49
Good morning Grace. Don’t know if you’ll remember me, but you and I had some dealings a few years ago when I was an assistant to Lily Soo at
House Beautiful
. I’m now features editor at
Veranda
, and I’ve been following your new blog and your new project with such delight. We think our readers would love it, too. Wondering if we might discuss having you write and photograph a monthly feature about your progress at Mandevilla Manor? Can’t wait to discuss! All best, Doreen Zelen. P.S. Adore that checkerboard kitchen floor!
Grace read the e-mail three times, just to make sure it wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Then she tucked her laptop under her arm and went running downstairs to the bar.
Rochelle was directing the beer-delivery guy into the storeroom. “Mom!” Grace cried.
Her mother whirled around, knocking her cup of coffee to the floor. “What is it?”
“
Veranda!
They want to hire me to write a series about Mandevilla. Can you believe it? I’ve subscribed to
Veranda
since forever. And they want me!”
Rochelle grabbed a bar towel and dropped it to the floor, mopping the spilled coffee with her sneaker-clad foot. “Honey, that’s fantastic!”
“I know,” Grace said. She was hopping up and down with excitement. “
Veranda!
This is a dream assignment.”
“How about some breakfast?” Rochelle asked. “You can tell me all the details and I’ll cook you some eggs and bacon.”
“Can’t,” Grace said. “I’ve got to get over to the cottage and get to work. I want to be able to move some furniture in by the end of the week so I’ll have some new photographs to show Doreen; she’s the
Veranda
editor who e-mailed me. I did a freelance piece for her years ago, when she was at another magazine. I was supposed to stop and pick up Sweetie, but I’m going to text Wyatt and see if he’ll drop her off. Talk to you later!”
* * *
Arthur Cater was sitting on the front steps of the cottage on Mandevilla when she pulled into the driveway.
“Arthur!” Grace called, as she crossed the lawn. “I’m so glad you’re here. Wait ’til I tell you my news.”
As soon as she got closer, she saw by the expression on Arthur’s face that something was terribly wrong. His face was streaked with what looked like soot, and he suddenly looked like a very, very old man.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is it your wife? Is she sick?”
“My wife is fine,” Arthur said. “It’s the house, Grace. Somebody tried to burn down the house last night.”
* * *
Grace stood in the living room, staring down at the charred floorboards in the corner closest to the dining room. Soot marks streaked the white walls, and shards of broken glass sparkled from the shattered front windows. She clutched her laptop tightly against her chest and willed herself not to cry.
“The neighbor next door smelled something burning when he got up to let his dog out at six this morning,” Arthur said sadly. “He called me, then he called the fire department, then he came over here himself. As soon as he got onto the porch, he saw the flames, right over there. It was just a small blaze, looked like a bundle of rags or something, he said. He broke the window and climbed in. He found the mop bucket you’d been using and doused the fire with water. If he hadn’t done that, I don’t guess this place would be standing. This house is mostly wood. Heart pine that burns like kindling.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Grace said, her words catching in her throat.
“There’s more,” Arthur said grimly, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen. Grace’s footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged empty room. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and now she did cry.
Black paint had been spattered all over the kitchen. It oozed down the faces of the new refrigerator and range and trickled down the cabinet faces. Paint pooled on her freshly painted checkerboard floor. “Fuck the Man” had been painted in wobbly black letters across the kitchen window.
“Kids.” Arthur spat the word. He pointed at the sink, where an empty plastic half gallon of cheap vodka had been tossed, along with empty cans of Red Bull and assorted brands of beer cans.
“Oh my God.” Grace breathed the words. She backed away from the doorway and into the hallway, where half an inch of water sloshed over the floorboards. Wadded up towels littered the floor.
The bathroom door was closed. She was about to open the door when Arthur closed his own gnarled hand over hers. “Don’t,” he warned. “It’s awful bad.” He swallowed. “They … Grace. They took a dump in the tub and smeared it all over the walls. Then they shoved a towel down the toilet, to back up the plumbing, and did the same thing with the sink. I’ve shut the water off now, but hadn’t had time to clean everything up before you got here.”
