Home For the Haunting: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (19 page)

“Oh, hey,” I said, playing it cool. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Your sister called and invited me.”

“Oh . . . wasn’t that nice?”

“I would have wound up on your doorstep one way or the other, anyway. I wanted to apologize for this morning.”

I shrugged. “No big deal.”

“I acted like an ass. My only excuses are that I was tired . . . and that I worry about you putting yourself in danger.”

“Okay.”

He studied my face, frowning slightly like he was trying to read my mind. I concentrated on remaining inscrutable.

“So, we’re okay?”

“Of course.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” Graham pulled a book out of his bag. “I happened to stumble across this at Christopher’s Books.”

The dainty little sage green book was wrapped in a cover illustrated with a stark sepia-toned photo of an abandoned urbanscape. It was entitled, simply,
Grief: and Other Works of Poetry
. By Hubert Lawrence.

“How did you know?”

“I talked to Luz, and she filled me in on the whole story. She’s worried about you. I have to say, I’m impressed that you’re hobnobbing with California’s poet laureate.”

“You knew who he was?”

“Just because I’m in construction doesn’t mean I don’t keep up with the cultural life of our country.”

I gave him the stinkeye.

He grinned. “Also, Luz told me who he was. Pretty interesting stuff there, though I’m not sure I understand it. It’s a bit like rap to me. I’m pretty sure it’s worthy and worthwhile, but can’t comprehend enough to say for sure.”

Twisting

driftwood memories Bent, cracked and gray

he is he, I am he

blood in the night

rooftop slick

we all fall down

“That’s just plain depressing,” I said.

“It’s beautiful in its stark view of the world, though, right?”

“I guess I’m just not a poetry kind of gal.”

“With an exception for Neruda?” he said with a wicked smile.

Graham had been wooing me for several months now, but I’ll admit I hadn’t been making it easy for him. I had moments of petulance and irritability, with selfishness and outbursts that Luz informed me were meant more for my ex-husband than for Graham. And yet he didn’t go away. He didn’t take my grumpiness seriously, which simultaneously annoyed and charmed me. Instead, he would smile an enigmatic, Mona Lisa–type smile and sit back, almost preternaturally relaxed.

So one unseasonably warm night, Graham had begged me to join him for a drive in the country. We had set out in his old truck, and he drove us to a spot he knew, deep in a redwood forest. Almost without a word he grabbed a packed picnic basket and a blanket, took my hand, and led me to a beautiful little clearing. Overhead was a thick blanket of stars, underneath the soft sponginess of the meadow. Crickets chirped and the full moon shone overhead.

He lay down a blanket and unpacked red wine, crusty bread, stinky cheese, and fragrant nectarines from the farmer’s market.

Along with a book of poetry.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I’d said. “A bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou?”

Graham smiled and handed me a glass of cabernet. “I’m romancing you. This is a courtship. Get used to it.”

I had taken a deep drink of the wine, and gave myself a little talking-to. Why was I so sure of myself, so kick-ass when it came to construction, but so insecure when dealing with this sort of thing? Graham may or may not be the love of my life, but one thing was certain: He wasn’t my ex-husband. I couldn’t judge him on the same criteria. I should give him a chance.

And then he had started reading poetry. Neruda, to be precise.

Then I couldn’t take it anymore. “Seriously, Graham . . . ? You’re an employed, good-looking, interesting man in San Francisco. You’re telling me that you can’t get a date?”

He looked taken aback. “I can get a date. I happen to be on a date right now. What’s your point?”

“Why would you want me?”

“You’re impossible—you know that? I’m thinking you do better with action than with words,” he said, leaning over to me, winding my hair in his hand, and kissing me.

And with that, we proceeded to do a few things that might have gotten us a ticket in the state park.

“You still with me?” Graham asked, interrupting my reverie and bringing my mind back to the smells of pot roast and the clatter of dishes.

“Um . . . sure. Sorry.”

“So, Lawrence took his tragedy and translated it into poetry,” said Graham. “While his sister tried to dull the pain with drugs and alcohol?”

“So it seems. Still, she was the one who saved Hugh that night. She saw her father shoot her mother but had the presence of mind to run to his room, block the door, and help him out the window.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. Is there anything more traumatic as a kid than to have something happen to your folks—and to see your father kill your mother, then himself . . . ?” Graham shook his head and let out a loud breath.

His own father had died when Graham was only five, so he knew the pain of growing up without a dad. In fact, I was sure that was one reason he felt so close to my own father, which occasionally made our relationship a little too incestuous for my comfort.

“Dinner’s on!” yelled Dad, though a simple spoken announcement would have sufficed. We took our seats in the dining room tonight, since we didn’t all fit at the kitchen table.

“So, Graham,” said Cookie, “I am so
thrilled
to finally get a chance to get to know you. But you know, Mel is so tight-mouthed. She hasn’t told me a
thing
about you!”

Cookie had been around when Graham worked for our father, back when we were in high school and college. But since she rarely spent time on the jobsites, she never interacted with him. I had kept my teenage crush to myself, thank heavens.

I stared at him across the table:
Don’t say a word
. His lips curled up in a slight smile.

“I’m in construction, like Mel,” said Graham. “But I specialize in ‘green’ techniques.”

