Fatal Fixer-Upper (17 page)

'There you are,' he said with a dazzling grin when he saw me.

'Yep. Here I am.' I smiled back. It was impossible not to. 'I didn't think I'd see you so soon.'

'It doesn't take long to buy some sealer and a package of paint mix.'

'Paint mix?' I felt my smile slip. 'Oh, no! You're not going to make me smear curdled milk on my walls, are you? Kate told me about this. She says it looks gorgeous and lasts forever, but it stinks to high heaven.'

'Your ancestors used milk paint,' the museum docent pointed out. 'If it was good enough for them, surely it's good enough for you.'

'They didn't have anything else!' I turned to Derek.

'Can't I just have normal paint instead? The kind that comes in a can?'

'I can put it in a can,' Derek said.

'That's not the same thing!'

'We'll talk about it,' Derek promised. I rolled my eyes. I knew what that meant. He continued, 'You ready to go home? Lots to do this afternoon.'

'Almost.' I turned back to the docent, who informed me that the historical society had precisely one slim file of information about the Mortons. When I did a preliminary flip through it, I saw that it contained not much more than a family tree, which ended with Aunt Inga, as the last living Morton. There was her obituary, which someone must have cut out of the local paper after her death; a few other, older obituaries; and some old photographs and copies of marriage licenses and death certificates, that sort of thing. No diary, no bundles of letters, nothing exciting.

'You may take it home,' the docent said graciously, 'by signing here.' She flipped open a huge ledger and pointed to the last line on a page. I didn't really want to take the file home—it didn't seem to contain anything interesting, and I had enough old junk in the house as it was—but I didn't want to say no, either, when she'd gone to the trouble of finding it for me. So I put my John Hancock on the line, and skimmed my eyes up the page to see who else had been interested in my family. Not surprisingly, the last entry before mine bore Mr. Rodgers's name. I don't know what he thought he might find among the Morton family papers, but he was Aunt Inga's executor, so it wasn't unreasonable that he should want to go through the historical society's things as pertained to her. He'd been here the day after my aunt died, the day before I first came to Waterfield. More interestingly, the signature before Mr. Rodgers's, dated some months previously, said M. Wentworth.

'Was Professor Wentworth interested in the Mortons?' I asked casually as I pushed the book and pen back across the counter. Derek leaned an elbow on the desk and took a look at the entry for himself. The docent's face clouded.

'The professor was interested in the history of Waterfield, of which your aunt knew a great deal.'

'Do you know if he met Aunt Inga?'

'I believe he had,' she said. 'In fact, I suggested it to him, back when he first came to town. Inga Morton knew more about the town and its inhabitants than anyone, and although I held out no great hope that she would agree to talk with the professor, being so reclusive and—pardon me—old, I thought it worthwhile to ask.'

'Do you have any idea what happened to him?'

She shook her head. 'I'm afraid I don't. The last time I saw the professor was when he was here last, in February. Such a lovely man.' She shook her head sadly.

'I'm sure he was,' I said. 'You know, he disappeared at the same time as my aunt died. The same day, practically. You don't suppose . . . ?'

She sent me a look that could have peeled the milk paint right off the wall. 'Please be sure to bring the file back intact. There is an inventory written on the inside of the flap, with a list of everything that belongs in the file. Please do not lose any of the papers. They're irreplaceable.'

'Of course,' I said, tucking the folder under my arm.

'That chair in the other room, the French one? What's its provenance?'

The dragon lady looked slightly more affable now.

Maybe she was pleased to be able to lecture. 'Jeremiah Fraser built the Fraser House between and . He was a sea captain engaged in the China trade. The captain's wife, Patience, was related to the Cloughs, and the chair was part of her dowry. Among several other things, of course. Smaller things. Some jewelry, a hairbrush, hair combs, a fan encrusted with diamonds. All of which we have lost, unfortunately.' Another cloud passed over her wrinkled countenance.

'Lost?' I repeated, aghast. How could a museum lose important artifacts like those? It's not like a diamondencrusted fan is something you just happen to throw away in a moment of distraction.

