“Who's there?” a weak voice called out.
He paused before pulling back the drape. “My name is Azrael Hanson. I was in the Chief's office when you … dropped in.” He peeked around the curtain so she could see his face.
“You mean, acted like a twit?”
He kept his focus on the side rails on the bed so she wouldn't think he was out for a cheap ogle. “You'd had a difficult experience. Anyone would have been upset.”
“Assaulted in my own home ranks higher than difficult on the B and E scale,” she corrected.
“There's that,” he agreed and moved farther into the narrow space. “Don't worry. Sam and his crew will look into things.”
She antsed around on the bed like she couldn't find a comfortable position. He felt for her, especially after the thermal blanket slipped and exposed vivid bruises covering both arms. Not all came from failed attempts at drawing blood or starting IV's. He knew because he'd been the one to play blood sucker during transport to the Emergency Room.
“You're welcome to sit,” she said with a certain degree of difficulty. He imagined the lip, now swollen to the size of a man's thumb hurt like a sonofabitch.
And after the day he'd put in at work, with screw ups on a shipment of house plants keeping him on the phone to Augusta half the damn morning, then putting in a four hour shift with the ambulance corps, sitting down--even if it was in a molded plastic hospital chair--would feel good. “Thanks, I will.”
She rolled to her side with a deep groan. “You're the one who caught me after I took the dive?”
Man, Teddy wasn't kidding. Her face looked like she'd gone a couple rounds with the current WBA champ. “Can I get you something? Water or juice? An ice pack maybe?” In her place he'd be begging for a couple hundred milligrams of Demerol, save the Phenergan chaser.
“If you wouldn't mind, could you help me sit up?”
“Sure.” He came out of the chair and moved to the end of the stretcher. Sliding both hands beneath the mattress, he found the pull bar and yanked. The head of the stretcher rose smoothly, inclining the angle of the bed frame to more than forty-five degrees. “Better?”
She curled both hands around the side rails to pull herself straight up. “Thanks. My butt is about the only part on this body that doesn't hurt.” Pressing a palm against the side of her head, she tilted her head and blinked a couple times before looking at him. “I'm sorry. I forgot your name.”
“Az. Azrael Hanson.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Hanson. Are you from around here?”
He nodded. “Born and raised. Why?”
“I remember a family with six, maybe seven kids. All were named after the minor archangels. Are you part of that clan?”
“I am. My family owns Hanson Scapes.”
She grimaced around the lip. “Your sister Haniel sat behind me in grade school. I think we called her Hanny.”
“Lives in Chicago now. Four kids, married to a scout for the Cubs.”
“Good for her.”
“So you're from here,” he said, feeling more than a little stupid at the lame statement. Despite Teddy's warning to not let her talk, Az liked the sound of her voice. Plus, she'd lived in Serenity Harbor long enough to know about his mother's obsession with archangels. Hadn't stuck around though. He'd have noticed. With her height and that Lauren Bacall voice, a woman with her looks stayed in a man's mind.
Even with a face that looked like it'd gone through a Veg-O-Matic, this one fell into RLT: Real Looker Territory.
“My name is Maddy Flynn.”
One of his nastier habits in social situations was spitting out the first thing that came to mind. What fell out of his mouth next proved was worthy of chowing down both feet, one elbow and the opposite fist all in one bite.
“Oh sure. The girl who wants to revive the whorehouse.”
* * *
The change in her demeanor was instantaneous. The temp immediately dropped from hospital stifling to Arctic Circle frigid. If she jutted that pointed chin out any farther, her head might just snap off her neck. “You got a problem with a woman trying to earn a living, Mister Hanson?”
Before he could form a reasonable response, the door flew open. In a move very much like the one Maddy Flynn had demonstrated earlier at the police station, a second Amazon, this one a flaming redhead wearing spandex and knee-high leather boots, announced her presence with authority.
“Madeleine Louise Flynn! Oh. My. God. What the hell happened?”
