“Thanks,” she said stiffly, “but I’ll just bed down here. I left some blankets in the living room from the last night I spent on the floor. I’ll be all right.”
“Whatever you like.” Rowan as equally polite. “I just hope the rest of the ceilings aren’t loose.”
He poked around at them until Clancey was so nervous she was ready to scream, then announced that everything looked safe enough for the moment and departed. It was much later before she had calmed down enough to settle into her makeshift bed. Even then, she didn’t fall asleep quickly. The memory of that crushing load of falling plaster played itself over and over in her head every time she shut her eyes.
And when she did manage to banish that image, she found her face burning at the memory of how she’d thrown herself into Rowan’s arms and pressed against him and let him stroke her like a lover.
It was guilt. That was what was nagging at her, she decided finally. She felt guilty for acting that way with a married man.
It was stupid, of course, to be feeling any such thing. She’d been in shock, and his actions had — mostly — been in the nature of a rescue. She certainly hadn’t flung herself at him on purpose, and she’d never do it again, even if she wanted to, which of course she didn’t.
Guilt. What an insane thing to be feeling!
*****
Clancey didn’t understand why fate should have suddenly turned against her, but that was what seemed to be happening. On Monday morning when she opened the registration barrel and drew a name for the winner of the grand-opening prize, she pulled out the card that said Kaye McKenna. Before she could stop herself, she swore a streak that made Eileen look respectful and then curious.
It was the curiosity that made Clancey halt mid-word. It was ridiculous to be upset over something so unimportant, she told herself. So what if she had spent a few minutes huddled in Rowan’s arms? No one could begrudge her that, after the close escape she’d had. As she’d told herself a hundred times last night, she had nothing to feel guilty about.
“You could just draw another name,” Eileen suggested.
Clancey dialed the telephone number before Eileen could pursue the matter, and invited Kaye to come for tea late that afternoon to collect her prize.
Eileen was watching her speculatively when she put the telephone down. “She’s coming?”
“Are you surprised? If I wasn’t being polite, I’d say the invitation was snapped up with unladylike haste.”
“Well, that should make it easier to exploit the situation.”
Clancey blinked in astonishment. “What do you mean? I happened to draw her registration card, that’s all. I’m not exploiting—”
“Not that I’d blame you if you had rigged the winner. But it didn’t take you long to see the advantages, did it? You’re hoping that when Kaye McKenna sees that hole in the ceiling she’ll start to wonder what else is wrong with this house, and maybe she’ll decide she doesn’t want to touch the place, after all. And then you’ll get to finish out your lease. Right?”
Clancey hadn’t thought that far ahead, as a matter of fact. But as soon as she stopped marveling over Eileen’s Machiavellian turn of mind, she began to wonder if Eileen might be right. This whole thing could possibly work to her advantage.
She hadn’t swept up the pile of fallen plaster in her bedroom. Now that the dust had settled, the sight was even more daunting than it had been last night. A network of cracks spread like a massive spider web across the remaining plaster, and huge chunks sagged at the edges of the hole, defying gravity—at least for the moment.
Kaye McKenna would have to possess nerves of steel to look at that mess without qualms. And if she was to change her mind about the house...
Clancey was actually smiling when she answered the front door a half hour after closing time. Her first sight of Kaye McKenna added to her rather guilty satisfaction; the blonde was wearing a slacks suit in a nubby dark green fabric that would be a perfect magnet for plaster dust.
“Am I too early?” she asked, eyeing Clancey’s apron.
“Not at all. If you don’t mind waiting for the kettle to boil, that is. I had a customer right at closing time.”
Kaye smiled. “May I help?”
Translated, Clancey thought, that simply meant she couldn’t wait to see the rest of the house.
She led the way to the kitchen and rescued a pan of cookies from the oven just moments before they would have started to burn. “Does that happen often?” Kaye asked. “The last-minute customer, I mean.”
Clancey made a face. “Often enough. If it was just ordinary things I wouldn’t mind, but generally it’s a parent who put off buying a birthday present for his kid until fifteen minutes before the party starts, and now he needs the world’s most perfect toy. It’s going to be the worst part of living here, too. I had no idea how many people were pounding on my door after closing hours.”
“Because you weren’t there to hear them.”
“Exactly. Now some people assume that I’m always open for business.” Clancey began to set a tray with delicate china. “I thought perhaps you’d bring the baby.”
“I decided it would be better not to bring him into the construction zone. So his father is showing him off to his clients this afternoon.” Kaye sounded a little rueful. “That must be the original kitchen range, don’t you think?”
“I imagine so. It works fine, too, which is more than can be said for the one in the upstairs kitchen. Feel free to look around all you like, Mrs. McKenna.”
“Oh, call me Kaye, please. And thank you. I love to poke around old houses.”