'The museum suffered a robbery back in . All the smaller valuables were stolen at that time.'

'Gosh,' I said, 'I'm sorry.'

She nodded stiffly.

'Well . . . thanks very much for your help.'

'My pleasure.' She simpered, although it was directed more at Derek than at me. 'Take care of the file. And you, young man . . .' She turned to Derek, 'You take care of yourself.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He gave her another blinding smile before ushering me out the door with a hand at my back.

. . .

'Who's she?' I asked as we headed back to work. Bless him, he had gone back and picked up the truck before coming to get me. It was waiting at the curb when we came out of the Fraser House.

'Miss Barnes? She used to teach at the high school.' He looked right and left and right again before easing the truck across the intersection of Main Street and Oak.

Point for me, I thought, making a check mark on the air with my finger. I'd had her pegged as either a retired school teacher or an old librarian. 'You must have been a good student, if she still remembers you.'

'I was OK, I guess. I liked history.'

'And Miss Barnes obviously liked you. It's a good thing she's almost old enough to be your grandmother. If you flirted like that with someone your own age, they might get the wrong idea.'

Derek grinned. 'Why do you think I don't?'

I rolled my eyes.

When we got to the house, I headed for the kitchen. Derek was right on my heels. 'About the milk paint,' he said.

I shook my head. 'I don't want it. There's no reason why you can't use oil or latex instead. Something normal.'

'Milk paint
is
normal. People used it for centuries. It goes on beautifully and lasts forever. And the coverage and clarity of color is wonderful.'

'I don't want curdled milk on my walls!'

'But as you've often pointed out, they won't be your walls. We're only renovating the house to sell it again, remember?'

I grumbled, but he was right; I had said that. Much to my chagrin, I was starting to feel possessive of Aunt Inga's house. Derek added, 'Authenticity is important. Any Realtor will be overjoyed to be able to tell her clients that the house is painted with time-authentic milk paint.'

I narrowed my eyes.
Her
clients? 'If you think I'm going to give the house to your ex-wife to sell when it's ready, you can forget it. I'll slap a For Sale by Owner sign in the yard and try to sell it myself first. And if that doesn't work, I'll find someone else. She can't be the only Realtor in Waterfield.'

He shrugged. 'Fine by me. I don't owe her any favors.'

He turned to the kitchen counter, where all my china shards were laid out in the prettiest pattern I could manage. 'The counter is about the same width as the backsplash is tall. You can transfer your pieces directly from the horizontal to the vertical. Are you ready to start grouting?'

'I guess,' I said. And added, wistfully, 'I don't suppose you can give me blue grout, can you?'

He grinned. 'I thought you might ask, so I picked up some colorant, just in case. I'll mix it together.'

He did, while I watched, just a little amazed that he knew enough about me to guess that I'd want blue grout. And not only to guess but to be so sure of himself that he actually went out and bought what he'd need to give me what I wanted.

He handed me a pair of thin rubber gloves and a spatula.

'Here's what you want to do . . .' He waited until I had pulled the gloves on, and then he showed me how to squeeze a bit of tile adhesive on a piece of china, tack it to the wall, and then apply the grout, pushing the thick mixture between the pieces of porcelain and wiping the excess off with a damp cloth before it set. Gingerly, I got to work. I'd done something similar before, so it shouldn't have been a big deal, but Derek stood there, watching me, and it unnerved me.

After a few minutes he decreed that I seemed to be doing an OK job.

'How very condescending of you,' I said.

His lips twitched. 'I do my best.'

'I bet. So what are
you
planning to do this afternoon?'

Hopefully something more useful than looking over my shoulder, making me nervous.

'I thought I'd start priming the hall. Get a clean base coat that'll take the colored paint well. I bought a can of Kilz, too, while I was at the store. But first . . .'

'First what?' I asked, glancing over my shoulder when I heard the rustle of cloth. And then I dropped my spatula, loaded with grout, onto the countertop with a clatter. 'What are you . . . yowser!'