“Oh, like solar power? I have one of those emergency radios that runs off solar power. It’s
miraculous
, isn’t it?” said Cookie as she served herself a thimbleful of mashed potatoes and passed the dish along. I had to hand it to her: She was the only person I’d ever met who could eat just one potato chip—or one dollop of mashed potatoes—and then stop for fear of gaining weight. “I think it’s so important to consider the future of our environment, don’t you? Just the other day I was taking BART home from San Francisco and thinking to myself, If only we all thought about taking public transit rather than burning fossil fuels, just imagine how much progress we could make if we all pitched in.”

Everyone nodded, mouths full. We were Northern Californians. We knew the drill.

When no one took up the conversational mantle, Cookie tried again. “Tell us more, Graham. I’m fascinated with green building.”

“Mel’s not so thrilled with it,” he said as he served himself another slice of pot roast.

Cookie looked at me as though I’d suggested kicking kittens.

“It’s not that,” I said. “As Graham knows perfectly well, I use as many green techniques as possible within my projects. It’s just that they don’t always work with historical renovation.”

“She’s still smarting over installing solar panels over the decorative roof tiles on the Union Street Victorian,” said Dad.

“And the new vinyl windows on that conservatory in Piedmont,” offered Stan.

“Those weird water-saving showerheads didn’t help,” put in Caleb.

“Yes, thanks, everyone, for those examples,” I said. I was all for the environment and included a lot of passive techniques in my work, but unfortunately applying green technologies to historic homes often meant sacrificing authenticity for the environment. I get it—the future of our planet and all that. Still, it made Graham a frequent thorn in my side. “But as I like to point out, renovating old homes is almost always much more environmentally sound than new construction.
Much
smaller carbon footprint. I just don’t like it when people discuss green technologies with my clients outside of my presence.”

Graham grinned at me. “Well, the shoe might well be on the other foot soon. My Marin County client wants to meet with you. He’s building that inn out of historic bits and pieces he’s bringing over from Europe—could be a real challenge.”

“Mmm.” I made a noncommittal reply and took a huge bite of broccoli casserole so I didn’t have to answer. I was looking for future projects, and from what I knew of Graham’s mystery client, I would normally give my toolbox for the opportunity to win the bid. But it would mean working closely with Graham for months on end.

That scared me.

I watched as Cookie did her best to be adorable. Was there any wonder men liked her? She smiled and cooed and acted interested in every word they said. As I watched, Cookie reached for the carrot sticks, and as she leaned forward her top gapped just enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of what lay beneath: something lacy, probably real silk.

I felt grumpier—and frumpier—by the minute. The truth was, my sister was charming. She made people—men especially, but often women, too—feel good about themselves. Whereas I went through life trying to get my work done and bowling everybody over with my efforts. And lately, of course, I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about ghosts and untimely deaths. None of which was liable to improve my mood any.

While I was distracted, a forkful of mashed potatoes tumbled unceremoniously from my fork to my plate, spattering gravy all over the bodice of my dress.

I stared down at my chest.

Classy, Mel. Real classy
.

I started dabbing at my neckline, and looked up to find Graham’s eyes fixed on the low neck of my dress, now peppered with dark spots.

Our eyes met for a long moment. I forgot to breathe for a minute.
Maybe I should take a page out of my sister’s book,
I thought. I sat up straighter, rolled my shoulders back, and looked down at my chest in what I hoped was a seductive move.

Cookie’s high-pitched giggle shattered the moment. “Oh, Mel,
honestly
; I remember when you were little, you never could keep an outfit clean for more than ten minutes.”

I excused myself from the table and hurried upstairs to change.

By the time I returned, clean dress on, they were all doing dishes, laughing it up, and having a great old time.

I couldn’t face it. I ducked into the office and started catching up on paperwork. Though we did as much as possible on the computer, like most businesses, in construction we still worked with a lot of paper, from blueprints to permit forms to client contracts and change orders put in writing.

“Your sister’s charming,” Graham said from the doorway twenty minutes later.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

He came in and closed the door.

“I take it you two aren’t close?”

“Not exactly, no.”

He shrugged. “Not all siblings are best friends. You’re very different people.”

“By which you mean I’m the opposite of charming?”

“I—”

“Well, if you stick around I think she might be available soon. She comes with two adorable children and a pedigreed cat.”

He chuckled. I continued to bang around the office, slamming the filing cabinet and trying not to mutter to myself.

“Hey, are you serious?” Graham grabbed me by the arm as I tried to sweep by him. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m just saying . . . I am who I am. That’s all. This is me, no designer clothes—well, unless you count Stephen—no blond hair, no entertaining little stories. I frequently wear dirty coveralls and I’m grumpy and I don’t particularly like to speak unless I feel I have something reasonably intelligent to say. So if you want someone more like Cookie . . .”

“Why would you think I don’t like you for who you are? Have I ever given you that impression? I follow you into ghost-infested attics, for crissakes.”

“I just don’t think . . . I’m not sure I’m ready for a steady boyfriend. I wouldn’t be good for anybody.”

Graham held me at arm’s length, hands wrapped around my upper arms. “Look, I know I pushed you a little bit before I left town. I’m ready. To be with you. But obviously you’re not sure. That’s okay; we don’t have to rush this. We can back up a little, give you some breathing space. Just please stop trying to foist me off on other women.”

“I wasn’t foisting. I never foist.”

He chuckled and drew me toward him. “How about this? We could have a strictly sexual relationship. Would that be more in your comfort zone, you modern woman, you?”

“You mean you want to be my boy toy?”