The lettering read “Buchert Construction.” Ed’s old company.
One of Dad’s workers must have dropped it when they’d worked on the Castle, April thought. What a find after all these years. She pocketed it. April felt her heart lighten. She would surprise her father with it, later, after this had all blown over. He’d get a kick out of it, she was sure. Maybe she’d go to Boscov’s and get him a belt to go with it.
“Hold on,” Mitch yelled. He was panting, running to catch up with her. “I’ve got an idea on how we can repair the mural. If we fix it, Aunt Barbara will be okay. The only thing she cares about is that silly mural. If it’s not ruined, she’ll be cool.”
“Fix it? How?” April said. “Believe me, it’s beyond help.”
“Come on. Trust me,” Mitch said, nudging her off the path, onto a smaller trail that was headed into the woods to the north of the mansion. The Castle was to the east.
April planted her feet on the dusty trail. “Why should I?”
Mitch said, “You can’t do this to Ed. Not without trying to fix it first.”
She stopped. Her father’s face, devastated from the news, came into her mind’s eye. “How?” she asked.
“I know an artist. She’ll know what to do.”
He was right. She had to try.
“Where is she? Is it far?” she asked. She was torn between the comfort of putting off telling Ed and the need to get it over with.
Mitch shook his head. “Nope, right up the hill. If she can’t help, you can go tell your father. Right now, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. From what I’ve seen of your dad, ignorance is bliss.”
That was true. Right now, her father had no idea that he’d lost the Mirabella job. If she redeemed herself in Mrs. H.’s eyes, she wouldn’t ever have to tell him. Ten years from now, they could have a good laugh. Gee, Dad, it was so funny. Mrs. H. tried to throw us off that job. It would be a memory about that summer they worked together. Before she went on to New York, and fame and fortune.
Mitch said, “I’m guaranteeing that she will be able to help.”
April felt a glimmer of hope. And with that came the overwhelming sense that she could do nothing right. She felt tears sting the back of her eyes.
Mitch slowed. He looked at her closely. “You okay?” he finally asked.
His kind, caring tone caught her by surprise and released the tears. To her horror, she felt a sob catch in her throat. She turned away, but he patted her shoulder awkwardly. She felt herself lean his way, his warmth attracting her like a moth to a flame. She hadn’t been held by a man in forever. She’d been angry with Ken for so long that being close to him hadn’t been an option. The need to be held took her by surprise.
When he pulled her in, the tears came freely. April was mortified, but each time she started to move away from him, the waterworks began again. The tussle with Mrs. H., the uncertainty of her job situation, the cross-country flight from her husband, all the frustration of the last few days came pouring out of her. Finally she stopped and leaned back on an oak tree. She pressed on her forehead with the heel of her hand. She didn’t want to look at Mitch. She’d already allowed him to do too much for her.
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m ready to go,” April said. She straightened her spine. A stream bubbled nearby, probably the same one that went by the Castle. She knelt and splashed the icy cold water on her face. It stung but felt good. She didn’t look at Mitch but motioned for him to lead the way.
She followed Mitch across the stream and through a dense copse of ash trees. The sun dappled the ground. She longed to have a pencil and her sketchbook in her hands. She wanted to remember the patterns the sun was making on the forest floor. She wanted to create her own art, so different from the mural.
After a few minutes’ walk, Mitch moved a low-hanging branch out of the way and said, “We’re here.”
April looked through the canopy of trees. She ducked behind the nearest one. “Na-uh. This is the club. I don’t want to go in there. Your aunt is there.”
She recognized the low-slung, one-story building, the roofline interrupted by the blue and white striped awnings that sheltered the windows. The huge south lawn was the perfect site for a garden wedding.
Mitch was already heading up the slight hill, hands in his pockets. Could he be any more like Opie? If he started whistling, she was going to hit him.
She hissed at him from her hiding place behind the tree. “The club? Why are we here?”
Mitch stopped and looked back as though surprised she hadn’t moved. He took several steps back. “I told you I’d get you help. Well, help is inside.”
“I can’t go in there. I’m a mess.” She patted at her face and dragged her hand through her hair. Her clothes smelled of lemon, and her T-shirt and jeans were wrinkled and stained. She knew her face would be red from crying despite the stop at the stream.
Mitch looked at her. “You don’t look any worse than most of the teenagers that come here in their ripped jeans and holey T-shirts. Your pants could pass for that designer, whatsis, Losing My Religion.”
“It’s True Religion, dork.”
Mitch reared back at her insult, then laughed. She smiled despite her misgivings. The insult had just come out. She wiped her face on her sleeve and tucked in her T-shirt.
“It’ll be fine,” Mitch said. His deep-rooted sense of belonging would not allow him to believe she might be unwelcome. “Besides, you’ll be with me. The dork.”
