Page 5 of The Best Laid Plans
“I’m not hiding.”
One of her eyebrows rose slowly.
“Fine. I’m hiding a little.”
“From what, Charlie Brown?”
At the use of my childhood nickname—a teasing moniker my mom coined when I tried, quite unsuccessfully, to dye my hair brown—I finally smiled a little.
“Everything,” I admitted. “I don’t want to say goodbye to this place, but I don’t think I’ll have a choice.” I glanced around the room. “I thought I’d hear from someone by now—an estate lawyer, or whoever is in charge of their trust—but I can’t find my damn phone, and I don’t even know who I’d call if I could.”
“If you can’t find your phone, how do you know they haven’t called?”
I shot her a look.
She held up her hands. “Sorry.”
The sun broke through the gray clouds that had dominated the sky all week, and like a cat, I tilted my face into its warmth. When winter finally released its grip on Michigan, the warmth and green of spring always felt like the most glorious of gifts. The last few weeks, though, the weather had matched my mood. Ever since I’d heard the news about Amie and Chris, a slate-colored sky and cool winds had cast a heavy, oppressive weight over the entire property.
I’d met him only once—a kind, adoring husband who was trying to honor his grandparents—but it was Amie’s bright, sunny excitement about the Campbell House that was electrifying. While Chris was busy playing football, earning the paycheck that allowed them to attempt this in the first place, Amie and I pushed up our metaphorical sleeves and got to work.
We had agonized over the plans, now neatly rolled up and tucked away in my bedroom at the carriage house. Now I was agonizing for an entirely new reason: I had no idea what was going to happen next. My heart broke every time I stepped through the front door and tried to make peace with the house staying like it was.
Broken into pieces. Fading away with each change of seasons.
“What about your contractor?”
“Gone.” I cleared my throat when my voice came out a little whispery and a lot pathetic. “He heard about the accident and immediately started asking about how he’d get paid. Wanted to know if we’d be able to start on time. I think he took one more look at this place and didn’t want the risk.” I swallowed. “I can’t blame him.”
Aunt Daphne’s gaze was wary, taking in the general disarray of the upstairs bedroom. The ceiling had water damage—our first sign that the house needed a new roof. There was termite damage around the windows and stretching along the west wall, where we’d opened things up to assess the destruction. My long-gone builder had suspected major structural issues too, though he hadn’t been around long enough to determine if he was right. The list, it seemed, was endless.
“So why are you sitting up here in the dark?” she asked. The bangles on her wrist tinkled when she waved her hand into the space. “How’s that going to help you?”
Settling my head against the wall behind me, I fixed her with a tired look. “I’m just doing that thing again where I think about how amazing it would be if we could’ve finished. And then I want to cry because I don’t have anywhere near the money to be able to buy it if it goes on the market, and then I get mad because they were nice, and sweet, and I hate that they died, and I’m probably selfish for being so sad about not being able to restore this house that I love when two young people died and left their daughter behind.” My voice got thick with tears. “It’s a whole cycle, and it’s stupid.”
Daphne’s face softened, but only briefly. Determination set behind her blue eyes, and something about it felt a little worrying.
“Would it be easier if someone swooped in here to rescue you?” The question was heavy with subtext.
“I don’t need a rescuer. I mean, I’ll need another job, because I assumed I’d be here for the next eight to ten months. But I have no ideawhat plans they had in place. Maybe there weren’t any. I don’t know if they had a mortgage or if it was paid off. If the house goes on the market, there’s no telling who will buy it and what they’ll want to do with it.” I swallowed. “What if it’s some mustache-twirling developer or some slick lawyer in a pencil skirt who wants to bulldoze it and add condos?”
Daphne’s eyes did that gleaming thing again.
“Oh Gawd, what?”
“What would you say to someone if they showed up here and told you that was their plan?”
My first thought was,You can shove your shiny condos up your greedy ass.She must have read the sentiment on my face because she grinned. I’d seen that grin my whole life. It meant trouble with a capitalT.
Slowly, I sat up. “Daphne, what do you know?”
“Aren’t you going to ask where I just came from?”
“I honestly don’t know if I dare. You go to some really shady places.”
She ignored that. “I was having a late lunch at the café with my man friend.”
“You’ve been sleeping with Richard for over a decade and living with him for the last eight years; can’t we call him your boyfriend by now?”