I was inside Forester House and starting for the stairs when I heard the front door open behind me. I turned and saw the ponytailed woman who had slapped Santa Claus step inside the foyer.
“I thought you’d left for the day,” I said.
“I did,” she said, glancing around uneasily. “But I had to come back because I, uh, forgot something. And then I saw you out on the lawn with that lady, so I followed you inside.”
“Oh.” Why was I creeped out that she had followed me? Probably because I hadn’t seen her first. And why hadn’t I seen her? Was she hiding? Deliberately trying to avoid me?
Was I looking for a freaky weirdo where only a suspicious stranger existed? I had to get a grip. But still, I paused to wonder if she’d seen Daisy trying to smack Mr. Potter. I hoped not. Daisy was one of the sweetest people in town and I wouldn’t want a stranger getting the wrong impression of her.
I shook off the nerves. “Listen, I tried to track you down earlier but I was told you were working in the attic and I didn’t find you there.”
“I was there. You didn’t look hard enough.”
She was really getting on my nerves. I didn’t bother mentioning that the contractor in the attic told me she never showed up. I wasn’t sure why, except that I didn’t want to make her more defensive than she already was. Mostly I just wanted her to go away and not come back. But I took a deep breath and said, “Would you like to talk about what happened this morning?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I think we should, especially if you plan on working here after today.”
“I do.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, but we’ll deal with that later. Right now I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened.”
“I already did.”
“I’d like to hear it again, from start to finish.” I motioned toward a fancy old settee arranged along the wall of the foyer, so we both moved toward it but neither of us sat down. She still didn’t say a word, so I said, “I haven’t talked to everyone but the people I’ve talked to say that the man you slapped was not actually the person who pinched you.”
She didn’t look surprised. “Did any of them see who did it?”
I gritted my teeth. “No.”
She crossed her arms and gave me an imperious glare. “So you’re calling me a liar?”
Her anger was palpable and frankly contagious. I wanted to snap back at her, but I resisted. I tried to remind myself that she’d been the one to get pinched and had just reacted. A little violently, but who was I to judge? On the other hand, I hadn’t found anyone who’d actually seen the pinch occur, which could mean that the pinchee was lying. It would probably be rude to suggest it, but I was tempted. It was hard for me to be nonjudgmental when she insisted on being so defensive.
“No, of course not,” I said patiently. “It’s just that no one saw it happen and Santa swears he didn’t do it. Granted, I haven’t questioned everyone yet, but I will. It just might take a while.”
“I think you’re covering up for that man. I’m not surprised, though. Everyone in town would rather bury their heads in the sand than face the music. I’m so sick of it.”
Everyone in town? Had she been living in Lighthouse Cove for long? Why had I never seen her before? And what was with her back-to-back nonsensical clichés? Nobody was burying their heads. And what music was she talking about? Something else was going on with this woman and I wanted to know what it was. First off, I loved my little town and didn’t appreciate strangers trying to make trouble. Second, I just didn’t like her much and I sure didn’t trust her. What was she trying to pull?
And so much for me not being judgmental.
“I think you’re being unfair,” I said after a brief pause in which I tried to tamp down my own irritation. “I understand you’re angry.”
“Darn right I’m angry.”
“I don’t blame you. I would be, too.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Her hands curled into fists and I wondered if she was tempted to take a swing at me.
“I plan to talk to everyone who was in the area at the time you claim you were assaulted.”
“Claim?” she cried. “I’m not ‘claiming’ anything. I’m telling you it happened. Deal with it.”
“That’s what I plan to do.” I gazed steadily at her. “What’s your name?”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters because I’m in charge of this construction site and I like to know the names of the people I work with. My name’s Shannon Hammer.”
“I know your name,” she said curtly, still fuming. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, possibly determining her next move. “My name is April.”
“Okay, April. How about if we—”
“Look, maybe I’ll just handle this on my own.”
“What exactly is there to handle?” I asked. “You already slapped the man you think pinched you.”
“I’ll just talk to him. Make sure he understands that he’s not to touch me again.”
“No.”
“But you’re not—”
“No.”
“But—”
I held up my hand. “I said no, April. I’m in charge and I don’t want you going around causing problems.”
Her nostrils flared. “I’m not the one causing problems.”
That wasn’t what it looked like from where I was standing. Yes, she was the victim here. At least, she claimed to be the victim and until I could investigate further, I would treat her as such. But she was so annoying! Why was she here? She hadn’t shown up to work in the attic as she’d promised and now she was vowing revenge. On my work site. Was I being unfair to her? Maybe, but she was coming across as someone who enjoyed stirring up the pot no matter what.
