by Hope Ramsay
“What’s up?” Courtney asked as she settled into one of the small side chairs. “If this is about Allison Chapman and the nasty things she said about Antonin’s canapés, I can explain.”
Willow chuckled and tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I heard all about it from Antonin, but I’m not worried. Allison is the worst bridezilla we’ve had in quite some time. And I know how emotional Antonin can get about his canapés.”
“Okay. Glad to hear that Antonin’s pride has not been mortally wounded.”
Willow folded her hands in front of her, and for an instant, she looked the tiniest bit uncomfortable. This was strange because Willow never showed any weakness. She tended to square her shoulders and sit up straight in her chair when she was negotiating. And the woman had a take-no-crap attitude about a lot of things.
Something was up. Courtney’s pulse went into overdrive. She’d be upset if Eagle Hill Manor closed, or if Willow sold it or something like that. She had no reason to believe anything was amiss with operations, but Courtney didn’t know much about finances, except that even healthy-looking businesses could have balance-sheet issues.
Courtney leaned forward in her chair, bracing her elbows on the arms. “Okay, spit it out. We’re about to get fired, right?”
Amy squirmed in her chair, and Willow cocked her head. A slow smile spread across her face. “Courtney, you are such a drama queen sometimes.”
“Okay, so what’s up?”
“How would you like to become the chief operating officer of Eagle Hill Manor?”
“What?” Courtney’s mouth fell open.
“I need to back off a little bit,” Willow said. “And you know more about this business than anyone else. I could hire someone from the outside, or I could promote from within. So, what do you say?”
Willow turned toward Amy. “If Courtney takes the job, that means you become the director of special events.”
“What? No.” Amy shook her head. “Um…Ah…Willow, I’m flattered, but I was about to come talk to you about resigning.” Amy rolled her dark eyes in Courtney’s direction, and Courtney’s pulse redlined. What the hell was happening?
“You want to resign?” Willow’s eyebrows arched.
“Um. Okay, I wasn’t going to tell you this until I told Dad, so you’re officially sworn to secrecy. But the thing is…I’m pregnant. And between Eagle Hill Manor and Dusty’s new ecotourism business, it’s like I’m working two jobs. I love working here, but Dusty needs me. Shenandoah River Guides will be opening in September. I’m only planning to work through August.”
“Oh my God. Really? I’m pregnant too. When are you due? I’m due on November seventh.”
“No. Really? I’m due October twenty-ninth.”
“They’ll be cousins. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Amy and Willow jumped up and proceeded to happy dance around the small office while a toxic dose of envy spilled through Courtney’s blood stream. When would it be her turn? All these years fending off Mr. Wrong while she waited for Mr. Right had left her with a biological clock ticking away like a time bomb.
She ought to be thrilled with this promotion, even if it meant she had to find another assistant. She ought to be thrilled for Willow, knowing that at thirty-six her biological clock was ticking too.
But instead, a hollow place opened in the middle of her chest and a lump formed in her throat that she had to swallow down.
Maybe it was time to give up on the idea of Mr. Right. Maybe it was time to embrace spinsterhood and get a cat.
Dogwood Estates, a forty-unit walk-up apartment development five miles south of Shenandoah Falls, didn’t have a single dogwood tree. In fact, its landscaping was nonexistent except for weeds edging the blacktop parking lot and the squat junipers that blocked the first-floor apartment windows. The redbrick building exemplified the worst of boxy, mid-century architecture, and now the signs of neglect were everywhere.
The dirty white shutters, rusting balcony railings, and unkempt trash Dumpster explained why the Dogwood Estates Tenants Association had been paying rent into a legal escrow account for the last two months.
“Leslie Heath’s apartment is down here,” Arwen said as she got out of Matt’s Acura. The two of them had given up an evening in order to meet with their client about their dispute with Scott Anderson, the deadbeat who owned Dogwood Estates.
