by Terri Thayer
“Miss Buchert,” Mrs. H. said curtly, “why does my dining room smell like an Italian deli?”
April offered up the cut onion and lemon. “I’m cleaning the paint. This is a wonderful method for removing—”
“Is this how they do things in San Francisco?” Her voice dripped with disdain, as if San Francisco were akin to Bedlam, the home for lunatics. “Do you think it’s appropriate to smash food on my wall?”
“No,” April began, but Mrs. H. wasn’t interested in hearing how her method worked.
“I don’t see any progress.” She moved closer, bumping into the wall and knocking her visor sideways. She straightened, scowling.
April pointed to the section she’d been working on. “You can see right here. I’ve gotten rid of the surface dirt, and now I’m getting to the deeper encrusted gunk.”
Mrs. H.’s face screwed up in disgust at the characterization of her dust as “gunk.” April mentally kicked herself, wishing she had chosen a better descriptor. She knew how to handle high-end customers. She’d convinced the richest woman in the Presidio that she’d been the right person to design the wall coverings for her breakfast nook. She just had to sound as though she knew what she was doing. Even if she wasn’t sure. Especially if she wasn’t sure.
April took a deep breath. “The mural is much cleaner. Brighter.”
Mrs. H. stepped in front of April. April felt her disapproval in her gut as the metronome of her foot tapping signaled her displeasure.
April said, “The enzymes in the onion break down—”
Mrs. H. cut her off with a wave of her hand. “Unacceptable. Your father told me this was your area of expertise. I’m not seeing expert results.” She bit off each word sharply.
April felt a surge of anger at her father, and at Mrs. H. She hated justifying her work. Of course she was no good at restoring murals.
“I did the best job I know how,” April said, but she was interrupted again.
Mrs. H. pulled a white leather glove out of her pocket and stuffed her right hand into it, skinny gold bangles escaping up her arm. “I’m off to the club championship. My tee time is at 2 p.m. It’s a shotgun start so I don’t know which hole I’m teeing off on, but when I’m on the third hole, the one right outside the living room, I will look back in on your work. And I want to see a difference. I suggest you use alcohol. A little elbow grease wouldn’t hurt either.”
April’s temper flared, but she bit her tongue. She knew the client was always right. She could only hope that Mrs. H. teed off on the fourth hole so it would be hours before she got near the house again.
April had no choice but to make a trip to the local hardware store. Ernst Hardware Emporium was only two minutes away, out on Route 93. She had fond memories of accompanying Ed to the cluttered place Saturday mornings. Luckily for her, nothing had changed. She found the things she needed, in the same place they’d been when she was a kid. She picked out a mask, heavy-duty rubber gloves, alcohol and a bag of rags. She piled her purchases on the counter.
“Put these on the Retro Reproductions’ account,” she told the teenager working the register.
“What is your name?” he asked. She told him.
The teenager dutifully wrote up the purchases but frowned when he got to the computer. “You’re not authorized to charge things to this account,” he said, positioning the screen so she could see who was. Ed, Vince, and Lyle.
“It’s okay,” April said. “I’m Ed’s daughter. I just started working for him. He hasn’t had time to put me on there. But I need these supplies. Now.”
The boy looked at her dumbly. He held up his hands. “There’s nothing I can do, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Was he kidding her? Did she suddenly look eighty years old? “Look, kid. I’m not old enough to be your mother, but—” She stopped herself. This kid wasn’t the problem. “Let me talk to the owner.”
“Mr. Ernst,” he yelled without moving away. April flinched as spittle flew from his mouth.
Mr. Ernst came out of his office, wearing his familiar gray cardigan despite the warm June weather. She took a peak at his elbows. Sure enough, leather patches.
“Hi, Mr. Ernst, do you remember me?” She prayed he did—she didn’t have enough money to pay for her purchases.
But Mr. Ernst smiled and pulled her in for a hug. “April. Your dad said you were coming to work for him. Pleased as punch, he was. Robbie, write her up and let her be on her way.”
April untangled from his long arms. One crisis averted. “Thanks, Mr. Ernst.”
