by Terri Thayer
April was grateful that this woman didn’t find her family history interesting. No wonder the Castle meant nothing to her.
The client offered a hand, soft as a cotton ball. She didn’t shake April’s hand as much as lay her hand in her palm. April was gentle, afraid the arm would break off if she was too vigorous.
Ed was still in full-on grovel mode. “Mrs. H. has had the most amazing ideas for this place.”
“Great,” April said. “It’s a wonderful example of Tudor.”
“This house is unique,” Mrs. H. corrected. “It was designed by the finest architect in Italy in the late 1800s. Before Tudor became a craze.”
“We’re doing a total restoration,” Ed said.
Mrs. H. said, “My brother nearly ruined the integral beauty of the place. That horrible Castle was just the start.” Her tiny shoulders shuddered with revulsion. She reminded April of a hairless dog who was unable to keep itself warm without shaking. “There’s flocked wallpaper in the hallway bath,” she whispered as though this truth was too horrible to say out loud.
“We’ll have her back to her original glory,” Ed said with a stiff smile on his face.
“This wing of the house has sixteen rooms. Let’s get started in the dining room,” she said. “I have a dinner party each August. I want this room finished by then.”
Vince and Ed exchanged a look. Was that enough time? April doubted it. Her stomach crawled again.
Mrs. H. led them into an empty formal dining room with paneled wainscoting. The large lead glass windows looked over the expanse of green lawn. April looked again. Not lawn. Fairway. She saw an oval sign that said “Women’s Tee. Three.”
“The paneling must be restored to its original state.” She pointed out places where the wood had been damaged or was missing.
Vince was taking notes. “Don’t worry. We’ve got crafts-men who can duplicate the original molding. You won’t be able to tell the difference.”
Ed circled the room quietly. April saw a change come over him. He seemed so different now that he was faced with the work that needed to be done. Calm, confident, completely engaged. He was rubbing his hands over the walls, his hands as sensitive as a doctor’s, finding flaws and figuring out how to fix them.
The punched tin ceilings were twelve feet high. The moldings were deep and fluted. The proportions of the room were perfect. Despite its large size, the room felt warm. April felt the buzz she got whenever she was in the room of a master architect.
Mrs. H. ripped a piece of wallpaper with a violent gesture. “No more of this hideousness. In here, I want the walls hand-stamped,” Mrs. H said.
Those were the words April was waiting for. “Perfect,” she said. “That’s my specialty. I have some ideas.”
She opened the portfolio and spread her samples on a side table.
Her stamp designs were good. She’d based her designs on woodblock wallpaper with chrysanthemum motifs.
She pictured her design on the walls. The walls looked as though they had been papered and painted over several times. She’d have a lot of prep work to do, but she liked that part of the job. Walls like these were never straight, that was a given, but she could compensate with the size and shape of her stamps.
Lost in mentally measuring the walls and placing her stamps, April didn’t hear at first what the client was saying. The sound of her father’s voice, however, brought her back to the present. “Sure thing, April can do that,” he said. Glancing toward him, April saw that Mrs. H., her father and Vince had moved over to the inside wall. Her portfolio lay open, ignored.
The three of them were studying the wall. April moved behind them, peeking between Ed and Vince to see what it was she could “do.”
The wall was covered in a mural. Floor to ceiling, from the end of the wall to the arch leading to the living room; it had to be eight feet by twelve feet. It depicted the local Sioux chief meeting with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin’s nose had a major chip, and the colors of the campfire were faded to a pale peach.
“This Refregier mural must be returned to its earlier glory,” Mrs. H. said.
“And Retro Reproductions is the right firm for that,” Ed said.
April looked at her father in shock. What was he doing? She didn’t know anything about restoring murals.
April tugged on her father’s elbow and whispered, “Painting? That’s not what—”
“No problem, Mrs. H.,” her father said over her protests.
She fought to regain control of the conversation. She picked up her sample board and tried to waylay Mrs. H. with it.
