by Lee McKenzie
Okay, this was just plain weird. He could believe that Miss Meadowcroft had a fondness for gin, but a sense of humor? Who knew?
Maggie wasn’t finished. “Thank you for teaching me the importance of believing in myself and having a generous spirit.” She reached up and touched her necklace. “Oh, and thank you for the pearls.”
She smiled up at Nick.
He ground his teeth together. Do not laugh, he warned himself.
“And most of all, thank you for giving me the opportunity to come to Collingwood Station and open my spa and help all these wonderful people.” Then she cast a quick, almost worried glance at him.
What was that all about?
“To Aunt Margaret.” She lifted her glass a little higher.
“Is there anything you’d like to say?” she asked.
“About what?”
“About Aunt Margaret.”
Yeah. Could you please get lost while I kiss your niece? Even though doing that was not a good idea. “No. I think you said it all. Perfectly.”
“Thank you.” She smiled sweetly.
He took the glass from her and set it on the mantel.
“Have you had dinner? We could go out and grab a bite if you’d like.” If they were out in public, there’d be no danger of him trying to kiss her.
But instead of answering his question, she kissed him. And after she broke the kiss, she smiled at him. “I forgot to ask if you like my dress.”
He blinked at the unexpected question. “Yeah,” he lied.
“It’s one of Aunt Margaret’s.”
Five little words that felt like a bucket of cold water. What had he been thinking? Bad enough that he wanted to keep on kissing his beautiful client, but kissing her while she was wearing her dead spinster aunt’s dress seemed even worse for some reason.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ON MONDAY MORNING Nick arrived at Maggie’s, charged with a sense of anticipation. Paint cans were stacked in a pyramid on the front porch and through the open front door, he could see Brent spreading drop cloths over the newly refinished hardwood floor in the hallway.
Nick unloaded the lumber for the new front steps he was going to build. Yes, sir. If everything went according to plan, they would finish the job by the end of the week. Which meant that by Saturday, he would no longer be working for Maggie.
He would take her to his sister’s wedding. Then he’d figure out some excuse to take her far away from Miss Meadowcroft’s prying eyes.
Did ghosts have eyes?
Not that he actually believed Maggie’s wild idea that her aunt was still hanging around, but she believed it. As crazy an idea as that was, he didn’t want there to be even a remote suggestion that Miss Meadowcroft’s ghost might be watching him kiss her.
“G’morning, boss.” Brent checked his watch. “Not like you to be this late.”
“I was on the phone with the roofing company. I convinced them to start tomorrow so we can get this place finished by the end of the week.”
“Have we got another job lined up?”
“Not yet.”
Brent pried the lid off a paint can. “So what’s the hurry?”
“Maggie’s counting on us to get the job done and I don’t want to let her down.”
There was no sign of Maggie, though, and he wondered if she was home this morning. He had thought about checking up on her yesterday but decided against it.
“Maggie’s never said anything about the job taking too long.” Brent’s suggestive smirk was more annoying than usual. “So I think we both know what you want.”
Nick ignored him. “You should be able to get the living room painted today, right?” With the counter and new plumbing installed, it wasn’t a living room anymore, but he wasn’t sure what else to call it. The makeover room? A couple of nights ago it had nearly become the make-out room.
“I can finish it today. Might get the hallway done, too, if you stay out of my way.”
Brent gave him an exaggerated wink, then glanced down at the paint can. “What on earth? This is purple. The paint store must have made a mistake.”
“It’s not a mistake. Maggie wants one wall in each room painted Passionate Purple.”
Brent looked up at him and grinned. “Seriously?”
“Would I joke about something like that?”
“Nope. You don’t have enough imagination to think that up on your own.”
“Thanks.”
“What color does she want on the other walls?”
“It’s kind of a beige color. I think it’s called Vanilla Fudge.”
“Vanilla Fudge, huh? Passionate Purple. I’m impressed you know these things.”
“Don’t be. Maggie told me what she wanted and I ordered it.”
“You sure that’s all she wants?”
Nick wished Maggie would put in an appearance, if for no other reason than to make Brent behave. “What’s up with you this morning? You’re even more of a smart aleck than usual.”
“You got a problem with that?”
Nick knocked his friend’s ball cap askew. “It’d be less of a problem if it was at somebody else’s expense.”
“Right. I’ll just have to pick on Maggie when she shows up.”
“You haven’t talked to her?”
“No. The front door was locked so I let myself in.” Brent grabbed the stepladder that was leaning against the wall and carried it into the living room.
“I see.” But he didn’t. No matter what kind of crazy concoction she was working on, she always greeted them at the door in the morning. Maybe he should have checked on her yesterday.
“She’s here, though. I heard her banging around out in the backyard. If you hadn’t shown up by the time I was ready to start painting, I was going to check to see what she wanted me to do and ask her about the things on the mantel. Seems kind of weird, don’t you think? That she’d put this stuff up there before we finished painting?”
The flashback to Saturday night caught Nick completely off guard. “Oh, that. It’s a memorial to Miss Meadowcroft. I don’t think she plans to leave it there.”