Especially this one, Clancey thought.
“I’ll be careful of the ceilings, though. That must have been quite a surprise for you last night.”
Clancey stopped arranging napkins and teacups. Kaye sounded very calm about it. She reminded herself it was easy to underestimate a mess one hadn’t yet seen.
As she led the way up the main stairs to the hexagonal landing, she noticed that Kaye rubbed a loving hand over the stair rail.
“That banister is probably filthy,” Clancey warned. “I haven’t had a chance to clean anything, and the way the dust billowed up last night it probably didn’t miss a corner.” She jerked her head toward the open bedroom door, not surprised when Kaye immediately went over to look in.
Clancey took her time arranging the tray on the low table by the windows overlooking the porch roof. She wasn’t certain what she was waiting for — an exclamation of shock, perhaps, followed by silent, wide-eyed abhorrence as the woman realized the extent of the damage.
If so, she was disappointed. Kaye turned away from the door and came to seat herself on a low chair. “It’s fortunate you hadn’t gone to bed yet,” she said calmly. “How are you going to manage now?”
The woman was inhuman, Clancey thought, before remembering that if Kaye McKenna specialized in old houses, this must not be the first fallen ceiling she’d ever seen. Or was the woman simply pretending serenity?
If that was so, the best response was surely to put on a calm act of her own. Clancey picked up the teapot and shrugged. “I don’t know. Fortunately I haven’t yet had the time to get truly organized, so most of my clean clothes were still in the living room. Milk and sugar in your tea?”
“Just lemon. This house would certainly make an interesting exhibit for the Christmas tour, wouldn’t it?”
She’s fishing, Clancey told herself. Seeing if I’m going to make a fool of myself. “I hardly think it’s suitable for touring, in this condition.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. People could see the kind of work really involved in restoration. Most of the houses on the tour are finished now, so all that’s visible is the beauty, not the effort it took to get there.”
“So visitors don’t understand all that goes into the job,” Clancey said. “I can certainly appreciate that point of view. If I’d known what I was getting into—” She bit her tongue. That wasn’t quite what she’d i
ntended to say.
Kaye reached for a cookie. “I understand you’re concerned about being outside the historical district, but we’re working on getting that changed. We’d like to see the preservation zone expanded so it takes in the entire neighborhood, right to the edge of the commercial section.” She set her cup down and leaned forward confidentially. “Having you on the Christmas tour would be a great argument.”
And it would help get the zoning change made before you move in, Clancey thought. She couldn’t blame the woman for trying. She might have done the same thing, if she were in Kaye McKenna’s shoes. “I’d like to help, but...”
Kaye seized on the hesitation. “How about putting out petitions asking for the expansion, and thinking about the tour?”
It was a good cause, Clancey reminded herself. For the sake of the house — all the houses in the neighborhood — she could put aside her usual reluctance to get involved in anything even vaguely political. “I’ll help with petitions. But not the tour, since I’m really only going to be here a short while.”
The sound of a fist hammering on the front door echoed up the stairs. Clancey thought about ignoring it, but knew that wouldn’t be possible for long. Besides, it provided a graceful way to change the subject. “You see?” she said ruefully. “There’s another one.”
Couldn’t people read? she thought fretfully as she ran down the stairs. Small World’s hours were quite clearly posted right next to the door.
But of course the man who was knocking wasn’t concerned about her business hours. “Haven’t you gotten the doorbell fixed yet?” Rowan asked.
“No. It’s on the outside of the house.”
“Only the button. All the wires and connections and transformers and noisemakers, on the other hand, are—”
“I like my privacy. When there’s no doorbell, most people give up and go away.”
“Well, perhaps there’s a better answer.”
“What?” Clancey said dryly, eyeing the iron bar balanced across his shoulder. “The pry bar you’re carrying? What project have you got in mind today, anyway?”
He imitated a fencer’s pose, wielding the pry bar like a rapier. “Just call me the defender of a maiden’s right to uninterrupted sleep in her own bed.”
Clancey retreated a few steps, out of the pry bar’s range. “I’ll bet,” she muttered.
Rowan paused at the top of the stairs, casting a surprised look at her guest. “Hello, Kaye. What are you doing here? Where’s the world’s most wonderful baby? I’ll have to get over to see him again soon.”
“Yes, you must,” Kaye murmured. “He’s growing in a hurry.”
Clancey’s head had started to spin like an off-balance top. Kaye had said he was taking care of the baby — showing him off to clients, wasn’t that the way she’d phrased it? Had he managed to misplace the child? But wait. If he hadn’t even seen the baby lately—
Then she remembered. Which McKenna?, Hank Gleason had asked suspiciously over lunch the day they’d discussed lawsuits and injunctions. Clancey hadn’t paid any attention to the implications of the question then. She’d only been interested in finding out something — anything — about Rowan. She hadn’t even registered the fact that there might be another man who carried the name. It hadn’t been important.