“Look,” April said, “once my father’s team finishes restoring the floors and the paneling, these other walls are just right for my expertise. You can see my stamps will work perfectly in here. They are reminiscent of the period without being exact replicas . . .”
The older woman gave one disdainful look at April’s work and ignored her pitch as thoroughly as she would a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman. “All in good time, my dear. You don’t have a problem beginning with the mural, do you? Your brochure says you do all kinds of decorative painting.”
Brochure? Mrs. H. patted a bulging loose-leaf notebook that sat on a sideboard. Opening it, April found pages and pages of design ideas, pull sheets of floor coverings, wood choices, paint samples. The woman was a pantheon of organization. Flipping through the neatly bound collection, April soon located her so-called brochure and pulled it out, frowning.
Vince shot her father a told-you-so look. Ed shrugged.
Her father had used predesigned paper and his computer to make the marketing material. The front read “April Buchert Interiors.” The address was the barn’s and the phone number, her cell. There was something about seeing her name in print like this. She was touched and pissed at the same time.
She started to open her mouth to deny authorship, but her father’s pleading look stopped her.
“We need this job,” he mouthed. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together in a crude gesture that meant money.
Her indignation faded. Who was she kidding? She needed this job if she wanted to eat. She shrugged and tried to remember what she’d learned in art school about touching up paintings.
“I’m thinking I would also like painted built-ins,” Mrs. H. said.
“No one is touching any furniture I make,” a new voice said. His tone was firm but slightly teasing. Mrs. H.’s eyes widened in anticipation.
“We’re in here, darling boy,” Mrs. H. trilled.
“Must be Mitch,” her father said.
April turned to see the speaker, a tall sandy-haired guy wearing a red baseball cap that read “Winchester Wood-working.” He gave Mrs. H. a stern look, but a smile danced on his lips as he leaned in to hug her. She petted his cheek.
“My brother’s crowning achievement,” she said.
Ed snorted.
“Come on, Ed, you know you love me,” Mitch said. He pumped Ed’s hand and bumped knuckles with Vince.
“I love you as long as you don’t get in my way,” Ed said. “We’re on a tight schedule here.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” he said cheerily. He turned to April. “Mitch Winchester, carpenter.” He held out his hand. So this was Rocky’s brother, the table maker.
His forearms were well developed. He smelled of wood and coffee. She fancied she could see shavings clinging to his blue jeans and vintage adidas sneakers. Someone must have told him he looked good with a two-day-old beard. They were right.
April was always attracted to men who worked with their hands. They seemed so competent. And then there was the idea that they’d be good with their hands at other things. Her stomach tingled. She took in a breath to calm down. She was not interested in men. Those that worked with their hands or any other kind.
“I’m April Buchert,” she said. “Of April Buchert Interiors. Evidently.”
She shot a look at her father to let him know that they’d talk about her new job title, and
the scope of her work, later. He shrugged.
Mitch said, “Oh, Ed’s daughter, the girl that makes things pretty. I’m the guy who builds the shelves.” He picked up her sample board. “Nice detail. You’ve really nailed the sensibility.”
Vince spoke. “April is a restoration expert, Mitch. Paint and stamps.”
“Mostly stamps,” she corrected, but she smiled at Vince to let him know she appreciated his plug.
Mitch held up his hands in mock horror. “No stamps on my furniture. No paint, no inks, no faux finishes.”
“I do not faux,” April said haughtily.
He smiled at her.
Mrs. H. interrupted. “We’ll discuss all that later, Mitchell. I have Ed’s assurances that April will do whatever we need. For now, I want to show Ed and Vince the drawing room. I’m sure, April, you’ll want to study the mural.”
The trio walked into the hallway. Immediately, their voices got loud and the tone contentious. April heard them discussing the Castle.
Mrs. H. detailed her difficulties. “Do you know what an attractive nuisance is? Not my nude sunbathing neighbor, no. My lawyer says it’s the Castle. A ruin of a building that entices young people to go there. And hang out, playing loud music and doing drugs.”