Brent opened a can of the beige paint and picked up a paint stirrer. “And you know this...how?”
“I dropped by on Saturday night when she was getting it set up.”
“You sly dog.” Brent tossed the wooden stick in the air, watched it twirl a few times, caught it on its downward spiral and dipped it into the paint. “I thought you were supposed to be at the big bachelor party on Saturday.”
“I put in an appearance.”
There was more smirking from Brent as he set up the stepladder near the fireplace. “I probably would have done the same thing if I were you.”
“Put in an appearance?”
“Blown off Gerald Bedford the Third to spend the evening with a gorgeous woman. In a heartbeat.”
Right. And Nick didn’t need to ask which woman. “Seems to me you’ve always had your pick of gorgeous women.”
“Yeah, it’s a gift,” Brent said, but there seemed to be a touch of bitterness in his voice. “But getting back to you and Maggie and Saturday night—”
“I don’t have a lot in common with Gerald and his buddies so I stayed for the obligatory thirty minutes, listened to a few of their off-color jokes and split.” Brent didn’t need to know about the cake lady. “I was sort of at loose ends so I dropped by to check on a few things.”
Brent stirred the Vanilla Fudge, poured some into a paint tray and set it on the stepladder. “And I take it everything checked out?”
Nick had no intention of revealing the details of his close encounter with Maggie, but he also knew Brent wouldn’t let up until his curiosity had been satisfied. He nodded in the direction of the fireplace. “She was having a memorial for her aunt. That’s who’s in the silver urn up there on the mantel.”
“It’s pewter.”
“Give me a break.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Fine. The pewter urn.
”
“And the martini glass?”
“Maggie wanted to toast to her aunt and asked me to mix some cocktails.”
“All right,” Brent drawled. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Not really. It was only a toast. Then it turned out she was wearing one of her aunt’s old dresses, so the whole thing ended up being—” he hesitated, realizing he’d already said too much “—awkward.”
Brent laughed. “Since when did you get awkward around a gorgeous woman in any kind of dress?”
Nick felt the color rise in his face. “Like I said, it was her aunt’s dress.” He lowered his voice a little. “She thinks her aunt is still hanging around here.”
“What? You mean, the place is haunted?”
“How would I know? Normal, rational, sane people don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too quick to rule it out.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Brent shrugged. “I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, but I’m not saying I don’t. Lot’s of stuff happens that we can’t explain.”
Nick let his eyes roll upward. “Not you, too.”
“I’d watch what I say, if I were you. If Miss Meadowcroft really is hanging around, she’s probably not too happy that you are romancing her niece.”
There was no point in denying that he’d set out to romance Maggie. Brent would never believe him anyway. And he definitely couldn’t tell him that she’d made the first move, or that he’d happily gone along with it till he’d been spooked by the idea of Aunt Margaret’s ghost checking out the action.
“You were saying?”
“Never mind.” He jammed both hands into his pockets. This was crazy. Ghosts didn’t exist and while it was kind of endearing that Maggie thought they did, Brent’s willing acceptance was just plain annoying. “Much as I’d like to continue this airy-fairy discussion about incurring the wrath of a dead woman, we have work to do.”
“Wow. It must have been an interesting evening if it incurred wrath.”
“Can we just get to work?”
“Yes, sir.” Brent raised a paintbrush in mock salute. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll start with Vanilla Fudge and save the passion for later.”
“Passionate Purple.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Brent was really starting to bug him. “Just make sure you follow Maggie’s instructions. It has something to do with... I don’t know. Some plan for where things go in a room.”
“Feng shui?”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“I’m a well-rounded human being.”
“Yeah, right.” Nick felt like a jerk for being bad-tempered. He didn’t care whether or not Brent believed in ghosts, but it honestly bothered him that Maggie did. Everything else about her was pretty much perfect. She was one of the most naturally beautiful women he’d ever seen. Her kisses were passionate and unrestrained. Best of all, she accepted people at face value. She didn’t meddle or tell people what she thought they should do, and yet the people around her somehow became better people. He couldn’t explain it, but he could even see it in himself. The only problem was her unquestioning belief in all this supernatural mumbo-jumbo.
How was he supposed to deal with ghosts and horoscopes and sixth senses and chop suey for the rest of his life?
“Since you’re in such a big hurry to put me to work, how ’bout you move this stuff off the fireplace while I get the rollers out of the truck. Then stay out of my way, because I’ll be a lean, mean painting machine.”
Nick looked at the urn. “I’ll see if I can find Maggie and get her to move it.”
But Maggie was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t in the kitchen and there was no sign of her in the backyard. Maybe she’d gone upstairs? He had no intention of venturing up there.
Fine, then. Much as he’d rather not have to handle a dead woman’s ashes, he’d move the stuff himself.
He carefully picked up the silver—pewter—urn.
The lid rattled.
He tucked it securely under one arm and picked up the still-full glass.