“I got mugged.”
The redhead yanked off her suede jacket, carelessly tossed it onto an empty chair before storming the bedside. “Your poor face,” she crooned. “Does it hurt? Anything else damaged? You got in a few licks, I hope?”
The patient slid her palm from her cheek to her forehead like maybe exerting pressure against her brow would keep her brains from oozing out all available orifices. “Yes. Yes. And you damn betcha. How did you find out?”
“Luscious Lou called, shrieking like a banshee that he'd heard you getting murdered. Once my train arrived, I caught a cab to the police department. Some hunk wearing the stars and bars of a Chief said you'd been brought to the ER.”
“Huh. I could have sworn I turned the phone off after I talked to Lou. I know I put it back into my pocket.”
Az spoke up. “Maybe the pressure from rolling down the stairs tripped the on button.”
The redhead turned to give him the once-over favored by females on the prowl everywhere. When she spoke, she looked directly at him, voice dripping with warm honey, but kept her question directed at the patient. “Who is your escort, sugar?”
He took the long-fingered hand she'd extended. “Azrael Hanson. I brought Miz Flynn to the ER.”
“You a cop?”
“Today I'm a volunteer with the local ambulance corps.”
“How … exciting.”
The previously brilliant smile dropped from a ten to a minus two on the interest meter. Perhaps she went for men who, like her, sported tattoos on all exposed surfaces. The red rose and leaf green stem that wound its way between a pair of spectacular breasts was bound to be a conversation starter. For himself, he preferred the unadorned type.
“Suzie,” Flynn warned in a noticeably weaker voice. “Leave the man alone. He's had a rough day.”
“And you haven't?”
“Mr. Hanson just realized who I am and fears I am intent on reviving the bawdy house.”
“Oh really?” The Amazon had a smile that would fry a man's toenails. “We'll just have to relieve him of his fears. Won't we?”
He shrugged. “Personally, I don't care if you set up a whorehouse or a warehouse for Fanny Farmer's candies. Long as you pay the taxes it's none of my never mind.”
A small white lie, he admitted. All in the name of doing business. Still, it helped to have a face and a name on the woman who currently claimed top spot on the Serenity Harbor grapevine.
Chapter 2
It took three days for Az to man up and make the drive to White Pine Lane with what his mother called a groveling gift. As long as it served his agenda, he'd do plenty more than grovel. Right now, the agenda dictated he get a look inside That Place.
As he drove down the narrow road lined with white pines and rhododendrons, he mentally reviewed the day. Another beaut that began with a call from a member of the Town Council about the Masshole woman with the lamebrain idea of restoring That Place and ended with a visit from Aggie the Bat.
For more than fifty years Agnes Battswold taught him, and every other kid in Serenity Harbor, junior high civics. She'd been ancient when he learned the Constitution and Bill of Rights beneath taps of a ruler wielded with the power of a Louisville Slugger. Now, she was just older than the dirt he shoveled on a daily basis. Adding insult to injury, Aggie used every one of those years to get her way with former students, one of whom happened to run the only general contracting and home rehab business in town.
“She wants a line of fuchsias to hang on her
patio, boss,” the new hire told him. “Wouldn't listen when I tried to tell her she'd need an umbrella in one hand and a hose in the other to keep them thriving. Claims she saw them growing wild on her last trip to Ireland and wants to have them around her house as a reminder.”
Az nodded. Sounded just like the old lady. “You told her they grow in wild in Ireland because of the climate of daily showers and overcast skies?”
The kid shook his head. “She insists the variegated purple and red is what she wants. Reached for her salts after I suggested begonias or impatiens.”
“Okay, okay. I'll take care of it,” Az told the eager college student he'd taken on as a summer intern out of the local community college. “Thanks for listening to her, Jack. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”
“You bet, sir.” Jack Templeton followed Az to his truck in the back parking lot with the enthusiasm of an adoring puppy. “I've got to submit my semester project by the beginning of next week, sir. Think you might have some time to talk over ideas with me?”