Arwen had briefed Matt on the tenants’ grievances. The complex’s roof had been leaking for months, setting off a mold issue for many of the tenants living on the third floor. The trash area was not secure and had drawn raccoons and other wildlife, including a black bear that had required a visit from Jefferson County Animal Control. One deep breath and Matt could confirm that the trash was in open containers. The place stank.
Dogwood Estates was a dump. Anyone with other options would have moved out a long time ago.
Matt ground his teeth and followed Arwen down the weed-choked sidewalk and up a rusty metal stairway to a second-floor apartment. As she knocked on the door, a familiar guilt unfurled inside Matt like a pennant in the wind.
But for the grace of God, he might have grown up in a place like this. An undeserved twist of fate had made him a member of one of America’s oldest families. He didn’t deserve to be so lucky. And the members of the tenants association deserved better than an inexperienced lawyer with an impressive family name.
Heaven help them.
Of course he wouldn’t show any of his doubts. If he’d learned anything growing up as a Lyndon, it was never to show weakness. He would approach this meeting the way he approached women, with confidence and the sure knowledge that the best players strike out two-thirds of the time. But they deserved better.
The door opened to reveal a tall, sixtysomething woman with feathery white hair that framed a surprisingly youthful face. A pair of wide hazel eyes fringed with dark eyelashes studied Matt. A big smile widened her lipstick-bright mouth.
“Leslie, this is Matthew Lyndon. He’s LL&K’s new legal associate. He’s taking over Andrew’s cases.” Arwen gestured toward Matt.
Leslie Heath, the president of the Dogwood Estates Tenants Association, didn’t look poor or downtrodden or any other kind of stereotype that had been running through his mind a moment ago. In fact, her embroidered peasant shirt, big hoop earrings, and skinny jeans gave her a hip 1960s throwback look. She might be old enough to be a granny, but she was a beautiful woman.
“Y’all sure do have a lot of Lyndons in that law firm. Are you Andrew’s brother?” Leslie’s voice had the unmistakable twang of the West Virginia mountains in it.
“His cousin,” Matt said.
“Would that make you David’s brother?”
Matt shook his head. “No. David is also a cousin.”
“He’s Charles Lyndon’s son,” Arwen said. “So you guys are in good hands.”
Holy crap. Arwen, who knew all his failings and all the gaps in his knowledge, was one hell of a good liar. It surprised the heck out of him. So far, Arwen hadn’t failed to call him on his ignorance whenever he displayed it, which was often. Until that moment, Matt hadn’t thought Arwen was capable of lying.
“I’m glad to hear that, y’all. Living in this dump is getting old.”
“Well, I think we have some good news,” Matt said.
“Hallelujah, honey. Because it’s been nothing but bad news for months.” Leslie’s wide smile grew even wider as she stepped forward and took Matt by the crook of his arm and pulled him deeper into the apartment, which smelled of garlic and onions and other spices he couldn’t quite name. “Come on in, now, and get some refreshments. Delia’s made some of her pain patate, which in American is sweet potato and banana pudding. It tastes better than it sounds.”
Leslie ushered him into an L-shaped living/dining room dominated by a heavily used, brown leather sectional and a couple of blue recliners. The sliding doors to the balcony stood open, but with more than two dozen people jammed into the small space, Matt started to s
weat. Clearly, the air-conditioning wasn’t working correctly.
Leslie half pushed, half dragged him into the dining room, where she sliced a wedge of some kind of bread and put it on a pink paper plate with an image of Minnie Mouse. She handed him a purple plastic fork and a blue cocktail napkin imprinted with the words Baby Jessica, coming this fall. “Honestly, honey, you have to try Delia’s sweet potato pudding once in your life. It’s supposed to be a traditional Haitian dish.”
He suddenly felt like a candidate out on the campaign trail. Uncle Mark, a United States senator, had dozens of stories about the weird food he’d eaten during his campaigns. Matt gave Leslie one of his best smiles and cut a healthy chunk out of the bread. He popped it in his mouth.
