Recipe for Disaster (23 page)

I
n the light of day, with the electricity back on, the place is even worse than I remembered.

“Far as I can tell, last fall’s early big snow trapped all the fallen leaves on the roof, and then when we got that deep freeze right after, it just became a huge ice block full of crap, and every time it snowed and got cold all winter it got bigger. When the rain the other night gave us a complete melt, all the leaves that were up there clogged the drainpipes, which are directly connected to the sewer lines for the house. When the old clay sewer line got all that extra stuff, it must have had a little crack somewhere that burst when it got so overloaded,” Jag says.

“A perfect storm. A perfect shitstorm.”

“To be sure.”

“So we have to dig. The whole thing.” When we did the demo in the basement, we’d only trenched the old concrete pad where we needed to for new plumbing runs. Now that we have a faulty sewer line and a water problem, we’ll most likely have to pull up the whole pad, run drain tile and install two sump pumps and a backup pump against future flooding, create an ejector pit for the water, replace or repair the sewer pump, and figure out a new drain spout system for the building. Conservatively, if you add in the lost materials that we have to throw away, this has been about a thirty-thousand-dollar snafu.

“I don’t really see a way around it, no, although I would potentially like to talk to someone who has handled this sort of thing before, since I’m going strictly on what I’ve read in texts.” Jag is in total professional mode today, with an actual clipboard in his hands, taking detailed notes so that he can make a plan of attack for us to fix this setback.

“Crap.”

“Literally and figuratively,” he says, so seriously that I can’t help but laugh. And then he joins me. Pretty soon, punchy from lack of sleep and way too much adrenaline, the two of us are in stitches. Jag is laughing silently, shaking, with tears running down his cheeks, glistening like dewdrops in his dark beard. I’m making what can only be described as squeaker-toy noises, and Schatzi, ever the delicate flower, is standing at the top of the stairs barking her fool head off at the racket. Apparently we’re disturbing her nap.

When we finally get hold of ourselves, I leave Jag to finish the notes and go to take the rented pumping equipment back to Home Depot so that we don’t get hit with another full day of charges. Jag loads it up into Lola for me, and I head out. The day is actually lovely. The rains have completely melted the ice and snowpack that made everything dingy and sad, and the sun is shining. It’s maybe only in the midforties, but in Chicago in early April? That feels almost balmy. We’ve had months of subzero windchill, and this soft humid air reminds me that spring is actually going to come eventually.

I pull into the lot off Clybourn, and grab a large orange pallet on wheels. After a couple of the guys who are hanging around give me a hand, I’m able to wheel the two pumps inside and get my deposit back. I’m heading toward the car, when I hear something that makes my stomach knot up and the hair on the back of my neck come to attention.

“Having a little water problem, Annamuk?”

Fucking Liam.

I turn, and there he is in all his smug douchey glory. Smirking at me.

“Hello, Liam.”

“Hello, you. How bad?”

“It’s fine.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Two pumps doesn’t sound fine.” Damn. Hadn’t spotted him inside, but clearly he saw me.

“It’s fine now.”

“Sump pump fail?”

“No sump.”

“Ouch. How deep?”

I think about lying and blowing it off, but I’m too tired to be deceptive. “About a foot and a half.”

“Finished or unfinished?”

“Flooring and drywall.”

“That sucks.”

“Thanks, Sherlock. You’ve got a finger on the pulse.”

“Well, us tiny-dick boys compensate with spectacular levels of perception and deduction.” He is still smirking at me, and I’d like to slap his stupid face.

“You get the Manning foundation in yet?” At least I can dig too.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Oh yes. Weeks ago.” His face says it all, and my spine feels a little straighter.

“And did you get water?”

“A little.” HA! “But nothing major, and it told us where the problems are, so we’ll be able to get it fixed before we build out.” Damn.

“Well, I should get back to it.”

“Me too. See you around, Annamuk.”

“Not if I see you first.” And I turn on my heel and head for the car, feeling like I held my own fairly well. I get in and turn the key.

Chhhhhh ggggggeee chhhhhhh gggggggeeeee chhhhhh gggggeeeee.

No.

Chhhhhh ggggggeee chhhhhhh gggggggeeeee chhhhhh gggggeeee
e.

NO!

Chhhhhh ggggggeee chhhhhhh gggggggeeeee chhhhhh gggggeeeee.

This can’t be happening. Lola can’t die on me now.

Chhhhhh ggggggeee chhhhhhh gggggggeeeee chhhhhh gggggeeeee.

Fuck. FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. I slam the steering wheel. And then I feel it, the thing I hate more than anything. The tears. My very eyeballs are betraying me again.

“Stupid fucking car stupid rain stupid Grant stupid house stupid Liam,” I mutter, as the unwelcome emotions erupt. I believe I am actually projectile-crying, tears squirting directly out the front of my face like a cartoon. I’m slamming my fists on the steering wheel and muttering and sobbing.