And it wasn’t important now, either, except that it was nice to have the confusion cleared up before she made a fool of herself. At least she didn’t have to feel guilty anymore about throwing herself in his arms. That was a great relief.
“About the Christmas tour,” Kaye said.
Clancey blinked and tried to pull herself together. Rowan had vanished into the adjacent bedroom; she could hear him whistling.
“If you change your mind, Clancey, just call me. Even if it’s the last minute. We really need new places, or people will get tired of the tour and stop coming back. Besides, it’s lots of fun.”
From Clancey’s bedroom came the sound of ripping plaster followed by a voice. “She’s only saying that because she’s in charge of getting new guinea pigs, Clancey.”
Kaye smiled. “Well — perhaps there is some truth to that,” she conceded. “But it’s not so much work, really. My house has been on the tour for years, in all phases of restoration, and—”
The voice added, “It only seems like years, Kaye.”
Kaye looked heavenward and said, very clearly, “Personally, I think Rowan only bought this house because ours is done, and he couldn’t stand losing the outlet for all his destructive instincts.”
Rowan’s head appeared around the corner of the door, his hair and eyebrows liberally coated with white dust. “Just when did you turn into Sigmund Freud, my dear?”
Kaye sighed. “When I first got married, I actually thought it was a bonus to acquire a whole family of brothers,” she mused. “Foolish me.”
“A whole — how many are there?” Clancey asked tentatively.
“There are four of them,” Kaye said darkly. “Now, of course, I wonder how their sister managed to grow up sane.”
“Who says she did?” asked the voice from the bedroom.
Kaye stood. “You’ll have to come visit me, Clancey. We obviously can’t talk seriously this afternoon with him around.” She jerked her head toward the door.
As they went downstairs, Clancey couldn’t help noticing how the soft autumn sunlight crept through the beveled glass, highlighting the swirling dust particles. It felt as if she was caught in one of the paperweights that created a snowstorm when it was shaken. It would have been fun, except that she knew these tiny particles would creep into every toy and have to be wiped off every box and shelf.
She wasn’t aware of sighing until Kaye gave her a sympathetic smile.
“It’s not so bad, really,” Kaye said. “Of course it would have helped if you’d been able to seal that room off and confine the dust, but these things happen. It’s called the mushroom factor, you know — every project, even a small one, mushrooms until it takes in the entire house. Once you’ve been through it a few times, you learn to expect it.”
Clancey smiled a little in return. This was obviously the voice of experience. She wondered if that philosophy was what was keeping Rowan whistling as he worked.
The mushroom factor seemed to be operating in her entire life these days, she found herself thinking after Kaye left. Everything had gone out of control, and no matter what she tried she didn’t seem to be able to get things back in hand. Even her silly attempt to discourage Kaye from wanting the house had gone out of whack – just another ill-fated project. It would take a lot more than a fallen ceiling to discourage Kaye McKenna, that was sure.
Rowan was a pushover, in comparison.
Clancey wondered if he was beginning to feel the same way she was — that the house was taking over his life. He might be able to logically explain the collapse of the ceiling, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated it. And despite his cheerful whistle a few minutes ago as he attacked the mess, he couldn’t be wholeheartedly enjoying the situation, either.
She felt some sympathy for Rowan, when she stopped to think about it. He seemed to be getting stuck with the work, without any of the rewards. She wondered if his enthusiasm for the whole project might be beginning to wear thin. If it was...
She thought about it for a long time, and came to two conclusions: first, that Rowan wouldn’t give up on anything as long as he felt that to do so would be admitting defeat, and second, that no matter what was going on in his mind just now, being pleasant to him certainly couldn’t hurt her cause. And it just might help.
*****
She baked another pan of cookies, making sure that they were browned just right on the edges but were still ever-so-slightly chewy in the center. Then she took a plateful and a fresh pot of tea upstairs and placed them safely on the table in the landing.
The bedroom door was closed. At least he was trying to cut down on the mess that filtered into the rest of the house, she thought. That was nice of him.
<
br /> There was no answer when she knocked, so she pushed the door open cautiously, fearful of tripping over him if he happened to be right inside. But Rowan was in the far corner of the room. He looked over his shoulder, obviously surprised to see her.
He was wearing a filtration mask over his nose and mouth, and powdery grayish white dust had caked his hair and eyebrows and coated his skin with an unnatural pallor.
“That’s a great Halloween costume,” Clancey said. “You’re an octogenarian in an oxygen mask, right? All you need is a little plastic tubing and a hospital gown to complete the effect.”
The Unexpected Landlord Page 7
