Remaking Morgan

by Terry Odell

  “You don’t think he could be tied to the graffiti? That if we know more about him, we might solve the puzzle?”

  “It’s an interesting exercise, but I’m not sure it’ll lead anywhere. Meanwhile, let’s go over the plans for the house so you can move in and fulfill the terms of your uncle’s trust. Didn’t you say you had to be living here within three days of the utilities being turned on?”

  She blew out a sigh. “Yes, and don’t remind me that the clock is ticking. I have a bed scheduled for delivery tomorrow, which is another reason I wanted the house clean. Easier to do without furniture.”

  Cole gathered his papers, then handed her several sheets. “These are your materials. Nothing specific. If you decide you want to put in new flooring anywhere, or tiles, sinks, vanities, countertops, your contractor can give you choices and prices.”

  Morgan perused them, visualized a complete renovation, then shoved the dream aside. She needed numbers before she could make decisions. She had money of her own, but most of it was untouchable. She’d liquidated some assets when she decided to make the move to Pine Hills. Her financial advisor would have to juggle more funds, and he’d remind her not to mess with her portfolio, that everything was mapped out, that the market was down, that her own trust from her parents had been set up to release funds on an annual basis until she was thirty-two.

  Three more years.

  “Here’s how I think you should prioritize,” Cole said, and Morgan focused her attention on the next sheets of paper he handed her.

  The two of them wandered the downstairs, Cole pointing out options as they moved from room to room. Morgan added her comments, Cole made notes.

  “Wait,” Morgan said. “A fence. When I bring Bailey home, he’ll need room to go out and play.”

  Cole scratched his head with the pencil he’d been using. “You’ve got two acres here. Fencing the entire property would be a major budget suck. What about fencing a smaller area in the back?”

  Morgan strolled through the kitchen to the back door and let her gaze roam the yard. “That could work. I should get things rolling on that as a number one priority. Do you know any good fencing companies?”

  “I’ll ask around,” he said. “I doubt you’ll find someone who could start immediately.”

  “That’s all right. Bailey and I will go on walks together until he can be let out alone.”

  The noise of the vacuum cleaner stopped, and Rich thumped down the stairs carrying the machine. “Okay if I hit the floors down here?”

  “Good timing,” Morgan said. “We’re ready to move upstairs.”

  Rich plugged in the vacuum, and Morgan approached. He paused, his hand hovering over the power switch.

  “Do you know a good fence company?” she asked.

  “I’d recommend Evans Fence Company,” he said. “They’re out of Salem, but they cover the whole area.”

  Morgan thanked him and turned to Cole. Instead of the smile she expected, his brows bunched together. She moved past him and tromped up the stairs and into the master bedroom where she stood, hands fisted at her hips, staring at the message on the wall.

  Cole joined her, stopping several feet away.

  She didn’t turn to face him. “What did I do wrong now?”

  “Nothing,” Cole said, without moving closer. “I trust you’ll get more than one estimate and check the company’s references before hiring them. I know you’re on a budget, and I know it’s tempting to take the fast, easy, and cheap way out, but those decisions can turn out costing you more money in the long run.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Thanks for your sage advice. I’ll take it under consideration.”

  “Morgan, I’m not trying to make your decisions for you. I just don’t want you to end up regretting them.”

  “If I do, they were my decisions to make, and I’ll have to live with the consequences. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s finish your list. What would you prioritize in here?”

  COLE HANDED MORGAN the sheets of paper. “Here. Make your own notes.”

  She took them, then held out her hand. It took a moment to register that she wanted his pencil, not a handshake. He extended it, holding it a little more tightly than normal so she had to tug on it.

  Why are you being such a jerk?

  Morgan reached for the graffiti, paused with her hand several inches away. “Will regular paint cover this? I don’t want to have to paint the room this dark a color.”

  “There are special primers that should cover it. Your best bet would be to replace the section of drywall.”

  “Which would cost more money than paint, right?”