April still hesitated. Mrs. H. was on that golf course somewhere. The last person she wanted to see.
But Mitch was already moving quickly on a slate path she knew led to the front entrance. If they were going in there, they’d do have to do it her way.
“Hang on,” she said, catching up to him. “Follow me.” She’d explored every inch of this place as a kid. She could show him some places he’d never been before.
She steered him away from the main entrance, through a nondescript side door that led to a dark storeroom. She paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Weird shapes began to coalesce into recognizable objects. A row of portable gas heaters were lined up, ready to warm the outdoor patios. A forest of Christmas trees, with the lights already strung, leaned in a corner. She saw a scarecrow, a disco ball. Everything needed to turn the club into a winter wonderland or a haunted house or the June bride’s fantasy.
Mitch said over her shoulder, “You told me you used to come here as a kid. I didn’t realize you meant backstage.”
“You’re about to find out what makes the club run so smoothly.”
She shuddered as she felt his warm breath on her neck. She walked faster, eyes adjusted now so she could make out a clear path.
She said, “I was here all the time. They let me use the pool because my mom worked in the kitchen. Still does. Now she’s the head chef.”
“Oh man, the food is the best. That’s your mom? When I was a kid, I would have starved without the club. My mother was a terrible cook.”
She wasn’t about to admit it to Mitch, but her attitude toward her mother’s employment at the club had been ever changing. The fact that her mother worked for the country club had been a source of pride when she was a little kid, then embarrassment in her early teens. Torture by the time Ed had left home. She was ashamed to admit to him how often she’d ignored her mother when she’d been here.
She opened a door at the far end of the room. April heard the rattling of dishes. She stopped to make sure the coast was clear. Dinner prep would be in full swing, and she knew better than to get in a prep cook’s way.
“Stand close to me,” she whispered, and Mitch obliged. Holding on to her waist, he was too close, but she couldn’t object.
She waited as someone whizzed past, carrying a pan of sizzling butter. She motioned Mitch to move forward. They looked through the round window in the door together. April ducked as her mother strode past and into the walk-in. Now was the time to move.
April thought for a moment. “Where do we need to be?”
“Get us to the restaurant.”
April conjured up the layout. Just beyond the walk-in refrigerator was a small butler’s pantry. The pantry held all the dishes and glasses needed for service. From the other end, it was accessible to the bar. The bar was in The Greens, the restaurant that overlooked the eighteenth hole.
“Follow me,” April said.
“Lead on, Nancy Drew. I haven’t had this much fun since I helped my date for the winter formal find an ear-ring in the cloakroom. Turned out she’d dropped it into her bra.”
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” she hissed. “My dad’s about to lose his business, and my mother won’t appreciate me barreling through her workplace.”
April ignored the looks of the cooks who were chopping vegetables and chattering in Spanish. She kept an eye on the door. There was no way of knowing if Bonnie would be in there for one minute or ten, gathering up the produce and protein she needed for tonight’s menu. Her heart was pounding, but Mitch was right. This was fun. She pulled him into the butler’s pantry just as the door to the refrigerator opened. She stopped, breathing hard, leaning on a shelving unit full of glassware of all shapes and sizes.
“Hey, look at this,” Mitch said, grabbing a wooden bowl off a high shelf. “This is Brazilian hardwood. Zebra wood. Completely extinct.”
“Put it down,” April said. “Let’s get out of here before one of the staff decides they need a soup tureen or highball glass.”
“Where’s this door lead?” Mitch said, moving in front of her and pulling it open.
April jumped back. A startled bartender took a step away from them. He’d been filling a glass with soda and held the nozzle up, ready to shoot.
Mitch flung an arm over her chest, as if she were his passenger and he’d had to stop short. She stumbled and he caught her.
“Idiot,” April said. “The other door leads to the hallway. We would have been home free.”
“Oops,” he said. There was no turning back. He leaned in and smiled at the bartender. The bartender lowered the soda trigger and smiled. To her amazement, he turned away and placed the drink in front of the customer at the far end of the bar.
She looked to Mitch for an explanation.
“What?” he said. “The bartenders around here are used to far weirder behavior, believe me. That’s what big tips are for—to encourage memory loss.”
They hustled through the bar, ignoring the stares of the patrons, mostly middle-aged women drinking Trix-colored drinks. April pretended that if she didn’t look at them, they couldn’t see her. Mitch kept his smile pasted on.
They were across the restaurant in a few short strides. He threw open the French doors that led onto a wooden deck overlooking the tee. Large trees shaded the lush grounds. Rhododendrons and azaleas dotted a water hazard, their color the only break in the expanse of green. A flag, designating the hole as number eighteen, snapped in the wind. A bevy of golf carts sat under a wooden portico. Mitch jumped into one and started the engine. An attendant in a blue vest started toward him, but Mitch waved him off.