And then there is a knock on the window.

“Need a jump?” Liam asks.

I can’t tell him to go fuck himself with his tiny little dick, because I’m crying so hard I can’t form words. I can feel a line of snot drop out of my nose, and the knowledge that of all people LIAM is the one to see me in this state makes me so angry that I cry even harder.

And then the door opens, and Liam somehow lifts the enormous soggy bulk of me out of the cab, and I’m enveloped in his arms, and my face is buried in his chest, which smells of sawdust, and his hand is cradling my head, fingers dug into my hair and massaging my scalp, and his stupid voice with his stupid accent is in my ear saying, “Hush, lass, hush now.” Which makes me cry even more.

H
ow about a hot dog?” Liam asks me once my fit is reduced to the occasional hiccup. The front of his shirt has a huge wet spot, not to mention several iridescent snail trails from my snot. He doesn’t seem to care in the least. Of course, a guy like Liam probably makes girls cry all the time, so he would be used to it.

I can do nothing but nod. I’m wrung out. I feel like all my bones have dissolved. He reaches into Lola and pulls out the keys, and closes the door. He walks me over to his garish truck, and deposits me inside, reaching over my lap to turn on the seat warmer.

“You like them plain with just pickle, yes?”

I nod again, wondering how and why he remembers how I like my hot dogs.

“Sit tight and warm up, you’re shivering.” And he leaves, heading back for the store entrance, where a permanent hot dog kiosk is set up. Every fiber of me wants to jump out and leave, just run away, but my car doesn’t work, and it’s too far to walk. Plus the seat warmer is making my butt pleasantly hot. In a couple of minutes Liam returns, handing me two hot dogs and a can of Coke.

“Thank you,” I squeak, with a small hitch still in my voice.

“You’re welcome.”

Suddenly starving, I wolf down both hot dogs, and guzzle the Coke, as if the cure for what ails me is in that sweet fizzy elixir. Then an enormous, loud, rumbling belch erupts from me before I can stop it.

“Nice one,” Liam says without irony, and lets one of his own rip.

I’m clearly in an alternate universe. There is no way that in my actual world I would be having some sort of bonding belch contest with Liam Murphy. No. Way.

“How bad is it really?” he asks around a mouthful of hot dog, a smear of mustard in the corner of his mouth.

I take a very deep breath. It’s none of his flipping business, hot dog or no hot dog. “Why would you think it’s bad?”

“Because you are probably the single strongest, most capable person I’ve ever met, and you just had a total meltdown. I was there when you came to work the day after your stepdad’s funeral. I was there when that idiot accidentally shot you through the hand with a nail gun, stapling you to a stud wall, and you calmly whipped the hammer out of your belt, got the nail out, and without batting an eyelash or dropping a tear told him to get the rest of the wall together while you went for a tetanus shot. You’re a seriously tough cookie, Miss Anneke, so if you’re this upset, upset enough to let my distasteful hateful personage come anywhere near you, let alone comfort you? Things must be bad. How bad are they?”

I look over at him and see something shocking. He actually cares. He isn’t looking for material to rib me with; he isn’t trying to gloat. His brow is furrowed and his eyes are kind, and my defenses are down.

“It’s bad. The flood wasn’t just water, it was sewage, and probably put us tens of thousands in the hole, and there was maybe only ten grand in the contingency budget. Also put us at least eight weeks behind.”

“Well, the money is a lot, but I just read in the
Trib
that Grant’s new place is going to be the hottest ticket in the West Loop when it opens, and I know the other place is packed to the gills every night, and he just signed up to do some television show? Does he care that much about upping the budget?”

“Grant and I split up.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t know. When did that happen?”

“Um, the day I quit.”

“Was that part of your plan? Tell us to fuck off, tell Grant to fuck off, head out into the sunset?”

“No, actually. Grant was the one who thought I should quit, focus on the house full-time. I just hadn’t anticipated coming home and finding him in the shower with someone else.”

“That wanker. Who was she?”

“He. Sous chef.”

Liam’s jaw drops open. “He?”

Oops. Didn’t mean to let that slip out. “Don’t even. It feels like a million years ago. I’m beyond caring. And I’d really appreciate if you forget that I said that. But I’m also on my own to fund this project, so while I’m delighted that he’s having such success, it doesn’t mean shit to me or my budget.”

“That sucks, Anneke. Really.”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

When he finishes his hot dog, he drives us around to my car, and fortunately, one jump does the trick. I thank him, and drive the truck across the parking lot to the Pep Boys and replace the battery, another unexpected expense. Banner day for me. I head back out of the parking lot, and point her toward home, or what’s left of it.

