pussycat.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughed. “See you later.”
• • •
“What do you think? Isn’t she a honey?”
“She’s a beauty, Dad. But are you sure you want to buy a boat? It’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”
“I’m not afraid of a little work.”
No, but I am, I thought. Ever since his heart attack, I lived in fear that my father would overextend himself and end up in the hospital again. I knew the doctors had said he was fine. And Dad was continually reminding me that he was the parent here and perfectly healthy to boot. But no way did I want to relive rushing to his bedside in that cold, sterile hospital setting.
Still, did it matter that he was alive if my hovering kept him from living?
We stood on the dock of the marina, admiring the shiny blue hull and the clean white trim. The boat really was a beauty. It slept three people comfortably, plus a few more out on the deck on a warm night. It had a fully equipped galley and a remarkably large bathroom—or head, as Dad called it. I could picture my father and Uncle Pete and the rest of their pals having a grand old time on this floating man cave.
“And working on a boat isn’t like work at all,” Dad insisted. “It’s a labor of love.”
I knew that wasn’t exactly true, but there was no way I was going to rain on his parade. “Is Uncle Pete going in on it with you?”
He shot me a sly smile. “He’s got a little invested in the project.”
“I hope so. You guys are lifelong fishing buddies. He would want in on a deal like this.”
“You know it. But Pete’s not going to live on the boat like I am so he’s only going in for thirty percent.”
“Sounds reasonable.” But then I played back what he’d said. “Wait. I didn’t realize you were going to live on the boat. Are you giving up the RV?”
“No way,” he said with a wink. “That’ll always be my original man cave.”
“Pretty deluxe for a man cave.” Dad had originally bought the luxury RV with the idea of traveling the back roads across America. Once on the road, he quickly realized that while he loved spending time in the RV, he didn’t enjoy traveling all by himself. So he came back, turned the family home over to me, and moved into the RV instead. When Dad wasn’t using it to go fishing with Uncle Pete, the RV was parked in my driveway, which was fine with me.
“Yeah.” He turned and gazed longingly at the sleek thirty-seven-foot cabin cruiser. “But this baby opens up a whole new world. Heck, I could catch my own dinner every day.”
I gave him a hug. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”
He wrapped his arms around me. “I love you, sweetheart.”
• • •
I drove home to change clothes and feed my critters. Pushing open the back gate, I glanced up at the apartment over my garage and worried for a few seconds that there were no lights on—until I remembered nobody lived there anymore.
MacKintyre Sullivan, the well-known mystery author, had lived upstairs for over six months while my crew and I refurbished the old lighthouse mansion. He had just moved a week ago, and even though his new home was only three miles up the coast, I missed him.
Sighing, I climbed the steps and opened the kitchen door—and was instantly greeted by an adorable barking Westie and a fluffy, striped orange cat who wrapped herself around my ankles. “Hello, my darlings.”
I set my tote bag and purse down on the kitchen table and picked up Tiger for a quick cuddle. The cat purred loudly and I relished the warmth of her soft fur against my cheek.
“Woof!” Robbie protested, as if to say, What am I, chopped liver?
With a laugh, I set Tiger down and lifted Robbie up to give him a hug. “I love you guys.”
A minute later I was cleaning and refilling their water bowls. Then I filled their food bowls and placed them on their individual mats.
My cell phone rang and I checked to see who was calling. It was Mac Sullivan so I quickly answered. “Hi, Mac.”
“Hey, Irish. I’m going stir-crazy. Do you want to save my life and grab a bite to eat with me?”
I smiled. Mac wrote the Jake Slater thrillers and was in the throes of finishing his latest adventure.
“I would love to,” I said. “But since today is Monday, would you mind if we went to the pub?”
“Oh, right, you’ve got dinner with the guys tonight. Guess I lost track of the days.”
“That’s understandable.” I’d seen for myself that when the man was on a tight deadline, he often forgot to eat. Or shave. Or sleep. It wasn’t pretty.
“But yeah,” he said, “I’d love to join you. How about if I pick you up at six thirty?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll be ready.”
“Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me, too,” I said, then ventured to ask, “Is the book going well?”
“I’ve got two more chapters.”
“Wow, you’re writing this one fast.”
“I’m motivated. I want to have it finished before the Home and Garden Tour starts.”
“Then why are you still
on the phone talking to me?” I teased.
He chuckled. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
We hung up and I ran upstairs to take a quick shower and do something with my hair.
This year the town council had voted to make Mac the official celebrity judge of the fifteenth annual Home and Garden Tour. I was pretty sure Mac considered it a greater honor than any writing award he’d ever won. Personally, I thought it was because writers were inherently nosy, and as a judge, he would be invited to poke his nose into everyone’s house and wander around their gardens without anyone questioning why he was there. Mac would love that. As far as “judging” duties went, basically he would be helping to count the ballots and announcing the winner. The actual voting was done by all of the people taking the tour.
While I was getting dressed, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Shannon?” a woman asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Joan Derry. I live over on Cranberry Circle.”
I was pleasantly surprised. She lived in the house with the beautiful and authentic orangery.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Derry. Your house is beautiful.”
“Thank you, and please call me Joan,” she said. “I spoke with my neighbor Petsy Jorgensen a few minutes ago and found out that your company is installing her orangery.”
“Yes. I understand she was so enthralled with yours that she wanted one for her very own.”
“Enthralled is one way to put it,” she said wryly, and chuckled. “Anyway, I was wondering, since you’ll be in the neighborhood tomorrow, if I could beg you to run over and take a look at our basement. I’m scared to death we might be dealing with dry rot down there.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” I did a mental check of my schedule. “I’ll be happy to stop by in the morning. Is seven o’clock too early for you? If that doesn’t work I can make it around ten a.m.”
“I’m an early riser, so seven is perfect. Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
I smiled into the phone. After dealing with Petsy Jorgensen, it was nice to talk to an appreciative client. “No problem. See you then.”
Eaves of Destruction Page 2