He hated sweet potatoes. And the bread had a sweet potato taste that almost made him gag. But he swallowed it down. No sense in getting off on the wrong foot with these people. He wanted to succeed if for no other reason than to gain his father’s approval. Thank God Arwen pressed a plastic cup of cola into his hands. He was able to wash down the sweet potato bread before he hurled it back up.
“So, why don’t we call this meeting to order?” he asked, anxious to get the job over with.
Arwen gave him her patented Frown of Disapproval. “Don’t you want to meet everyone?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Matt once again found himself tugged around the room by a female. The Dogwood Estates tenants included single mothers, recent immigrants, and old folks. In short, the type of people without the income necessary to rent one of the newer apartments springing up all over Jefferson County. These folks were retirees, farm laborers, retail store clerks, and maids. Precisely the sort of people the rich folks in Jefferson County depended on. Leslie, he soon learned, was a widow living on her husband’s Social Security and supplementing that meager income with a part-time greeter’s job at the Walmart in Winchester.
When the introductions were finished, the tenants found places to sit or stand, and Matt stood facing them. “It’s very nice to meet all of you,” he said. “And I think I have good news to report. The complaint we lodged with the county has yielded some results. The building inspections office has fined Scott Anderson for the mold and garbage problems. I understand that the landlord was served notice on Monday of this week and a lien was placed on the property. So hopefully, this will light a fire under him.”
Matt wasn’t entirely sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but certainly it wasn’t the openmouthed horror that greeted his announcement.
The old guy sitting on the couch spoke first. Matt didn’t remember the man’s name, but he did remember that his wife had passed away a year ago. He was a tall, rail-thin man with a fringe of brown hair and a pair of deep-set blue eyes. His nose meandered a little, as if it had been broken once or twice, and he had a square jaw and rows of laugh lines bracketing his mouth, as if he’d gone through life with a smile on his face. But he wasn’t smiling now. “You think fining that bastard’s going to fix anything?” he asked in a low, smooth voice.
“It’s a start,” Matt replied.
The old guy shook his head. “You’re wet behind the ears, aren’t you, son? What do ya think these fines will do? You think Anderson will decide to fix up this place?” He shook his head. “No. Ain’t gonna happen. The landlord doesn’t have enough money to make the repairs. Fining him more money won’t change that.”
“Maybe it will induce him to sell the apartments to some other manager.”
Arwen’s Frown of Disapproval made another appearance. Damn. What had he done wrong?
“You really are stupid, aren’t you?” the old guy said. “If Scott Anderson sells this place to someone else, do you think the new developer’s gonna let these places stand?”
Matt stood there for a long moment, shifting his gaze over the faces of the tenants. The old guy was right. Matt was wet behind the ears. But he wasn’t stupid. He recognized the truth when someone shoved his nose in it.
“If the building inspector’s office is using fines to force people to sell out, that’s not right.”
“Damn straight it’s not,” the old guy said, pounding his knee with his fist.
“Sid, don’t get your blood pressure up,” Leslie said, giving the old guy a dewy-eyed look.
Matt suddenly remembered the old guy’s name. Sidney Miller. “Look, Mr. Miller, I hear what you’re saying. Let me see what I can find out, okay?”
“Whatever. It don’t matter; people like us get the shaft every time.” The guy leaned back onto the couch, his complexion slightly gray.
Sid Miller wasn’t well, and Matt had no intention of continuing their argument. Instead he straightened his shoulders and said, “Look, I promise you folks that I’ll do everything I possibly can to get these apartments fixed and to make sure you don’t lose your homes.”
It wasn’t until he finished his speech that he turned and noticed Arwen’s Frown of Disapproval, again.
What the hell? Did she expect him to stand there and tell them they should start packing? He decided, right then, that he’d find a way to help these people no matter what.
Chapter Four
Seriously, I think the world needs more love songs,” Arwen said as she piled crab dip onto a pita chip. She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, emitting a little groan of pleasure. It was Thursday-night happy hour at the Jaybird Café, and the drinks and appetizers were half-priced—a good thing because Courtney and Arwen needed self-medication.