'I often get undressed when I'm getting ready to paint,'

Derek explained blandly, yanking the T-shirt he'd just taken off over my head, blocking out the brief glimpse I'd gotten of a flat stomach and taut muscles. 'And you need something to cover up with. That top's too nice to get gunked up with adhesive and grout.'

I couldn't help noticing that the shirt smelled like him and was still warm from his body. It settled on my much smaller frame like a soft sack, covering everything from shoulders to midthigh, and my arms all the way past my elbows.

'I don't care if you're used to painting in the altogether,'

I managed when my head popped out on the other side, 'don't you dare take off anything else!'

'Wouldn't dream of it,' Derek said solemnly. And then he grinned. 'I'll be in the hallway if you want me.' He walked off, jeans riding low on his hips and every muscle in his ubody moving in perfect harmony. I stayed where I was, trying to get my breathing under control as I watched, running his words over in my head. He'd be in the hallway if I wanted him. Right . . .

. . .

By late afternoon I had pretty much managed to recover. To enough of a degree that when the doorbell rang, I made an instinctive move to answer it, and then stopped when I caught a glimpse of Derek's half-naked form through the open door.

'I'll get it,' he said.

'Thank you,' I answered. I heard his steps go down the hall, then the various locks and bolts clicking open. A moment of silence followed as Derek opened the door, then,

'Good afternoon, Mr. Ellis,' came Mr. Rodgers's soft, educated voice.

'Hi, Mr. Rodgers,' Derek responded affably.

'May we come in?'

'Sure.' Derek stepped aside, and I heard two sets of footsteps file into the hallway. I put down my spatula and was just about to head out to see who had come to visit when Mr. Rodgers spoke again. 'May I introduce Philippe Aubert? Monsieur Aubert, this is Derek Ellis, our local handyman.'

Oh, Lord. I stopped abruptly.

I could just imagine the tableau. Mr. Rodgers, dapperly conservative in a dark business suit, wing-tip shoes, white shirt, and tasteful tie, with his thin, gray hair meticulously combed across his balding head, and Philippe, flamboyant as an actor playing a Frenchman, in hand-tooled boots, black beret sitting jauntily on top of his shoulder-length hair, snug pants sculpting his muscular legs, and some shimmery satin shirt open at least two buttons farther south than was strictly decent . . .

As I rounded the corner, I saw that his square jaw sported yesterday's sexy five-o'clock shadow. His voice, with its pronounced French accent, was the throaty, raspy purr of a caged lion. 'Avery!
Ma petite puce!
'

Derek made a sound like a quickly smothered snort and then cleared his throat innocently. The third figure in this weird tableau, he looked relaxed and at ease. There was primer on his hands and a smear of white across his taut stomach. His hair was dusty and stood up in choppy spikes where he had run his fingers through it. His jeans were so worn and faded as to be practically threadbare, and although they fit him like a glove, they were hardly the height of fashion. Still, he looked content and comfortable.

And real, unlike Philippe, who came across more like an actor who had inadvertently walked onto the wrong television set, dressed to play the hot, new love interest on
Sex and the City,
and instead finding himself taking over for Carter Oosterhouse on HGTV
.

'What are you doing here?' I asked, torn between amused anger and irritation.

'You called me,
chérie
.' He looked reproachful. Derek arched his brows.

'I called to talk to you,' I corrected. 'About the fainting couch, remember? I didn't ask you to come here.'

'I heard your loneliness,
ma petite
. I knew you missed me as much as I missed you.' He looked soulful.

'Right,' I said, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. Derek turned away, and I could see his shoulders shaking.

'Just out of curiosity, where's Tara?'

'Who's Tara?' Derek asked, his back still turned. His voice was uneven.

'The new girlfriend. She's twenty-two.'

'Ah.' Derek didn't say anything else, and I shifted my attention back to Philippe.

'How did you know where to find me? I didn't give you my address.'

'Monsieur Aubert contacted me through his attorney,'

Mr. Rodgers interjected. 'Miss Lee phoned this morning to say he was on his way to Waterfield.'