Mrs. H. had never hung out in her life.
Ed murmured something conciliatory.
“Since it’s on my property, I’m responsible. I’m the one who will have to pay if someone gets hurt. I could get sued.”
Now Mitch was listening, too. He twitched his eyebrows at April.
Most of Ed’s words were lost, but April heard him finish. “It’s a challenge, Mrs. H. The road to it is completely overgrown. I can’t get the bulldozer back there without knocking out trees. And the town tree committee is on me—”
“Not good enough. I can’t be responsible if kids get hurt back there. I don’t want them to have a place to party here anymore. The Castle is just too much of a lure. Take it down. Immediately.”
Mitch had lost interest in the conversation and was looking intensely at April, his gaze as focused as a laser. A scratchy feeling settled in her belly.
“We’ve met.” He tapped his front teeth with a pen. “I’m sure of it. Did you grow up around here?”
She nodded.
“Belong to the club?” Mitch asked.
She shook her head and put a finger to her lips. She should be paying attention to her father’s discussion in case he volunteered her for some other chore.
“Go to the club pool?” he persisted.
April nodded. As the daughter of an employee, she had had pool privileges.
The conversation in the other room was just murmurs now. The contentious tone was gone. Vince’s deep voice carried, reassuring Mrs. H. that the Castle would be cleared out by the end of the week.
April relaxed. They weren’t talking about her. “I don’t remember you.”
He pointed to his chest. “Picture me with a whistle around my neck and zinc oxide on my nose. Scrawnier.”
“The lifeguard? Axl?” The Guns N’ Roses song “Sweet Child o’ Mine” filled her head. She and Deana had played that song over and over the summer they were twelve.
Mitch groaned. “Oh, God, no. No one has called me that in years. You remember that?”
“Remember that? How could I forget? You played Appetite for Destruction at the pool party. Heavy metal at the club. Deana and I thought you were the coolest.”
“I’ve always considered myself more Slash than Axl.” Mitch planted his feet and started playing air guitar. April laughed. He looked so not cool.
He said, “They fired me for that, but it was worth it.”
The voices were returning to the dining room. April turned to the mural and pretended to be scrutinizing the paint.
Mrs. H. turned the corner into the room. Vince and Ed were right behind her. The air in the room felt different, as though the molecules had changed. April felt pressure in her ears and she looked to her father. He had a quizzical expression on his face, but she couldn’t tell if he was more worried than he’d been.
Suddenly, there was a concussive boom!
April grabbed her father’s arm. Mitch stood in front of his aunt protectively. Vince and Ed exchanged a glance. Neither looked as surprised as April thought they should.
CHAPTER 4
“What the hell was that?” Mrs. H.’s voice lost its practiced refinement. The dishes in the china cabinet rocked, and the crystals on the chandeliers tinkled daintily. April thought Benjamin Franklin had winked at her.
“Dad?” April said. She knew this wasn’t part of the plan. What happened to waiting for the code enforcement guy?
Ed said, “It’s okay.” He grabbed his phone as though the answers would be found on it.
Vince said, “Apparently, we are taking down the Castle today.”
“Well, I’m glad of it, but I didn’t expect it to rattle my bones,” Mrs. H. said. Mitch put an arm around her. April thought, unkindly, that Mrs. H.’s bones probably rattled when she sneezed. There was no fat on them to cushion the blow.
“Sounded like someone went a little overboard on the dynamite to me,” Mitch said. He looked to Vince and Ed. “We shouldn’t have been able to feel it all the way over here.”
April tried to picture where the Castle was in relation to Mirabella. The last time she’d walked between the two, she’d been a teenager. Maybe a ten-minute walk.
Like a fire alarm, the old-fashioned phone-jangle ring-tone of Ed’s cell phone rang out, setting April’s teeth on edge.
Ed took his call, walking to the far corner of the room. He was whispering fiercely, his voice rising and falling. April knew that tone of voice. Ed was panicking. She followed him. Vince remained by Mrs. H., reassuring her that the noise was not that unexpected.