“You bet.” Az checked his watch before climbing behind the wheel of his ancient Bronco. “First thing in the morning.”
After parking the truck on the circular driveway in front of what the townspeople called That Place for more years than he could recall, he took his time to take it all in. Despite years of neglect, the Victorian painted lady had kept the majority of its original slate blue color. The ivory trim, though cracked and peeling in spots, still made a good contrast color. Three stories of grandeur and history--though not the kind most Harborites were proud of--gave Az a sense of mystery and intrigue.
He made his way up the sidewalk beneath what had been a wisteria arbor gone to seed, dodging a row of Northern Bush Honeysuckle. All were in serious need of debriding in order to restore them to their former glory. The front entryway needed to be rebricked and retiled, but with care and diligence it could be a stunner.
Jack Templeton's eager face came to mind. An intern project, which of course required close supervision. It fitted neatly into his plan. If Madeleine Flynn hired him on as general contractor, he'd have a complete access to the structure, inside and out. Hmm. Might just work.
He rang the doorbell and wasn't really surprised when the opening bars of “Ode to Joy” rang out. The woman who answered the door looked nothing like Maddy Flynn. Nor was it the bombshell who wore body art in the same manner other women wore jewelry. This one was small and dark with smoldering eyes and slight twist to her lips.
“Si?”
“Is Miz Flynn available?”
“Who is ju?”
“Azrael Hanson. I was with her at the hospital.”
The frown enhanced the downward curve of her mouth. “Ju no look like an angel. More like el diablo.”
As uncomfortable with this brand of female scrutiny as he'd been with the man-eating redhead, he shuffled his booted feet. “If she's busy or resting, may I leave this for her?” From behind his back, he produced a potted azalea. His mother picked it out for him, promising it would serve his purpose.
The Latina's tough demeanor crumpled. “Ahhh. Si si. Come in. I get her.”
After opening the grand entry door, the tiny woman gestured him inside. The foyer was the epitome of posh elegance with its dark wood paneling off-set by chair rails. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling and twinkled beneath the rays of an afternoon sun. Once he finished gaping, he was led through an open pocket door into a small room done in the same shade of paneling with built-in shelves from floor to ceiling. Az had an immediate picture of old books interspersed with crystal vases and ceramic pots.
Before coming out here, his lone goal being to get a good look around the place so he could carry out his primary assignment.
He never counted on falling in love.
* * *
It took a few moments for Maddy to interpret Corazon Rivera's babbled summons. After a few stops and starts she finally understood a devilishly good looking man was in the west salon, flowers in hand, wanting to speak with her.
Grabbing the cane which Suzie, Lou and Cori insisted she use until her injuries healed, Maddy limped her way from the make-shift kitchen, past the east salon which she planned to turn into guest dining room and crossed the foyer. In terms of recovery, she'd made good progress. The swelling was down in her face but the bruising was even more vivid now. Healthy doses of muscle relaxants helped her sleep at night and long morning soaks in one of the tubs on the second floor helped to keep Maddy on her feet during the days. As Doctor Cranston reminded her at a recent follow-up visit, it would take time.
If she hoped to welcome the first guests by August first, time was on her short list.
The man who stood in her salon, wearing a look that bordered on rapture for the stained glass window on the west wall, was a picture in and of himself. It pleased her that he appreciated the multiple shades of burgundy and red that burst to life beneath the rays of a late afternoon sun. If the B and B was to succeed, it required comfortable, appealing accommodations, including handicapped accessible rooms on the first floor to the theme-based suites on the second. If her visitor's obvious appreciation of the west salon was any judge, she'd made the grade here.
“Mr. Hanson. Welcome to White Pine Lodge.”
He backed up a couple steps, then turned to face her. And smiled. For the first time in her life, Maddy understood the true meaning of el demonio negro.