L
iam’s helping you? When did that happen?” Marie asks, stealing one of my fries. We’re at the Athenian Room eating gyros salads, you know, because if you put salty crispy gyros meat on a SALAD, it is healthy for you. And I can’t resist their vinegary seasoned Greek fries.

“Liam isn’t helping me, he’s just coming over to take a look at the basement and consult a little bit on the new post-flood situation. Jag wanted a second opinion of someone who really knows working in Chicago and dealing with Chicago weather, and before he came to MacMurphy Liam worked for a restoration company that specialized in this sort of stuff. I actually have never dealt with fixing a wet basement, just done brand-new ones or renovated dry ones, and everyone else would charge me, so . . .”

“I think it’s nice that you reached out to him.”

“I didn’t. He called to check up on me and my hands were full and Jag answered and before I got to the phone they had already made a plan for him to come over. Trust me, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Why did he do that? I thought you left it at, ‘Fuck you, Little Dick.’”

“Yeah, um, I ran into him at Home Depot the other day and we chatted a bit.” I haven’t fessed up to any of the girls about my parking lot meltdown and Liam’s kindness. Or my newfound ability to cry all the time. Or Gemma’s journal. Or the actual magnitude of how big a financial hit this flood will turn out to be. Turns out I’m not so bad at this whole lying thing after all. Especially lying by omission, which is now becoming something of a specialty.

“Does Jag know about your history with him?”

“No. Never thought to tell him before, and now I don’t want to be the shitty person that tries to poison the well. Jag will meet Liam and make his own decisions.”

“How terribly grown-up of you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re going to tell him anyway.”

“Probably. But I’m going to try very hard not to; we’ll see if I’m successful. On the one hand, it would be really annoying if they hit it off and became pals. But then again, I hate to admit that Liam might be a good connection for Jag, especially if he decides he wants to go work for a real firm sometime.”

“You’ll have a real firm when this is over, and Jag will be your partner in business and in life.” The message is a little pointed, but I ignore that part.

“I’ll be lucky if I have a pot to piss in when this is all over. My current goal is to clear enough to find a real place for us to live and maybe, just maybe, enough to start another small project. We have to be prepared for the very real possibility that both of us are going to need to find regular jobs when we are done, so if I can get him connected to the community, I have to do that.”

“How is married life?”

“It’s lovely.” I try to put on a wide grin, as if Jag and I are working hard all day and making wild passionate love all night.

“Really?” She looks at me with deep concern in her face.

Sigh. “Really, honey, it’s great. Easy and comfortable and fun. I feel like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be and with the person I am supposed to be with. This whole flood has bonded us even closer.” All of which, technically, is true. I’m slowly learning that the key to deception is to try to phrase things so that they contain as much truth as possible.

“As long as you’re happy, you know that’s all I want, right?”

“I know.”

“Okay, then.” Part of me knows that this lunch is something of a test shot, that she will report back to Caroline and Hedy that I seem good, maybe the beginning of us getting somewhat back to normal. I wish I even knew what normal was.

“We’re going to need more fries.” She looks down at my now-empty plate, and licks her fingers with a wicked grin as I wave the waitress over. Because if Liam is coming over to my house, and I can’t have a single honest conversation with my oldest and dearest friend, more fries are the bare minimum of what I’m going to need.

O
n my way home, my phone rings.

“Miss Stroudt? Jeff Steinfeld.” From Steinfeld Diamonds. I took my engagement earrings in to Caroline’s diamond guy, to get a sense of what I might sell them for. I know Grant had them insured for about a hundred thousand dollars, so I’m hoping if I can get at least seventy thousand or so it will offset the new setback at the house and give me more of a cushion against potential future disasters. I’m of two minds about them. On the one hand, since my mom emptied Grand-mère’s jewelry box, they are pretty much the only piece of real jewelry I own, other than Joe’s old watch that I wear every day, and the little gold oval locket with my initials in diamond chips that he bought me when I graduated from college. So I hate to give them up. But they are also a reminder of where I was and where I am, what my life was supposed to be and what it has become. In a perfect world, I’d keep them and wear them as a sign of my inner power and ability to rise above. But at the end of the day, if I have to give them up to make this house happen, I won’t mourn their loss for too long.

“Jeff, thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”

“My pleasure. And these are lovely stones, I’d be delighted to buy them, if you like. I can do ten thousand.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ten thousand? They’re insured for ten times that! I know my former fiancé spent about that on them, did he get ripped off? Is the quality bad?”

“No, of course not, they’re quite spectacular, and I’d be surprised if he had spent less. But Miss Stroudt, they are insured for replacement value at retail prices. I’m a wholesaler. I have to buy at wholesale prices.”

My stomach ties itself into a knot. My backup plan, my nest egg, my “break glass in case of emergency” turns out to be nearly nothing. He seems to understand my shocked silence.

“You can always try to sell them yourself, perhaps on eBay? I could maybe go up to twelve thousand, because of your connection to Mrs. Randolph, but I get the sense that you need more than what I will ever be able to do for you.”