He was whispering fiercely. “No, we don’t have the permits yet. I told you to hold off.”
As he paced, Ed’s face reddened until it was the color of the satin drapes in the room, maroon. April thought of the high cholesterol number he’d reported after his last physical. She positioned herself next to a built-in corner cabinet filled with trinkets, pretending to inspect them for damage, keeping a covert eye on her father, trying to remember the signs of a heart attack.
“Yost?” she heard him say.
What was the local cop doing there? She moved closer.
He clicked off his phone and went back to where Mitch, Mrs. H. and Vince stood.
“That was my foreman,” Ed said. “The Castle is down. Just as you requested.”
Mrs. H.’s protestations had been trailing off. As a final salvo, she said, “Did you have to blow us all to kingdom come? I think you knocked some fillings out of my head.”
Vince said smoothly, “It would take more than a little explosion to upset a woman like you, Mrs. H. Let’s get back to work. Show me those lighting fixtures you’re interested in.”
Mrs. H smiled and seemed mollified by Vince’s remarks.
She returned to her large notebook, opening to a page on lighting fixtures, tapping with her red nails. Vince looked over her shoulder. It looked as if life was going to go on as usual.
Except for Ed. He’d snapped his phone shut, but instead of returning to Vince’s side, he was moving quickly toward the kitchen. And the back door.
“Ed,” Mrs. H. called. “I need you here. I have more to go over.” She looked to Vince for reinforcements.
Vince looked at his partner and his eyes darkened. He smiled quickly at Mrs. H., the wrinkles next to his eyes not moving. “We’ll be right back,” he said.
April asked, “Is there something wrong?”
She got no answer from Vince. As he passed her, April could see a small vein throbbing in his jaw. He was seeing something in her father that disturbed him. Ed wasn’t telling Mrs. H. everything he’d heard on the phone call. Something was wrong.
April ran after them, but by the time she’d cleared the back door, Vince and Ed were already in t
he truck. She could see her father’s tight face as they passed. He was in the passenger seat, arms thrown up as he railed at Vince. She couldn’t hear him, but he was not happy.
The pickup reversed out of the drive, fishtailing as Vince accelerated toward the road, coffee-colored dirt spewing from the tires.
“That explosion sounded too big,” Mitch said in her ear. She whirled, surprised to see him on the porch with her. Mrs. H. was tapping her way through the kitchen.
April felt her voice constrict. “Do you think someone got hurt?”
“Hard to say. Demolition can be tricky,” Mitch said.
April twisted her fingers together. Her father had looked so upset. She needed to know what had gone wrong.
“I’ve got to get to the Castle. Where is it from here?” she asked Mitch.
“Come on, I know a shortcut,” Mitch said, passing April, fingering his keys. “They have to go all the way around on the main road.”
“Don’t everyone go off and leave me,” Mrs. H. whined through the back door.
Mitch called to her, “No need for all of us to go, Aunt Barbara. We’ll report to you in a few minutes.”
Mitch threw himself into his small green Jeep, which was open on the sides and top. April climbed in the passenger seat. She’d only just clanged the door shut when Mitch started up the engine, his arm slung over his seat, looking backward. Concentration furrowed his brow, but one dimple showed on his right cheek.
The Jeep followed the dirt road leading out the back of the Mirabella property, into the woods. April’s butt left the seat, and she scrambled for the shoulder harness and plugged it in.
“Hang on,” Mitch said.
“Duh,” April said, unable to let his demand pass. She looked at him. Had he hit that pothole on purpose? He had a slight grin on his face, making the dimple dig deeper in his cheek. She stifled a laugh, feeling silly and scared at the same time. Scared like she was on a roller-coaster ride, but frightened when she thought of Ed’s red face.
The dirt road ran on the outskirts of the woods, paralleling the tree line. After a hundred yards or so, Mitch yanked the Jeep to the right, between several towering pine trees. April grabbed the roll bar with one hand and the door handle with the other.