  Maybe Morgan didn’t have as much money as he’d thought. Maybe there was a stupid rule in the trust that didn’t permit her to use her own funds, although he couldn’t imagine why.

  “Some, yes,” he said. “It’s a small area. I’d be happy to do that for you.”

  She tilted her head. “Would it be a breakfast, lunch, or dinner job?”

  The tension snapped like a cheap piece of particle board. Cole grinned. “After materials, a fast-food lunch should do it.”

  “Can you do it right away?” she asked. “I’m going to be sleeping in here starting tomorrow, and it’s still creeping me out.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll hit the Tool Shed for materials. After lunch.”

  Why he didn’t want to leave Morgan alone with Rich—the man had been nothing but friendly and professional—made no sense, but his gut said to stay close to her. Whether it was his cop sense or his guy sense, wasn’t clear.

  “I need to go through more boxes,” she said. “How about I pay for your lunch and you get what you need? Plus, I’m supposed to be getting an internet connection this afternoon, and I don’t want to risk not being here. The appointment window is noon to five, and it’s eleven-thirty.”

  Telling himself it was hormones, not fear for her safety, he agreed.

  “My purse is downstairs,” she said.

  Where Rich could go through it.

  Before Cole triggered another argument, Morgan headed down. Cole followed her to the kitchen, where her purse sat on the counter. She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Lunch.”

  “I’ll bring change,” he said, “and front you for the materials.”

  “Save the receipts.”

  COLE GRABBED A BURGER from the takeout counter at Burger Hut and took it home. He powered up his laptop and searched Rich’s company. Great reviews, a family business for twenty-plus years.

  Get your hormones under control.

  Feeling a quick tinge of guilt for checking behind Morgan’s back, he checked Evans Fence Company. A startup, no red flags. Satisfied, he moved on to Kirk Webster, starting with the Pine Hills High School’s yearbooks.

  Good-looking kid, based on his senior photo. Dark curls, expressive eyes behind black-framed glasses. Nothing memorable. Not listed on any club rosters, not flagged in any school photos.

  Kind of like Morgan’s uncle. A nonentity.

  As he stared at the picture, thoughts swirled through his head. He picked up the journal he’d abandoned last night, this time trying to read between the lines. To analyze the words, as Miss Oberg said. To look for a deeper meaning.

  Cole had questioned whether authors had all those deeper meanings in mind when they wrote the books, or if it was an English teacher’s ploy to keep their classes occupied. Blue eyes were blue eyes, weren’t they? Maybe Hemingway had a good friend with blue eyes. Or he’d been looking at the sky.

  His time as a cop had taught Cole about hidden meanings and subtext, although that was from watching body language and listening to vocal inflections.

  Not wanting to mark up the journal without Morgan’s permission, and not ready to tell her why he was asking, he found a pad of sticky notes and flagged suspect passages.

  He’d have to dig a little deeper. First, Morgan expected him to start drywall repairs. The mud would take a day to dry, but the offen
sive message wouldn’t be there. He grabbed his laptop and the journal and made his way to the Tool Shed.

  According to the yearbook, Kirk had graduated six years ago. Were the Websters the last renters of the property? When and where had they moved? According to Morgan, Kirk had brought the journals with him when they moved into the house. Why had he left them behind? Had he gone to Oregon State? His journal entries hadn’t mentioned his being accepted, only that he was applying, and would be glad to close the door on Pine Hills High.

  Had Rich known more about Kirk than he’d told Morgan?

  Chapter 19

  MORGAN CHECKED THE time. Again. Where was Cole? How long did it take to have lunch and buy some supplies? Two of Rich’s people had arrived, and the three-person crew was busy scrubbing and polishing, as well as cleaning the windows inside and out.

  The internet people had come and gone. She had Wi-Fi and a television hookup, so she was free to leave, except for Rich. She wanted to get to the clinic for her second visit with Bailey.