'I see.' It had never occurred to me that Philippe could get my address by asking Laura Lee. I should have told her not to give it to him, but frankly, it hadn't occurred to me that he'd want it.

'
Chérie
,' Philippe said, 'what's this you are wearing?'

He took a slip of Derek's shirt between two fingers and wrinkled his nose.

'Oh,' I said, flushing, 'it's Derek's.' I pulled the T-shirt over my head and gave it back to its owner, who put it on with a wink.

Philippe lowered his voice as he bent closer to kiss me on the cheek, 'And who is this Derek?'

I allowed the kiss—barely—but sidestepped the arm that reached for my waist. 'He's helping me renovate Aunt Inga's house.' For money, but I wasn't about to tell Philippe that. If he thought Derek was here because of my own sweet self, then that was no more than he deserved. Philippe, I mean.

Derek smiled. A dazzling grin, bringing out dimples and crinkly eyes and everything nice. He stuck out his hand.

'Derek Ellis. Nice to meet you, Phil.'

It was my turn to snort and cover it with a hand and a ladylike cough.

'My name is Philippe,' the latter said stiffly. 'Philippe Aubert.'

'Of course it is.' Derek continued to pump Philippe's hand enthusiastically, no doubt transferring all the paint he possibly could. 'Avery has told me all about you.'

'C'est ça?'
Philippe sent me a narrow look, while at the same time continuing to give as good as he got with the handshaking.

'Ay-yup.' If Philippe's grip bothered him at all, Derek didn't let on. I wondered if Philippe was suffering. 'So what are you doing here, Phil?'

'Avery called me,' Philippe said.

'About the chaise longue,' I added.

'Right.' Derek glanced at me. I hadn't told him about finding the couch, so he had no idea what I was talking about.

'The couch is in the attic,' I said. 'In fact, since you're both here,' two young, strong, able-bodied men, obviously set on proving their individual strength and superiority, 'maybe you'd be so kind as to help me carry it downstairs?'

It didn't look heavy, but it was unwieldy, and it was the least Philippe could do, after dropping in on me like this, without warning. With any luck, maybe he'd throw his back out coming down the stairs. Or, on second thought, I'd rather he didn't. If he couldn't drive back to the city, he'd have to stay here, and I didn't want him under my roof—Aunt Inga's roof—any longer than I had to.

'Sure,' Derek said readily.

'
Mais naturellement
,' Philippe added. They broke the death grip each had kept on the other's hand and stepped away from each other, exchanging wary glances.

'Great. This way.' I headed up the stairs. Philippe followed, after Derek stepped aside with an ironic bow. Mr. Rodgers straggled behind.

'My pardon, Miss Baker,' he said while we were standing side by side watching Philippe and Derek gently wrestle the fainting couch from the depths of the attic. Philippe's cheeks were flushed. I could tell by his behavior that I was likely to be right in my theory that the couch was eighteenthcentury French, and valuable. He hadn't even blinked when his shiny eggplant-colored satin shirt got caught on a nail and tore.

'Yes, Mr. Rodgers?' I moved my eyes away from the boys to the dignified lawyer.

'This fainting couch . . . is it valuable?'

'That depends,' I said. 'As an example of eighteenthcentury French furniture, it's probably worth a few thousand dollars. But if it can be proven that it was part of the cargo that came over from France in , and that it might even have belonged to Marie Antoinette, then it could be worth a lot more.'

'So that's what you're on about,' Derek remarked, as he and Philippe came within hearing distance, each carrying an end of the chaise longue. I shrugged unapologetically.

'Kate told me about the legend. I know that the Knox family has a sideboard at Montpelier, and the Swans have, or had, something they called the Marie Antoinette bed at their house in Dorchester. And of course I saw the chair at the Fraser House this afternoon. There are pieces that supposedly belonged to Marie Antoinette all over coastal Maine. Why not here?'

'More pieces than would have fit on ten
Sally
s,' Derek agreed. 'Forget ‘why not here.' Do you have any reason to believe your family knew either the Swans or the Cloughs well enough to be given any of Marie Antoinette's things?'