“Get in,” he said to April. “He’s going to call the ranger. We’ve got to move fast. Golfers don’t like extra people on their fairway.”
“What are you doing?” April hissed. She was still in the doorway. The young man in charge of carts looked unhappy. “Not the golf course,” she pleaded.
Mitch grinned and pulled up to her. “My expert is on the fifteenth green. She’s got a putt to sink and then we can talk to her.”
April sat down, and he took off with too much force. She clutched the side and heard herself gasp as they bounced down the paved path.
Luckily, after the abrupt start, the golf cart wouldn’t go more than ten miles an hour. April’s breathing steadied, and the breeze cooled her skin. She felt the tension in her belly ease as they moved away from the club. Then her stomach retightened at the sight of a fringe-topped golf cart. She shaded her eyes from the late-afternoon sun and saw that the fringe was not yellow. This better not take too long. Mrs. H. was on this golf course somewhere.
“Where’s the third hole from here? Mrs. H. had been on the third hole when she came in and fired me,” April said. “I don’t want to go anywhere near there.”
Mitch flapped his hand in the direction to his left. “Way over there. She’s like a mile away. Don’t worry.”
Mitch steered around a curve, then braked suddenly. April managed to keep her balance, but barely, her butt leaving the seat. She braced her feet on the floor.
April looked for the cause of the abrupt stop, expecting to see a squirrel or possum in the path. Instead, twenty feet ahead, Rocky was standing alongside a cart, putting her putter in a golden leather golf bag. She pulled out a driver. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that was threaded through the back of her navy visor. Her long tan legs looked great in the crisp white skort. A tan like that in June meant winter vacations somewhere tropical.
“There she is,” Mitch said, pleased with himself.
April asked, “That’s your expert? I know her. That’s Rocky.”
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Rocky is a painter. A very good painter.”
April protested. “She told me she was a collage artist.”
“She does that to make a living. But she is a serious artist. Very serious. Studied at the Sorbonne, spent a year in Venice, the whole enchilada.”
The whole enchilada that had not been available to April. She’d worked her way through San Francisco State, taking six years so she could work part-time and minimize her student loans.
She swallowed her resentment. Chances were Rocky knew more about paints than she did. Besides, what choice did she have? She had to fix the mural today. “Lead on,” she said.
Mitch let the cart drift until he was just about touching Rocky’s foot.
“Nice, bro. Back it up,” she said, giving the cart a push on the hood with her golf shoe, her long legs graceful. She looked at April significantly, glancing at Mitch and back at April. April rolled her eyes. Did this count as some sort of tryst?
Mitch dutifully put it in reverse and moved back several inches. He jumped out of the cart. April followed. Another cart was parked in front of Rocky’s on the asphalt cart path. Next to the cart, three golfers huddled over a scorecard. April recognized them as the stampers Piper, Mary Lou and Tammy. They waved to April and Mitch.
“I got a six on that hole,” Piper said. She was dressed in faded plaid shorts and a white polo trimmed in matching madras.
“If you’re counting by twos,” Rocky put in, leaning on her club. “You took at least twelve strokes. Of course after three Long Island iced teas, I’m sure you’re seeing double.”
Piper scowled. “Why do you have the last word on the score?”
“Hey, Mitch. Hi, April,” Mary Lou called. She wore a shirt and ball cap that advertised her business, Rosen Realty. She waved them over. They returned the waves but didn’t move any closer. April didn’t have time for niceties. Mrs. H.’s golf cart might turn the corner at any moment. April’s scalp tingled as though she sensed the woman’s presence. She didn’t want to see her until she had repaired the damage she’d done to her wall.
Mary Lou said, “Rocky, I think you’re going to win longest drive today.”
Rocky shrugged, her competency not an issue. April was sure she was good at everything she tried. She felt a ray of hope. Maybe her talents extended to fixing wall murals.
“What’s the art emergency?” Rocky said, keeping her tone light.
April was grateful for her interest. She gave Rocky the lowdown on what she’d done to the wall and how the paint had reacted. As she listened, Rocky moved her club in a small arc, clipping the grass under her feet. The stampers remained at the other cart, still huddled over the scorecard.
“Are we talking about that horrible mural in the dining room? Was there still color on the wall?” Rocky asked.
&nb
sp; April nodded and said, “The shoe seemed to change from brown to a mustardy color.”
Rocky took a full swing, her bracelet jangling. She held her follow-through, arms in the air, watching her imaginary shot. April felt the breeze as the club’s trajectory ruffled the air, uncomfortably close. She backed away.
“Mustard, huh?” Rocky said. “You’re screwed.”
April blanched, and Mitch said, “Come on, Rocky. You must know something she can do.”
Rocky leaned on her club. “My advice is to paint over it. Black.”
“Not helping,” Mitch said, his big-brother tone a clue for her to get serious.
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