  Even though Cole treated her as if she had just bounced off a turnip truck, she wasn’t going to leave the cleaning crew alone in the house, even if the only things they could steal were a lumpy old couch—which she’d be delighted to have them abscond with—and a couple of cheap lamps, an old stove, and fridge.

  She might have to live with puke green kitchen appliances, but what about a washer and dryer? Did buying those appliances fall under repairs? Morgan didn’t think Uncle Bob had known how much his house was going to deteriorate when he’d established his budget. According to Mr. Hathaway, he’d set up the trust two years before moving into the Villas, so numbers were based on ten-year-old values. Prices rarely went down.

  Thinking of everything she had yet to do—and what she might be forgetting—had her head spinning and ready to explode.

  She found a not-quite-so-lumpy spot on the couch and settled in with her laptop to check Rich’s company’s website. What she saw confirmed she’d made the right choice, even if she hadn’t executed due diligence before hiring him. Taking the advice of the hostess at The Wagon Wheel had panned out well.

  She searched for local fencing companies and chose three—including the one Rich had recommended—to follow up with. She might as well price out furniture and see if there was an alternative to a standard IKEA decorating platform.

  When her parents had died and she’d had to remake herself, Morgan hadn’t thought to redecorate their apartment, the one that had been home for brief intervals between travels. When she’d settled in Dublin, Ohio, into her own place for the first time, most of her personal touches fell into the accessories department. Having spent so much time in hotels all over the world, and not much time in any one of them, she’d never developed a style preference.

  She thought back further. To her early childhood. When she was a normal kid. Her pink and purple bedroom, her stuffed animals—and her futile attempt to have a pet.

  Bailey. How was he doing? The vet would have called if he’d gotten worse, wouldn’t she?

  Where the hell was Cole?

  A car pulling up sent her rushing to the front door.

  Not a car. A pickup. She closed her search and moved to the living room window. Another of Rich’s crew?

  The door opened and Cole jumped out. Morgan stepped onto the porch. Cole waved, then moved to the back of the truck and started unloading supplies.

  “Took longer than I thought. I had to borrow a friend’s truck,” he said. “I can get the first coat done. I should have suggested this before you hired a crew, because drywall makes a mess, but I didn’t know you were having cleaning people in today.”

  Was she supposed to check in with him every time she made a decision—or ask him before she made one? She pasted on a smile. “I’m sure I can count on you to clean up whatever mess you make.”

  “I bought plastic sheeting to confine the dust,” he said. “Not perfect, but it’ll help. I’ll clean up after myself.”

  “Can I trust you to be on your own for a while? I want to check on Bailey.”

  Cole snapped his fingers. “Damn. I forgot. I’ve got all his stuff in my car.”

  “Since I can’t bring him home yet, there’s still time.” She gave Cole her most innocent smile. “In case you didn’t notice when you drove in, there are two more people working with Rich, so now you have three people to keep an eye on.”

  He grimaced. “I overstepped before, okay? I— Never mind. Say hi to Bailey for me.”

  Was that an apology? Morgan got the feeling there might have been one hiding in there, obscured by his never mind and change of subject. “I’ll be off then. Back in about an hour.”

  “Wait a sec. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to bring the journals over? I’d like to check out the earlier ones.”

  She hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary in the ones she’d read. Had he found something? Whatever it was, she’d press for more when she got back. She wanted her wall de-graffitied and wanted to see Bailey. “Will do.”

  COLE CHECKED IN WITH Rich, let him know what he’d be doing, apologized for undoing the work he’d done upstairs.

  “Haven’t started cleaning the carpet in that bedroom,” Rich said, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Guess I’ll have to come back.”

  “I’ll let Morgan—Miss Tate—know it’s on me. She might want to replace the carpet in that room. As I recall, it was in bad shape.”

  A corner of Rich’s mouth turned up. “Agreed. Don’t think even I could get all the stains out, and there’s nothing anyone can do about the worn spots.”