The bedroom doors were closed, too. Before he could stop her, Grace opened the door to the front bedroom. Day-glo orange paint festooned the walls. The empty paint bucket lay on its side, a river of orange paint spilling onto the newly refinished hardwood floor. More empty beer cans were scattered over the floor, and the room reeked of urine and marijuana smoke.
“Who would do this?” she whispered.
She heard the front door opening then and the sound of boots on the floorboards, and then the skittering of a dog’s nails clicking across the floors. “Grace?” Wyatt’s voice sounded panicky.
Sweetie came speeding around the corner, and Grace grabbed her up in her arms before the dog could go tracking across the orange paint.
“I’m back here,” she called, her voice breaking. A moment later, he was there, by her side. Without another word, he wrapped his arms around both her and the dog, and held them close.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “Are you all right?”
Finally, she sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “I’m okay,” she insisted, pulling free.
Arthur stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, brandishing a push broom.
“Wyatt, this is Arthur Cater. He owns the house. Arthur, this is my friend Wyatt, the one I told you about who had the ideas for the garden.”
The two men nodded at one another. “What happened here?” Wyatt asked. “I saw the burned places in the living room.”
“Somebody broke in and tried to burn it down.” Arthur gestured around the bedroom. “But before they got around to that, they did all this. More in the kitchen. The bathroom’s worse.”
“Who?” Wyatt asked. “Do you have any idea?”
“Kids is my guess,” Arthur said. “The neighbor said he noticed a car parked in the driveway last night, around ten. I’d told him about Grace working over here, and he just figured it was her, so he didn’t think any more of it. He’s the one that called me this morning.”
“They had themselves a big ol’ party,” Grace said bitterly. “You can smell the weed in here. And there are beer cans and a vodka bottle in the kitchen.”
“Damned kids,” Arthur growled.
“I guess it’s too much to hope the neighbor got a description of the car or a license number,” Wyatt asked.
“Coulda been blue, coulda been green. It was dark, and he only just glimpsed the car from his own front porch,” Arthur said. “Probably doesn’t matter. They’re long gone by now.”
“And nobody heard anything over here?” Grace asked.
“It’s been a rental house so long, and we’ve had so many tenants in and out, the neighbors just started tuning out what goes on over here,” Arthur said. “The lady across the street came over this morning when she saw the fire truck to tell me she’d called the police twice on my former tenants, but the cops just issued them a warning. Wish she’d have told me.”
“All your hard work,” Wyatt said, squeezing Grace’s hand. “You had the place looking so good.”
“It looked real nice,” Arthur agreed. “I’m glad I took those pictures to show my wife, before all of this happened.”
Grace dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her oversized T-shirt. “I’ll just have to start over, that’s all.” She picked up the paint can and looked at the label. “At least it’s latex. I’ll have to repaint the walls, but if I get some rags and get to work on these floors before the paint really hardens, it may be that I won’t have to strip the floors again. Thank God this happened after I’d gotten the poly down.”
“There’s nothing much happening at the park today,” Wyatt said. “I’ll call my Dad and tell him I’m going to hang around here today and give you a hand. Bo’s at his mom’s, so I’ve got the day and the evening free, if you need me.”
“Oh no,” Grace started to say. Then she shrugged. “Who am I kidding? If you really can spare the time, it would be a lifesaver.”
“Sorry, but I won’t be much help to you,” Arthur said. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in an hour, and after that, I’ve got to take my wife to her doctor. It takes forever to get on his schedule, so I can’t change it. Anyway, my bursitis has flared up again. It’s hell getting old.”
“We’ll manage,” Grace assured him.
“I’ll check back with you later in the day,” Arthur said. He looked around at the bedroom walls and shook his head again. “What gets into kids’ heads these days? What’s the fun of destroying property? Where are their parents? That’s what I’d like to know.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his paint-smeared hands on it. “I took more pictures before you got here,” he told Grace. “And the police were here, right after the firemen left. I’ll file a claim with the insurance company in between the doctors’ visits.”
“Thanks, Arthur,” Grace said, following him onto the front porch.
He turned just before reaching the door. “You sure you want to bother with doing this all over again? Maybe I should just hire some young fella to come in and clean it up and paint it all and be done with it. Get it rented again and quit worrying.”