'That's what I was doing at the historical society this afternoon,' I explained. 'Trying to make a connection between the Mortons and either the Cloughs or the Swans.'

Mr. Rodgers looked politely intrigued, maybe even slightly alarmed. 'Dear me, Miss Baker. Were you able to make such a connection?'

I shook my head. 'Not so far. Miss Barnes gave me the Morton file to take home, but there doesn't seem to be anything of interest in it. Not that I've had a chance to look very closely. I noticed you looked at it a couple of weeks ago, just after Aunt Inga died.'

Mr. Rodgers nodded. 'To my knowledge, no Morton ever married a Clough or a Swan, and neither a Clough nor a Swan ever married a Morton.'

'Of course not,' I said with a wry look, 'that would have been too easy.' I glanced at the couch, making its slow way down the steps in front of us, and added pensively, 'I wonder if the tapestry that used to hang in the hallway was of this vintage, too . . . ?'

Mr. Rodgers shot me a startled glance. He missed a step and knocked into me. I stumbled, and for a second I was afraid I wouldn't regain my balance. One end of the fainting couch thumped on the stairs as a strong arm caught my waist and kept me from falling. 'Easy,' Derek said into my hair.

'Thanks,' I answered shakily. Philippe, far from expressing any concern that I might have fallen and broken my neck, directed a glare at Derek.

'Careful! This chaise longue is potentially invaluable.'

'But maybe not quite as valuable as Avery?' Derek suggested.

Philippe muttered something but didn't argue, although I was quite sure he didn't agree.

They picked up their respective ends of the couch and continued their cautious way down.

'Tapestry, Miss Baker?' Mr. Rodgers prompted.

'Oh, yes.' I thought fast. I couldn't tell him I'd looted Professor Wentworth's office and found the professor's stash of photographs, so I lied instead. 'My mother told me Aunt Inga used to have an old tapestry hanging in the hallway. I don't suppose you know anything about it?'

'I'm afraid not, Miss Baker,' Mr. Rodgers said. 'Miss Morton did have something like a tapestry hanging in the hallway for a while, but I think it was modern. She took it down some months ago, I believe.'

'I see,' I said. The tapestry in the photograph had pictured knights on horseback hunting unicorns, as far as I had been able to make out, so this didn't make any sense. But maybe someone else in town had the same ugly tartan wallpaper in their house, and the tapestry in the picture hadn't been Aunt Inga's at all. I turned my attention to more immediate things. We had reached the bottom of the stairs, and I had to decide where to direct the chaise longue.

'You can put it in the parlor, please,' I said. 'Through the double doors on the right.'

The men headed for the front room with their burden and placed it lovingly—more so on Philippe's part than on Derek's—in front of the window. We all took a step back and cocked our heads.

'It's wicked ugly,' Derek said after a moment.

'That's just because of the tweed,' I answered. 'What's underneath is much nicer.'

'I'll take your word for it.' He turned to Philippe. 'What do you think, Phil?'

Philippe didn't have to answer; his feelings were plainly written across his face. It was the same expression Derek had had the day he first beheld my aunt's kitchen. Rapt. Worshipful. Avaricious. 'It appears genuine,' he said reluctantly. 'Of course, the only way to be sure is to take it to New York and have someone authenticate it. Someone at Christie's or Sotheby's, maybe. One of the big auction houses. I know a girl at Christie's . . .'

He probably knew girls in a lot of different places, girls he'd never taken the time to tell me about. 'Not on your life,' I said. 'This is
my
couch; it stays here.'

'But,
chérie
. . .'

'I'm sure there's someone in Waterfield who can authenticate it. There are antique shops all up and down Main Street, and Derek's dad has a lot of antiques in his house. And if not, I'm willing to trust my own instincts. The fabric is eighteenth-century French. The needlework pattern is classical. Even the burlap on the underside dates from that period. It's a pity it's torn, but after two hundred years, I guess that was inevitable.'