“You’re obviously ready to lash out at certain people in this house,” I said. “And that’s not going to happen.” I took a breath myself, trying to get a firm grip on my dissolving patience. “I understand you’re angry and upset and you probably think you’re the only one capable of finding out anything. But you’re wrong. My crew and I will handle this. We’ll figure out what happened, one way or another.”
“What if I don’t believe you?”
Okay, threshold reached. “Then you should leave and not come back.”
She flopped back against the wall, deflated. “That’s harsh.”
She looked completely flattened and frankly, that made me feel better. If I could keep her calm, maybe she’d let go of her angry revenge act. “Look, I told you I would deal with it and I will. We basically have eleven days to finish this massive job and I won’t allow my people to be distracted. Either follow my rules or leave.”
“Fine. Whatever.” And with that, she pushed herself away from the wall, stomped past me, and ran up the stairs, leaving me feeling impotent and furious and determined not to help her at all. Ever.
Not a very mature reaction on my part, but April rubbed me the wrong way. Honestly, she could swing from Godzilla to a bratty child and back again in seconds. Neither of the two were appealing. I took some deep, calming breaths and wondered if it would be wrong to follow her upstairs and demand that she leave the property. But then she would raise an even bigger fuss. She might even talk to the newspapers, which would just bring Potter back to rail against me and every other volunteer.
With that possibility hanging over my head, I decided I would discuss the situation with Wade as soon as I could. He would have a cooler perspective. It would be smart of me to explain the situation and have him ask around for any eyewitnesses to April’s assault. Together we would maybe get some answers more quickly.
Heading down the hall toward the ballroom, I thought more about April. Lighthouse Cove was a small town and I knew almost everyone living here. April was completely unfamiliar to me. Who was she? Where did she come from? Had she made up the entire Santa Claus pinching incident? And why was she here supposedly volunteering but not actually working? I was leaning heavily toward believing she had made up the whole thing. But why? It was too weird. Who would do such an odd, mean-spirited thing?
I hadn’t believed her from the very start that morning. I couldn’t say why. She had seemed sincere at first, but then I’d heard Slim’s plaintive protests and I began to suspect that April might be lying. Again, I had to ask why.
It didn’t give me much pleasure to realize I’d been right when I sensed earlier that she would be nothing but trouble.
I hoped she wouldn’t try to hunt down Slim Daley and deal with him on her own. The thought sent an odd shiver across my shoulders. And it reminded me that I hadn’t seen anyone from the Santa Brigade in a while. Maybe they had all left at lunchtime as most of the early volunteers had. But just in case, I decided I had better check all the rooms. And I would do that just as soon as I looked in on my father and his posse.
And speaking of trouble, I wondered where Mr. Potter had disappeared to. I rubbed my forehead as I traipsed down the hall. Officially this was my first day on the job, now that I had all my contractors and volunteers working at full capacity. But already I had to wonder, was the Forester project going to be wrought with this much trauma all the way through until Christmas? If that was the case, I would never get into the spirit of the holiday.
I had to laugh, because all of this minute-to-minute drama was working to keep my mind off my own angsty problems. I had that to be thankful for, at least, because my pitiful roller coaster emotions had been driving me crazy lately. Here on the job, there were so many more important issues to tackle. And it was refreshing to know that nobody working here gave a hoot about the fact that it had been six long weeks since MacKintyre Sullivan had talked to me.
It wasn’t the sort of news I was inclined to share with anyone, including my dearest friends.
But it was true. Mac hadn’t picked up a phone to contact me in exactly forty-two days. And apparently he’d never heard of e-mail either. Or texting. Or faxing. I hadn’t received a letter, a telegram, or even a tweet. Not one word from him.
Disgusted, I shook my head. Fine. Even though we’d been pretty close for a few months, that didn’t mean he had to check in with me all the time. He was a busy man, living his life, traveling around the country on his very important nationwide book tour and hobnobbing with his publishers in New York City. Apparently one of his agents had a farm in the Hudson River Valley and often invited Mac to visit and unwind. How super groovy for him.
For two months before that, he’d been jetting around Europe filming his latest Jake Slater movie. I mean, I was thrilled for his success and I wished him joy and happiness, really. I knew how much his work meant to him, so of course I was pleased to know he was enjoying the fruits of his labor. Why would I expect him to take time out to call me when he was so busy? You know, it took a lot of energy to deal with all those beautiful actresses and supermodels surrounding him all the time.
“You’re an idiot,” I muttered, and viciously pushed those feelings right out of my mind. Why was I dwelling on any of it anyway? It was so humiliating. Let’s face it, I’d been a fool to fall for him in the first place—if only because of my previously dismal track record with men.
Don’t go down that road, I thought to myself. I had always been happy with my life. I enjoyed my town, my job, my wonderful friends and family. I was fulfilled, darn it. Granted, until Mac moved to town, I hadn’t really dated since college—well, except for that one awful blind date last year that went tragically wrong. But that was another reason why it would be smart to be more careful with my choices.