“Yes, that’s, well, that’s it in a nutshell I suppose.”

“For what it’s worth, Miss Stroudt, they are very special, and you’ll get much more enjoyment from them than you will ever get commerce out of them. I hope you will decide to keep them and wear them in good health.”

Yeah. All unemployed, effectively homeless women should rock four carats when they can.

W
hen I get back to the house, I hear voices and laughing. Crap. Liam must have come early. I drop my stuff in the dining room, and head to the living room, where Jag and I set up his couch and other furniture in a sort of den-cum-office. And in the living room is a sight that makes my blood run cold. Liam and Emily are sitting on the couch together, both canted sideways with one knee on the seat and one arm resting on the back of the couch. Schatzi, that ungrateful, unfaithful little bitch, is lying akimbo on Liam’s lap, letting him rub her belly, and squirming in delight. She barely looks up when I come in the room. Jag is in the chair, and the three of them are laughing at god knows what, looking cozy as can be.

“Hello, everyone.”

“Hello. How was your lunch?” Jag asks.

“Lovely, thank you, Marie sends her love. Hey, Emily.”

“Hey! Just came by to walk the pooch, but she appears to be in love, and refuses to leave.” Emily blushes when she says this, sneaking a peek at Liam from under her bangs, and my stomach turns over. I face him, and he is smirking.

“Hi, Liam, thanks for, um, coming over.”

“Of course. That’s a helluva mess you have down there.” Schatzi absentmindedly licks Liam’s knee.

“Yep. That’s kind of an understatement.”

“I have to say, I’m a little shocked you didn’t check it during the storm, since you’re living here and all. You’re usually such a stickler for being overprotective and conservative.”

My face flushes, and I can feel the heat rising in my chest.

“I thought we should, and suggested it, but in Anneke’s defense, it has always been a dry basement for over one hundred years, and that wasn’t exactly the storm of the century.” Seriously, Jag?

“Wow, were you still here working that late? You’ve got a good one here, Annamuk, that puts in those kind of hours.”

Jag laughs. “Not working, I live here.”

Liam raises one dark eyebrow. “Really?”

Oh crap. “Well, of course!” Emily says brightly. “Where else would he live but with his wife?”

“Wife?” Liam turns to me.

“Of course, silly! They’re married.”

The look on smug Liam’s face is fairly priceless. His square jaw literally flops open. “Married?”

“Yes,” Jag says, “for over a month now.”

“Wow. I, um, hadn’t heard about that.” Liam is looking at me like I’m a crazy person. Hah. He has no idea.

“Yes, well, it surprised us too. But when it’s right, it’s right.” My standard answer. No one could possibly argue, and it doesn’t have me professing love and passion all over the place. I walk over and lean down to kiss Jag, and stand behind him, my hand on his shoulder, his hand easily reaching up to clasp mine warmly.

“Sometimes you just know,” Jag says.

“Isn’t it the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?” Emily says. “It’s just amazing when the right people are just tossed together so they can find each other.” She is fairly radiating hearts and flowers.

“Well, then, um, congratulations to you both. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.” Liam’s tone says that he’s actually sure we’ll be divorced by summer, but he’s kind enough to gloss over it and get back to the task at hand. “Anyway, as I was saying to, um, your
husband and sister
before you arrived, you are definitely going to have to replace the sewer line and reroute the downspouts. You’ll want drain tile around the perimeter, and two sumps with one backup system. I recommend that you don’t replace that wood flooring or carpet down there, but maybe do polished concrete or tile, just in case of future water; you won’t lose flooring again. If you have to do carpet, do the carpet-tile squares, easier to replace and clean in an emergency. And for sure do closed-cell spray-foam insulation instead of the cotton batt, think about using metal studs, and upgrade to the moisture-resistant drywall. A little overkill, but the last thing you want is to get calls the rest of your life from the new owner.”

Shit. It’s pretty much what I thought it would be, but it sucks to hear Liam confirm it.

“Very much what Anneke and I were thinking, but it’s nice to have the validation,” Jag says, nodding.

“My pleasure.”

“That is so amazing that you just know how to fix that mess so quickly,” Emily says.

“Just what I do,” Liam says. “Speaking of which, I’m doing a similar install in a couple of days at one of our projects. It isn’t far from here; if you want to come by and watch, see how it’s done, you’re most welcome.” He turns to me. “You, on the other hand . . .”

“I know better than to show up at one of your projects.”

He nods, glad that he doesn’t have to say more.

“I’d really love to come, if that’s okay with you, Anneke,” Jag says.

“Of course.” I swallow my irritation. “It would be a good idea for you to see it. Thanks, Liam, I appreciate it.”

“I think it would be awesome to see something like that, do you think it would be okay if I came along as well?” Emily says breathlessly.