With thick, jet black hair that hinted at curls if it grew long enough, deeply tanned skin offset by steel blue eyes and dimples, the man packed a punch. “How are you feeling?” His voice double-downed the wallop of that smile.
Always wary in the presence of a great looking guy, she shifted her weight on the cane. “Better every day, thanks.”
He came forward, potted plant in hand. “This is for you. Kind of a Welcome to the Hood gift, also a mea culpa for the idiotic comment I made in the ER.”
Maddy stared at the potted flowers. The different hues of pink streaking the petals contrasted beautifully with the dark green leaves and vibrant cobalt blue of the ceramic pot. It would look terrific in the kitchen that Lou and Suzie were planning at this very moment, arguing the merits of marble over granite counter tops and the value of purchasing high-end appliances now or waiting until the B and B was established and bringing in the reservations. All discussions, of course, depended on what the contractor had to say.
Should one ever return her calls.
“I … thank you. They are lovely.”
“It's an azalea. This one is called the Hot Pink Lady.”
Something he'd said that day in the ER jogged her brain. “Hanson Scapes.”
Beneath a worn corduroy blazer, he shrugged an impressive pair of shoulders. “My dad died about a year ago. I came back to Serenity Harbor to help my mother run the business. My brothers handle the home dec and rehab side of things.”
“Home dec and rehab, you say?” she asked, gesturing for him to sit.
Doubt creased his sculpted features as he looked at the pile of crates and boxes stacked around the cramped room. “You sure?”
“New floor tiles for the kitchen and first floor baths. Believe me, a rhino could park on these crates and not do any damage.”
“Thanks, I will.”
“You like the stained glass?”
“More than like. It's magnificent.”
“My grandmother made regular trips to Europe, focusing on one country with each visit and spent weeks hunting down artisan crafts to bring back home. Stained glass was only one of her passions. I hope to honor her by using as many of her things as possible.”
He grinned. “So is it going to be a bordello?”
She couldn't help but bristle at the question. In the past weeks, while making stops at various shops and stores around Serenity Harbor, no one, not one single person, had asked specific questions about her plans to rehab the mansion. Neither had they been particularly welcoming for that matter. So much the hospitality Mainers were known for.
“Is that the rumor?”
“One of several, I'm afraid.” He shifted position on the crate, winced when it gave out a groan. “Your friends have made quite an impression on the local shop keepers.”
Refusing to add fuel to the rumor fire, Maddy smiled. “I bet they have.” She rubbed both palms down her aching thighs and took a deep breath. “You run a landscape business with a home rehab component.”
“Actually, I'm a general contractor. I'm at Hanson Scapes to give my mother support during high season.”
“Are you licensed?”
“It's required by the State of Maine.”
“How long have you been a contractor?”
“On and off for twelve years.”
“I've placed calls to local builders and contractors, requesting estimates on repairs and updates but no one has returned my calls. I'm getting a little frustrated.”
“I'm the only game in town right now. There were others but they've relocated to other parts of the state or folded for lack of work.”
A simple explanation for the lack of response to her calls. “Can you furnish references?”
“For the contracting end of things, sure. For the rest, you'd have to talk to one of the boys.”
“The boys?”
“My brothers, Uri and Brack. Identical twins. The family calls them 'the boys'.”
“Which one should I speak with?”
“That'd be Uri.”
Craning his neck, he made a business of visually checking out the ceiling. She watched his focus move down the paneled walls to the hardwood floors. “They'd love to give this place a shot,” he said. “The rest of the rooms, what kind of shape are they in?”
“My grandmother made sure someone came in at least twice a year to assess for damage and take care of repairs. With the right contractor, and the designer I already have on board, I'm convinced it can be turned back into a showplace.”
“Any problems with vandalism? It's common knowledge the place has been empty the last few years.”
“A brand name security company wired the building from top to bottom, including perimeter and motion activated cameras. I'm sure if anyone tried something they learned fast not to do it again.”
Welcome to Serenity Harbor Page 7