And besides, what business did I have being attracted to someone like Mac? The man was a superstar thriller writer and his circle of friends included movie stars and high-powered business moguls, along with the aforementioned supermodels, lest I forget.
And me? Let’s face it, I was essentially a small-town girl.
The fact that I’d had a crush on Mac before I ever met him was something for which I could forgive myself. His stories were riveting, after all, and his protagonist, Jake Slater, was the most awesome dark hero ever. And Mac’s author photograph on the back covers of his books was simply mind-blowing. The guy had a face that stopped women’s hearts.
And then there was the way we’d met, when he rescued me from a bad fall from my bicycle. He’d driven me home and carried me up the stairs and into my house, igniting all sorts of juicy rumors and gossip around town. And then, instead of moving into the fanciest hotel in town, he had chosen to rent one of my garage apartments, so we had been neighbors for months. We met for dinner on a regular basis. Sometimes he would grill steaks and I would make a salad, other times we would walk up to the pier. He helped me with my gardening. I brought him snacks when he was on deadline. He was thoughtful and funny and sexy and smart. He made it clear how much he liked me and how impressed he was by my professional abilities when he hired me to renovate the famous lighthouse mansion, the home he’d bought when he first moved to town.
And over time, my feelings for him had grown. I thought those feelings were mutual, but I’d been wrong about such things before. I thought it meant something that he had never really moved out of the garage apartment, but had instead stayed close to me. Now that the renovation on the mansion was completed, though, it was only a matter of time. And, oh God, I was really going to miss him.
Like I did now.
“Ugh, stop,” I said, louder this time. Where had all this emotional residue come from? Had the unpleasant run-in with April brought it all to the surface? Whatever the cause, I didn’t have time for it, so I shoved it all back into my subconscious and walked into apartment three wearing a determined smile on my face.
It was good to find my father and his cronies hard at work. My two crew guys, Sean and Douglas, were both up on ladders, opening up the dozens of cracks in the ceiling in preparation for spackling and painting. Seeing everyone working hard was all I needed to effectively cut off the self-pitying blather that had been spiraling around in my head.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said cheerfully. “How’s it going?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. You guys look busy.”
Phil Chambers finished tightening a screw on an outlet and slipped the screwdriver into his tool belt before walking over to give me a hug. “Good to see you, Shannon.”
“You, too, Phil. Have you had a chance to see Wade today?”
“He stopped by earlier to tell me to be careful.” He glanced around at his buddies. “My boy thinks I’m ready for assisted living.”
“Why do you think my girl is checking up on us?” Dad said, winking at me.
“I’m checking up on everyone,” I said mildly. “That’s my job. And Wade’s, too.”
“Well, come on over here and check out what we’ve done.” I followed him to the doorway leading into the butler’s pantry.
“Wow. You’ve already got the wall framed. That’s great.”
“Yup. Pete’s always been the best framer in town. Anyway, we’ll be hanging drywall later this afternoon and start taping the seams. Tomorrow we’ll add the first coat of mud and keep on going from there. I’m guessing the wall should be ready for priming by Friday.”
Four days from now; that was probably about right. I estimated that I’d personally hung a thousand miles’ worth of drywall—give or take a few hundred—in my young life. I considered the job particularly hellish, mainly because of the amount of time it took to get it just right. Dealing with the unwieldy boards and attaching them correctly to the frame was only the start. Then came the real endurance test. It started with covering each seam with a wide strip of drywall joint tape made of a thin, fibrous paper that resisted tearing and stretching. They also made a fine mesh tape that worked well. This was followed by the first thin coat of drywall compound, commonly referred to as “mud,” applied over the tape along the seams and joints, using a drywall knife. Once that first layer of mud was dry, usually overnight, it was sanded down to a smooth finish. Then came the second coat of mud, covering a wider swath than the first coat. You let that dry overnight, then sanded it in the morning. Then more mud and more drying and sanding, repeating until the surface was completely smooth and wiped clean. There were a lot more tips I could give, like coating the vertical seams before the horizontal ones, and using gradually larger drywall knives as you smooth the mud over the seams. But basically, once these first ten thousand steps were completed, your new wall was ready to be primed and painted.
You could grow old in the meantime.
“While we’re waiting for the mud to dry,” Dad continued, “we’ll be working on closing up those cracks in the ceiling and then painting over them. After that we’ll demo the bathroom floor.”
“We’re lucky we don’t have to deal with wallpaper,” I murmured.
“Yeah, our team lucked out with this space,” Dad agreed.
“The crews working on the second floor weren’t so fortunate,” Phil said. “I took a look around up there and every bedroom is covered from baseboard to ceiling in wallpaper.”