“If the world needs more love songs, why do you write so many songs about heartbreak?” Courtney asked. Arwen had come directly from work and looked professional, preppy, and uptight in her J.Crew business suit.
“I’m just saying,” Arwen said as she scooped another mound of dip onto a chip, “when every popular song is about getting it on, it leads to unrealistic expectations.”
“Lyrics have nothing to do with it,” Courtney replied. “Guys are guys. They’re born with sex on the brain.”
“I concede that point. And I’ll concede that women like sex too. A lot. But our generation has taken a bad turn somewhere. We’ve substituted Netflix and chill for dinner and a movie. Where’s the romance?” Arwen loaded up another chip and pointed it at Courtney like a weapon. “Has anyone ever sent you flowers?”
Courtney paused, her Manhattan halfway to her mouth. “Damn. You’re right.” She proceeded to take a big gulp of her drink. “You know, that’s depressing. I mean, I’m freaking out because both my boss and my assistant are pregnant, and I haven’t even gotten to the stage where a guy likes me enough to send flowers.”
“That’s my point. No one sends flowers anymore, except to their mothers on Mother’s Day. Romance is dead in America.”
Courtney pulled the cherry out of her Manhattan and popped it into her mouth. The intense sweetness burst onto her tongue like a vivid memory of younger days. Right after her mother passed away, Daddy had started a tradition of Friday-night dinner “dates.” Friday became their special time together. She would never forget that night, a few weeks after Mom had died from leukemia, when he’d taken her to the Red Fern and ordered her a Shirley Temple cocktail. The taste of maraschino cherries would always remind her of Mommy who had died so young.
Arwen was right. Guys like her dad, who used to send Mom flowers all the time, no longer existed. “I should stop waiting around for Mr. Right.”
“Waiting around in what way?”
Arwen’s question startled Courtney. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just that we say that all the time, and when you parse it out, what does it mean? Why are we waiting? Is real life going to start when some guy arrives? Shouldn’t we concentrate on enjoying our lives now?” She helped herself to another pita chip smothered with crab dip and chewed with a thoughtful expression on her face.
Leave it to Arwen to get philosophical. Courtney leaned back in her chair, took another sip of her Manhattan, and cast her ga
ze over the usual Jaybird regulars: Juni Petersen, the Jaybird’s owner, dressed in a long, flowing India-print dress; Rory Ahearn, chatting up the ladies and flashing them his Irish smile; and Ryan Pierce, sitting at the end of the bar nursing a Coke, all of them single, all of them damaged in some way.
Damn. Half the people in the bar were waiting for something.
“Maybe I should find some guy with great genes and ask him to donate some sperm,” Courtney said, half in jest.
“Maybe you should get a cat.” Arwen’s eyebrows lowered in her signature look of disdain.
“I don’t want a cat. Getting a cat would be like, I don’t know, surrendering or something.”
“But do you want to be a single mother?”
Courtney shook her head. “No. It’s hard to believe, but I’d like to have the whole nine yards, you know: the doting husband, the three-bedroom house, the two kids. I suppose I could settle for somebody.” She cast her gaze toward Ryan Pierce and wondered about his demons. Could she lead him to the altar?
Did she even want to was a better question.
“I see where you’re looking.” Arwen said. “Do not even think about going there. I know he’s adorable, but he’s not the guy you’re looking for. I don’t ever see him with 2.3 kids and a minivan.”
“You’re right. On the other hand, he might be just what I need in order to mess with Matthew Lyndon’s head.”
“In what way?”
“Well, it’s only been a few days since Matt and I had dinner at the Union Jack. He’s sent me the obligatory three texts, designed to let me know that he’s still interested, but it’s too early for him to call. I figure he’ll reach out to me on Tuesday night, when he’ll either ask me out for drinks or in for Netflix. So that means I need to be busy next Wednesday night.”
“You know, Matt is a puzzle actually. I can’t decide whether he’s a jerk or just unsure of himself.”
“Unsure of himself? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
