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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 eyes. “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.