Dad just grunted at the thought and I couldn’t blame him. Removing wallpaper was another truly time-sucking task. And when your life’s work centered on the renovation of Victorian homes, wallpaper was your constant companion. The Victorians had been in love with wallpaper, the more mind-numbingly flowery the better. So in removing it, you invariably ran into layers and layers of old sheets on every single wall. And occasionally on the ceilings. And with each layer you removed, the history and culture of past decades revealed themselves to you. It was fascinating, if labor-intensive.
I glanced around the ballroom, where beaded wainscoting and delicate bas relief designs graced the walls. Most of the surfaces were still in beautiful condition and wouldn’t need any work done to them. “You all might finish ahead of schedule because of that.”
Dad nodded. “If we finish early in here, we’ll give some of the other crews a hand.”
“Absolutely,” Phil said.
“Thanks, guys,” I said. Looking down, I noticed that they had peeled away the ancient linoleum so the new wall frame stood directly on the wood subflooring.
Dad followed my gaze. “Once the drywall is painted, we’ll put in the new tile floor. If any of my guys are available this weekend, we can get it done before Monday.”
I should’ve known he would be ahead of schedule. “All the floor tile is being stored in the garage. Sean and Douglas will bring it into the house whenever you’re ready.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Now, about the cloakroom.”
I frowned. “Yeah, I’ve been having second thoughts about the cloakroom.”
“You’re not the only one.” We crossed the length of the ballroom with Phil tagging along. “Arnie stopped by with his blueprints and I explained to him what we wanted to do.”
We had both worked with Arnie the architect for years. “Did he have a problem with it?”
“He has a couple of problems.”
“To be honest, I have some, too,” I said, stepping inside the large, dark cloakroom. “I just don’t think we can get enough light in here to make it cheery enough for a little girl. Any window we add will be under the veranda roof.”
“Right, and it’s always going to be shady on the veranda.”
“Exactly.”
“Plus, Molly is only six years old,” I said. “According to Sophie, her little girl has had a pretty tough life up to now. Under those circumstances, I’m not sure she would want Molly sleeping in a dark, windowless room.” I shrugged. “But maybe I’m projecting. Once I thought about it, I realized I would hate it.”
“Arnie completely agreed,” Dad said. “And not only because the window might compromise the integrity of that stretch of the porch.”
He grinned as he said it and I smiled, too. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“No way. But Arnie’s against the idea because he has his two little girls. He just couldn’t picture either of them sleeping in that closed-off space.”
“Okay,” I said with a nod. “I guess it’s settled. We’ll cancel our bedroom plan and go back to turning it into the world’s most fabulous closet.”
I was a little disappointed, but I’d find some other way to give Molly her own space.
Dad held up his hand. “Now, on the off chance that Molly and her mom love the idea of turning that space into a bedroom, I want you to know that Phil and the guys agreed that we’d all be happy to do the work anytime after they move in.”
“That’s so nice.” I smiled at both of them. “Thank you.”
“You bet.”
“So we go with the original plan?” Phil said.
“Yes.”
“Makes it easy.” Phil glanced at Dad. “Ready to go back to work?”
“Yeah.”
They left me staring at the walls of the cloakroom.
The original plan for the space had been to line the walls with light cedar planks in order to freshen up the space. We would build a modern closet using modular pieces that fit together. Open shelves for shoes and purses, pull-out shelves and drawers for shirts, sweaters, and scarves, and multiple areas for hanging clothes. We would add canned lighting above each shelving column and hang a couple of wall sconces to brighten and warm up the space. Of course, adding wall sconces would mean rewiring the space, but Dad was an expert at that. The plaster walls would slow them down a touch so it was a good thing they were running ahead of schedule. So far, anyway.
I pictured a colorful stuffed ottoman in the center of the space where Sophie could sit down while deciding what to wear. I would ask the designers to add a smaller, poofy ottoman for Molly. This would be a closet fit for a queen and her little princess.
I returned to the ballroom where Dad and his guys had gone back to work in various parts of the room. Sean and Douglas were starting to spread spackle across the ceiling cracks. The only sounds were the putty knives scraping against the ceiling and the occasional pounding of a hammer and the hum of Phil’s power drill as he finished the framing in the hall by the butler’s pantry. The men were working quietly and industriously, which made me instantly wary.
Dad must have been feeling the vibe because he glanced over at me and grinned like a loon. “Everything’s hunky-dory in here, honey. You can go check on your other apartments.”
Why did I get the feeling that the minute I left, they would break out the pretzels, beer, and poker chips and start the party? But he was right: I had to go check on other things. “Okay, Dad. I’ve got my phone with me, so please call or text me if you need anything.”
He winked. “You bet I will.”
But I knew he would rather chew glass than call me for help. And for some reason, that thought sent a chill right down to my bones.