“No!” Grace said sharply. She smiled sheepishly. “I mean, I wish you wouldn’t. I’ve got so much invested here. I really want to see it through to completion. Besides, I’m still hoping you’ll decide to let me rent it when it’s done. So I really do have an ulterior motive.”
* * *
“I’ll tackle the kitchen if you want to concentrate on this bedroom,” Wyatt offered.
Grace planted a kiss on his chin. “You’re a good guy, Wyatt Keeler.” Then she went back to work.
It was nearly two o’clock when he poked his head in the bedroom again. She’d managed to mop most of the orange paint off the floors. She’d scraped the dried paint from the window panes and had even put a coat of primer on the walls. The orange paint was so vivid, she was sure it would take at least two coats of primer, plus two coats of the Benjamin Moore. At some point, she’d have to make another trip to the hardware store to buy more paint.
“Looking good,” Wyatt said. He held out a white paper sack. “I went and got us some lunch. You ready for a break?”
They sat cross-legged on the front porch to eat their turkey sandwiches. Grace rested her aching back against the wall and took a swig of her Diet Coke. “How’s it coming in the kitchen?”
“There’s good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
She made a face. “Tell me the good stuff first.”
“I managed to get all the paint off the fridge and stove. We didn’t get so lucky with the cupboards. They’ll all have to be repainted.”
Grace sighed and pushed a strand of sweaty orange-streaked hair off her forehead. “What’s the floor looking like?”
Sweetie, who’d been sitting politely on her haunches, stared hungrily at the sandwich wrappings and whined softly. Grace tore off a bit of turkey and tossed it to the dog, who caught it in midair.
“Like a really long night of repainting red and white checkerboards,” Wyatt said, grimacing.
Grace groaned and rolled up the legs of her jeans to show him her bruised knees. “I’m still not recovered from the first time I painted that floor. Me and my big ideas.”
“I know this is probably a silly question, but couldn’t we just paint the whole thing one color?”
“We could—except that I got an e-mail from an editor at
Veranda
magazine this morning. They want me to do a series for them—story and photographs, of my redo of the cottage. And the editor very specifically mentioned that she adores that floor.”
“Oh.” Wyatt munched on a potato chip. “
Veranda
magazine. That’s good?”
“Very good. Especially in my world. It’s huge.”
“I’d slide over there and give you a congratulatory hug, but I’m too tired.”
She smiled. “I’ll consider myself hugged. Anyway, who knows if I can get this place cleaned up enough now to even do the story?”
He chewed and thought. “Maybe you could make this”—he swept his hand, indicating the charred porch floor and broken windows—“part of the story. You know, intrepid girl rescues house from fire and paint bomb?”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually not a bad idea. Now I wish I’d taken some pictures of the bedroom before I started cleaning it up.”
“Could you use the pictures Arthur took?”
“Maybe. I guess they’d have to be scanned or something.” She finished off her sandwich and threw a last chunk of turkey to Sweetie, who’d been stealthily creeping closer to the source of the food while she talked.
Wyatt stood and helped her to her feet.
“Guess I’d better grit my teeth and check out the damage in the bathroom,” Grace said, making a face. “Arthur wouldn’t even let me look in there when I got here this morning. He said it was pretty gross.”
“It was,” Wyatt said. “Nothing I’d want you to have to deal with. I got the tub and all the walls wiped down with bleach, and I managed to unstop the toilet and mop up most of the water. All I can say is, if I ever get hold of the punks who did all this…” He made a fist. “Pow!”
“Yeah,” Grace said. “About those punks. I’m not so sure this was the random act of vandalism that Arthur assumes it is.”
“Really? Then … You’re not saying your ex did this, are you?”
“Maybe. Although this—especially the way Arthur described the bathroom—that’s not really Ben’s style. J’Aimee, on the other hand? I’m not so sure it wasn’t her. Or maybe she put somebody else up to it.”
“I don’t know, Grace,” Wyatt said. “What happened here is pretty extreme—even for a pissed-off ex-husband. Besides the fact that the two of them are scum, what makes you think they’re behind this?”