Mr. Rodgers shook his head, clucking. 'Dear me, I cannot believe I overlooked this. It was the fact that it was hidden in the far corner of the attic, I suppose, under so many other things . . .' He sounded genuinely distressed at the oversight.

'Don't worry about it,' I said, patting his arm. 'We've found it now, and that's all that matters.'

'Indeed.' But he still looked glum.

I opened my mouth to say something comforting, but before I could get the words out, there was a knock on the door.

'Expecting someone else?' Derek asked.

I shook my head.

'I'll get it.'

'Thank you.' I watched him walk out of the parlor, and then turned my attention back to the couch and Philippe. He looked up and met my eyes, and I could tell from the slight accusatory look he gave me that he'd noticed me watching Derek. I looked accusatory right back. What did he expect, after all? That I'd sit up here in Waterfield licking my wounds and lamenting the fact that I'd lost him?

Out in the hallway, high heels clicked on the wood floor, and for a moment I was afraid that thinking about her had brought Tara to my doorstep, along with Philippe. A second later a vision in creamy white appeared in the doorway, followed by a stone-faced Derek.

Melissa stood for a second looking around, bathing Mr. Rodgers and me in the radiance of her teeth, before her gaze fell on Philippe. I could see her visibly doing a double take, her lovely deep blue eyes widening, before she hastily focused her attention on me. 'Avery! How are you, dear? Wayne came and told us about the accident. How horrible for you!'

'Hi, Melissa,' I said politely.

'A little behind the times, aren't you?' Derek inquired softly. Melissa pretended she couldn't hear him.

'I brought you some flowers. Would you mind, baby?'

This last was directed at Derek, along with the bouquet of daisies. He didn't have any choice but to accept them, as well as the casual—and condescending—endearment, but it was obvious from his expression that he could have done without both. Philippe, meanwhile, distracted from his contemplation of the fainting couch, looked up and saw Melissa.

She smiled. 'Hi, I'm Melissa James.' She held out her hand.

'Philippe Aubert.
A votre enchanté.
' Philippe clicked his heels together—Derek rolled his eyes—and bowed over Melissa's hand. 'A pleasure, madame.'

Melissa tinkled gaily. 'Oh, mademoiselle. Please.'

It was my turn to roll my eyes.

Derek glanced over at me and arched his brows. I shrugged.

Philippe was explaining that he had just arrived from New York, and Melissa was exclaiming over the long drive and how tired he must be. 'I know!' she said, as if this was a brilliant idea that wouldn't have occurred to the rest of us.

'Why don't we go and get some dinner? Unless you and Avery want to be alone, of course?'

She tittered coyly. I hastened to say that no, we didn't. Philippe sent me another reproachful look, hardly effective, since he was busy basking in Melissa's admiration.

'Avery and I have plans,' Derek said.

I turned to him in surprise. 'We do?'

'Sure. Don't you remember? You asked me about that romantic, out-of-the-way place that only the locals know about?'

Of course I remembered. I hadn't expected him to use it as an excuse to get out of having dinner with Melissa, though. Not that I begrudged him any excuse he could come up with. In fact, I was grateful that he had invented one that covered both of us. 'Oh. Yes, of course.'

'Oh, are you taking Avery to your place?' Melissa cooed. Derek's cheeks darkened, and so did Philippe's. I sent Melissa a dirty look and turned to Mr. Rodgers, standing mostly forgotten beside me, still looking at the fainting couch.

'What about you, Mr. Rodgers? Do you want to come to dinner with us?'

Melissa had the good grace to look ashamed of her behavior and of the fact that she'd totally ignored Mr. Rodgers.

'Dear me, no,' the lawyer shook his head. 'I have plans for tonight, I'm afraid.' He glanced down at the couch, probably marshalling his excuses, then added, 'In fact, I think it is time for me to leave. Miss Baker, Miss James, always a pleasure. Mr. Ellis, nice to have seen you. Monsieur Aubert, welcome to Waterfield. I feel certain that between Miss Baker and Miss James, you will be well taken care of, but if there is anything I can do, please do not hesitate to contact me.'