Back at the house, she put on the gloves and the mask. She did not want to inhale the fumes of the alcohol. She layered several rags and decided she would try this new technique someplace inconspicuous first. On her hands and knees, she took in a deep breath and poured alcohol on the rag. She touched the thick cloth tentatively to the toe of Benjamin Franklin’s buckled shoe.
She wanted to go slowly. She couldn’t be sure what kind of reaction she would get. She’d assumed these were oil paints on the wall, but she could be wrong. She daubed the painting gently and sat back.
Nothing. The paint hadn’t bubbled or cracked, but the shoe didn’t look any cleaner, either. April poured more solvent and rubbed harder.
The shoe brightened a bit. That was better. April rubbed more enthusiastically. Brighter. Good. Emboldened, she widened the area she was working on. The shoe was looking good.
The walkie-talkie crackled to life, startling her. Her world had shrunk to the buckle of Benjamin Franklin’s shoe, so her heart pounded at the noise. Alcohol dripped randomly as she reached to answer. She’d nearly forgotten about Ed’s crew since she’d checked on them before lunch.
It was Butch, but she didn’t catch what he was saying. The transmission broke up. She pushed the return button and responded.
“Try again,” she said.
“. . . tomorrow . . . plumbing . . .” was all she heard.
She hit her button again and got nothing but static. She rose, figuring she’d have to talk to him face-to-face.
A big truck was pulled up to the north wing. To April’s surprise, Lyle was standing alongside, supervising the unloading of lumber and pipe coming off the truck.
“Hey, little lady,” he said, taking off his baseball cap gallantly.
“What are you doing here?” April asked.
Butch passed her, shouldering a length of copper pipe. “That’s what I’d like to know,” he said under his breath before disappearing into the house.
Lyle ignored him. “This delivery had to come today. The schedule is all fu—screwed up,” he said. “I got a call so I came down. Mike didn’t think it should be unloaded. His crew is ready to go home.”
April looked at her watch. “It’s nearly four.” She felt her heart rate quicken. “We can’t afford overtime, Lyle. Why can’t we take the delivery in the morning?”
Lyle shrugged. “These guys”—he indicated the “Corcoran Supply House” name on the panel truck—“they insisted on getting it off the truck tonight. They were going to charge us a restocking fee, so I figured it was cheaper to pay the men.”
That wasn’t much better. “All right, I guess.”
“It won’t take long, I promise. Besides, we need this stuff first thing in the morning.” The truck driver approached, bill of lading in hand. She tried without success to decipher the computer printout of jumbled numbers. “Sign right here.” He pointed and produced a pen from behind his ear.
She signed and pocketed the invoice to put on Ed’s desk later. “I need to get back to my project. You’ll be done soon and send the guys home?”
Lyle nodded. April walked back to the main house. Butch might be unhappy about staying late, but at least the supplies were on hand now.
In the dining room, the light had changed, now slanting through the long windows directly on the mural. April closed the heavy door and inspected the shoe she’d been concentrating on. To her horror, she saw the shoe had turned a funky yellow color
instead of the deep brown it should have been. This was not good.
She rubbed harder with a clean rag, then looked at the rag. It was getting black. The paint was wiping away.
Her heart thumped, and she looked around to see if she was alone. She changed cloths and dabbed softly, just lifting the cloth gently up and down. But it was too late. The solvent had sat on the paint too long, and the layers of oil paint were dissolving along with the grime.
“Shit!”
“Miss Buchert?” That was not the walkie-talkie. She glanced up. The doors remained closed.
Mrs. H. came around the corner from the living room. Dang. April hadn’t considered she could get in the dining room another way.
“Problem?” She must have entered through the French doors overlooking the golf course. April could see a triangular flag with the number three on it.
April put the offending rag behind her back and stood in front of the ruined portion of the mural, even though she knew she couldn’t hide the mustard-colored stain. Mrs. H. pushed her aside, using her golf club.
“What have you done?” Mrs. H. shrieked. “You incompetent . . .”
Mrs. H.’s compressed lips turned white as her face grew dangerously red. A vein pulsed unattractively on her forehead.