He held the urn snugly in the crook of his left arm and curled the fingers of that hand around the stem of the glass. The lid rattled again.
Who would put ashes in an urn that didn’t have a good, secure lid?
With his right hand free, he reached for a vase. It was heavier than he expected. A lot heavier. How much water had Maggie put in that thing?
He took half a step forward to get a better grip on it. The toe of his work boot caught on a fold in the drop cloth and the vase went sideways.
“No!” Water and roses cascaded down the front of the fireplace. He took a step back to regain his balance and the drop cloth went with him.
The vase shattered on the hearth.
He staggered sideways, shaking his foot to free it from the drop cloth. By the time his shoulder connected with the stepladder, he’d gained enough momentum that the wobbly structure couldn’t withstand the impact.
On his way down, his mind went empty, except for one thought.
Do not drop Miss Meadowcroft.
He released his grip on the glass, braced the urn against his chest and clamped a hand over the lid.
The paint tray clattered to the floor and he landed on his backside in a puddle of paint. Rose water and green gimlet were streaming across the plastic to meet the paint and there was broken glass everywhere.
Brent rushed into the room and Maggie was right behind him. They both stared, wide-eyed. For a few seconds they looked at him as though he was some kind of moron. Then they burst out laughing.
“This is not funny.”
Brent clapped his hands together a few times. “Oh, yes, it is,” he gasped.
Maggie, doubled over and with tears streaming down her face, seemed incapable of saying anything.
“You okay?” Brent asked her.
She nodded.
“Hello? I’m not okay. Could you give me a hand up?” Not for anything was he going to relinquish his grip on Aunt Margaret.
Still laughing, Brent took a few careful steps into the room and offered him a hand. “You think this could be some of that wrath you were talking about?”
“You find this funny? It’s going to take us all morning to clean up this mess, which means we’ll be behind schedule.”
“What do you mean ‘us’? You diss the ghost of Miss Meadowcroft and I have to clean up the aftermath? Or should I say, after-wrath?”
“Not funny.” Nick crossed the room, doing his best to ignore the crunch of glass under his boots, and handed the urn to Maggie. “At least I didn’t drop her,” Nick said.
That set them off all over again.
“Fine. Have a good laugh at my expense. I don’t know what I said to anger her this much, but at least she should be glad she’s not mixed up with all that water, gin gimlet and paint.”
Maggie held a hand over her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to control her laughter.
He brushed by her, but didn’t miss the way she angled her head to take a gander at his paint-covered clothes.
“I’m going home to change.” Their hilarity followed him out the door. That’s right people, yuck it up. At least they had to clean up the mess.
* * *
MAGGIE CARRIED THE URN into the kitchen and set it on the table.
My, that felt good.
“Excuse me?”
I might be dead but I can still appreciate a good strong pair of arms.
“Aunt Margaret! I’m shocked.”
Sure you’re not jealous?
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Don’t let him get away, Maggie. He’s a good man.
“He is, isn’t he? You know, I think I might be—” She hesitated, afraid to say it out loud.
I know. You’re in love with him.
“You don’t think he’s figured it out, do you? I mean, what if he’s just
being nice because he feels he has to be. What if he’s only interested in...you know?”
All men are interested in that. But judging by the way he looks at you, he wants more than that. He wants a future.
“You really think so?”
I know so.
Maggie gently set the urn on the table. “You’ll have to sit here for now till I find another place for you. By the way, that stuff with Nick and the ladder and the paint and everything. You didn’t—”
Aunt Margaret’s deep, rich laugh seemed to fill the kitchen. Of course not, dear, but he seemed to think I did.
“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to let him keep on thinking that. For a while, anyway.”
I guess it wouldn’t.
Maggie had been absolutely certain that Aunt Margaret would never do anything to sabotage the project. Still, having a bad day might be a good thing if it made Nick less skeptical.
“I love you, Aunt Margaret.”
I love you, too, dear. Now, don’t you have work to do?
Maggie smiled. Yes, she certainly did. The possibility that Nick was becoming a believer called for a special lunch. Mr. Donaldson’s pizza. She’d run out and pick up a couple of them right now. While she was at it, she’d take him a sample of her vitamin E hand cream. Last time she’d been in the deli, she’d noticed that his hands were red and chapped, probably from constant hand-washing and from handling all those cold meats and cheeses all day. Come to think of it, a bar of green-tea soap would be good, too. She wrapped a fresh bar in brown paper, tied it with a piece of raffia and popped it into her bag along with the cream.
“Brent?” she called on her way out the front door.
“Yo?” He staggered out of the living room with a huge roll of paint-covered drop cloths in his arms.
She held the door open for him. “I have a few errands to run. Do you need help with this mess before I leave?”
His eyes brightened. “I’m good. I don’t suppose you’re stopping by the deli, are you?”
“I might be. Why? Are you already thinking about lunch?”
“I’m always thinking about lunch.”
She laughed. “Then you won’t be disappointed.” Neither would Nick, she hoped.
* * *
THE BELL ON the deli door jangled when Maggie stepped inside.