  “One more thing,” Cole said. “When you have a free moment, I’d like to talk to you about Kirk Webster, if that’s all right.”

  Rich’s expression shuttered. “Not sure how much time I’ll have. I’ll try.”

  Maybe there was something Rich knew. Something he didn’t want to talk about.

  Cole set to work, spreading his plastic sheeting on the floor and over the doorway. Morgan might want to have the furniture people set up her bed in one of the smaller bedrooms. He’d move it back in here once the drywall mess was dealt with.

  Cole gathered his supplies, his tools, and took one last look at the graffiti. Had Kirk written it? Given the broad brushstrokes, the all caps, there was no obvious way to compare it to the kid’s neat handwriting.

  He cut out the offending chunk of drywall, inserted his patch and taped the seams. He’d finished the first coat of mud with no visit from Rich. One of his crew was cleaning carpets in the other two bedrooms, and the chemical smell wafting upstairs said someone was cleaning the oven.

  Cole looked up as Morgan came through the plastic curtain, carrying the stack of journals. Her grin faded when she saw the mess. “You’re not done yet?”

  “Takes three coats of mud, and each has to dry for twenty-four hours.”

  She dropped the journals—rather forcibly—on the edge of the plastic sheeting.

  “You didn’t see fit to mention this before you started? If I’d known, I might have opted to go the paint route. And you were chewing me out for not keeping you up to speed on every single decision I made?”

  Cole flashed back on how his father had defused arguments. “You’re right,” he said.

  Morgan’s expression reminded him of his mother’s. There was no good comeback she could offer, nothing to escalate the differences of opinion.

  Once, when his father had used those words, it seemed to Cole as though it was Dad, not Mom, who should’ve come out on top. His father had taken him aside.

  “In her mind, she’s right,” he’d said, “and there’s no point in playing one-upmanship. You have to let go of your ego. You’re more of a man, not less, if you can give in.”

  “What am I supposed to do for three days?” Morgan asked, interrupting his reverie.

  Cole shared his thoughts from when he’d realized his offer to eradicate the graffiti wasn’t a quick fix.

  Morgan narrowed her ey
es. “So, you’ll move the bed?”

  “Of course. My bad, my fix. But,” he went on, “maybe you’d prefer using the other bedroom awhile longer. Take your time fixing this one. Get new carpet, paint, window treatments, furniture. That way, you don’t have to hurry your decision and can get what you want.”

  Morgan’s expression softened. Almost dreamy. Had he managed to turn a negative into a positive?

  Thanks, Dad.

  Rich chose that moment to interrupt—of course. He glanced at Cole, then Morgan, and cleared his throat, as if he wasn’t aware she was up here. “We’re almost done, Miss Tate. Except for this room.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Cole has explained what he’s doing, and it looks like this room has become project number one. Thanks for the fence recommendation. I’ve put them on my list to ask for estimates.”

  The way her gaze cut to his told Cole that tidbit was for his benefit.

  “I’ll get my invoice,” Rich said and left the room.

  “I left something in the truck.” Cole strode after him.

  Rich unlocked his van and reached for a clipboard on the driver’s seat. Cole waited nearby.

  “I think I know what you’re asking,” Rich said, “and it was years ago. We were all kids, and most of us didn’t understand. We said things—did things—we shouldn’t have, and I’m not proud of myself for not stepping up.” He shrugged. “High school is—high school. It’s all about posturing and perceptions. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  “Understood.”

  In case Morgan was watching, Cole went to his borrowed truck and pretended to be looking for something. Rich’s reluctance to speak heightened Cole’s conviction that his hunch last night might’ve been right. He needed to look at the rest of the journals.

  Chapter 20

  IGNORING COLE, WHO was working on his patch job, Morgan kicked the graffiti-covered drywall across the room.

  Why had she thought she could do this? She should have trashed the whole project as soon as she saw the house. Definitely when she found the graffiti.