Her words came out stiffly, with shrill undertones. April fought the urge to cover her ears from the onslaught.
“You’ve ruined my heritage. My family’s legacy.”
April considered trying the baguette. The bread might soak up the worst of the alcohol. But one look at Mrs. H. told her that option was out.
Mrs. H. pointed with her golf club. “Get that out of my sight. I want you out of here.”
April pleaded, “I’ll fix it.
“Get out,” Mrs. H. said. “And don’t come back.”
“But—”
“Take the rest of your father’s crew with you. Buchert Construction is off this job. For good.”
CHAPTER 11
“For your information, it’s not Buchert Construction anymore. It’s Retro Reproductions,” April muttered as she walked out the kitchen door. She ripped off her rubber gloves and stuffed them in the back pocket of her jeans. She was too mad to see straight.
She paused at the top of the back steps, afraid she’d topple right down if she kept going. Ed was going to flip out when she told him.
“Say again? Are you talking to me?” Mitch was standing next to his Jeep, a few feet away. Without responding, April clomped down the steps and headed toward her car. She turned to see the kitchen curtain flicker and fought the urge to stick out her tongue. “Witch,” she said to the now-empty window.
Mitch looked bewildered, his eyes tracking to the house and back to her. “Aunt Barbara do something to you?”
She took in a deep breath and began. “She kicked me, us, off the job. I’ve got to go tell my father that his men have nowhere to work tomorrow. Dad won’t get paid and Retro Reproductions will go belly up.”
April’s words tumbled out of her, one after the other, like a collapsing Jenga tower. She saw by Mitch’s puzzled look that she wasn’t making sense. Like Ed. If she stuck around here too long, she’d be just like him.
He put his phone in his back pocket. “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”
She laid it out for Mitch. “I ruined a very small spot on the mural trying to clean it. Mrs. H. fired me. Not just me, the whole company.”
“Oh,” Mitch said. His face said everything. She was in big trouble. His aunt Barbara was the not the forgive-and-forget type. April’s heart sank even lower.
She brought a finger to her lip to chew on the cuticle and yanked it away. It tasted like rotting onion. The taste was so vile, she spat on the ground. She wiped her hand across her mouth, hoping to get rid of the lingering ickiness.
Mitch took a step away. From the crazy lady. Not that she blamed him.
April hugged herself. A late-afternoon breeze had kicked up, and she felt cold although she’d been sweating earlier.
“Every day we’re off the job, we’re losing money. How am I going to tell my father?” she said.
Mitch laid a hand on her arm. “You’re doing it again. Stop a minute.”
She felt a flare of resentment. He didn’t know her well enough to tell her she was doing “it” again. She pulled her arm away roughly. Why was this guy always hanging around? Didn’t he have any real business to attend to?
She knew Mitch’s type and she was done with them. Been there, done that, got the credit card debt to prove it. No more rich boys for her. Trust-fund babies were not to be trusted.
She shot him a dirty look full of misplaced resentment, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was thumbing through the contact list on his phone.
She reached for her own phone to call her father, then changed her mind. She could not deliver this news over the phone. She took out her keys, but her hands were shaking. She was too angry to drive all the way around on the main road. She knew the quickest way was through the woods.
She’d walk. That would give her time to rehearse giving her dad the bad news.
April started up the path, feet slapping the ground resolutely. She was going to face the music. Tiny Johnny-jump-ups were blooming in the shady undergrowth. She admired their intrepidness, popping out in purple blooms under the worst circumstances. Usually. Today, she trampled one underfoot.
She was about halfway back to the Castle when the sunlight came through the trees and glinted off something in the mulchy undergrowth. She leaned down, curious. It was a brass piece, as big as April’s palm. A belt buckle. April felt the heft of it. The brass had dulled to an antique gold hue. When she was a kid, it seemed as if every adult had one of these huge buckles on their Wranglers. They were available at kiosks in the mall, in the shapes of ships or bears or a beer company logo. This one was shaped like the side of a panel truck. An embossed logo was written across the truck.
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.”
