Читать книгу Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters - Сьюзен Мэллери, Susan Mallery - Страница 7
ОглавлениеMost people thought the main difference between a tiny house on wheels and one that wasn’t had to do with size. But Griffith Burnett knew differently. It was about weight. If you were going to be pulling your to-hundred-square-foot tiny home all over the place, you didn’t want to be weighed down. No granite countertops, no thick wooden flooring, no wrought iron railings on the upper deck. But if your two-hundred-square-foot home was going to stay in one place, then he knew a great hard-surfaces vendor who could hook you right up. And because your tiny home was...well...small, you could get first-class material at remnant prices.
He stood in the center of what could, in a pinch, be called his manufacturing facility. In truth it was two warehouses connected by a covered walkway, but not only was it a start—it was his.
The bigger of the buildings held six houses in progress. Two were headed for San Francisco, one to Portland, Oregon. Two were for a family compound in eastern Washington—or as a frustrated middle-aged woman had put it, “My sons are never leaving home. I just can’t stand stepping over them every day. I’ll accept that they’re staying put if I don’t have to deal with them and their mess.”
The last was going to be an elegant guest cottage at a quirky Texas B and B.
That side of GB Micro Housing made the money. Whether you wanted to spend thirty thousand or a hundred and thirty thousand, Griffith could build you a tiny home pretty much to your specifications. Single level, two levels, lofts, upper-story decks, high-end finishes or everything recovered from tear-downs. You name it. It was all about weight and how much money you were willing to spend.
He had orders for the next couple of years and the waiting list continued to grow. He’d hired two more full-time employees, bringing his total to ten.
He supposed a money person would tell him to use his other warehouse to fulfill the paying orders, but he wasn’t even tempted. That second, smaller space, well, that was where the real work happened.
In the smaller warehouse, he experimented, he played, he dreamed. He would never make a cent from that work, but it also meant at the end of the day, he could know he’d done what was right. That made sleeping at night a whole lot easier.
He went into the break room to pour himself some coffee only to find his brother sitting at one of the tables. Ryan leaned back in a chair, his feet up on a second one. His eyes were closed as he listened to something through earbuds.
Griffith resisted the urge to kick the chair out from under his brother’s feet. Maybe that would get his attention, although he had his doubts.
Ryan was currently unmotivated. The only reason his brother had come back to Tulpen Crossing was because he’d had nowhere else to go. When Ryan had blown out his shoulder, the Red Sox had cut him loose. After two years of paying more attention to baseball than college and nearly four years in the minor league, Ryan wasn’t exactly skilled labor. He’d needed a job and Griffith had offered him one—on the line, building tiny houses. It was a decision Griffith was beginning to regret.
He nudged his brother’s arm. Ryan opened his eyes and smiled.
“Hey, bro.”
“Hey, yourself. Break ended a half hour ago.”
“What?”
Ryan blinked and looked around, as if genuinely surprised to find everyone else was back at work. “Huh. Sorry. I was listening to the game. I guess I got distracted.”
Griffith could guess how the conversation had gone. One of the guys would have said break was over. Ryan would have said he would be there in a minute. Had the twenty-five-year-old been anyone else, the shop supervisor would have been notified. But Ryan was the boss’s brother. No one was sure if the rules applied—not even Griffith.
He briefly thought of his parents who had always insisted he look after his baby brother—no matter how inconvenient it might be—sucked in a breath and told himself he would deal with Ryan another time.
“Get back to work,” he said. “Now.”
“Sure thing.”
His brother got to his feet and ambled toward the door.
Griffith watched him go and told himself any annoyance was his own fault. Ryan had never hustled—unless he was on the baseball field. There he could be little more than a blur of activity, but in life, not so much with the speed.
* * *
“I love it!”
Olivia Murphy basked in the delighted tone and happy words of her client. Jenny was a sixtysomething recent widow who needed to sell the family home to fund the rest of her life. Getting top dollar was a priority.
The ranch-style three-bedroom, two-bath wasn’t anything fancy. In fact hundreds of them existed in the older neighborhoods of Phoenix. Adding to that challenge were the lack of updates and the time of year. June wasn’t exactly peak selling season in the desert—not when midday temperatures routinely topped a hundred degrees. No one wanted to be looking at homes if they didn’t have to be. Winter was far more active in the real estate market.
But Jenny couldn’t wait until winter, which meant making a splash on minimal budget. Olivia had spent hours on Pinterest, had haunted thrift stores and had begged and borrowed everything else. For less than five hundred dollars, she’d transformed the aging, very ordinary rambler into a cute, welcoming Cape Cod retreat.
“I just can’t believe it’s the same house,” Jenny crowed. “Look at what you’ve done.”
“I know,” Marilee Quedenfeld said, her tone a combination of modest pride and look-at-me. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The second you walk in, you feel the cool, ocean breeze.”
Olivia kept her smile firmly in place. There was no point in saying anything. Working for Marilee these past four years had taught her that. If there was praise to be had, it went to Marilee. If there was a complaint, well, that went anywhere else.
“You’re a genius,” Jenny told Marilee. “Everyone said you were the best, but I didn’t expect this. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” Marilee put her arm around her client. “I know what you’ve been through and this is the least I can do.”
Words Jenny would take at face value, Olivia thought, while Marilee was probably thinking something along the lines of Dear God, why doesn’t this woman take better care of herself?
The contrast in their appearances was startling. Jenny was short, frumpy and had obviously surrendered to the aging process. Marilee, by contrast, wore an Akris punto polka-dot A-line dress and Valentino pumps. Her hair was a sleek, shoulder-length, dark blond bob, her makeup emphasized large eyes and smooth skin. She was close to fifty, looked thirty-five and occasionally tried to pass herself off as even younger.
“Let’s go look at the rest of the house,” Marilee suggested. “You’re going to love everything I’ve done.”
“I know I will.”
Olivia stayed in the kitchen. It was safer there—she wouldn’t be tempted to blurt out a fact only the designer would know. While the momentary satisfaction would be great, she would pay for it later.
Olivia had joined Marilee’s successful real estate business right out of college. She’d started as a secretary and had worked her way up to designing all the company’s marketing. As that wasn’t a full-time gig, she’d tried her hand at selling homes, but had discovered she didn’t have the right kind of personality. Marilee didn’t, either, but she was better at faking it.
In an effort to keep from having to fill her day with secretarial duties, Olivia had started taking design classes. She quickly discovered she had a knack for more than putting together a great outfit on a budget and transforming a plain house into something wildly appealing. So far she was offering her staging services for only the cost of supplies, but she was toying with the idea of starting a real business and had the savings account to prove it. This house had been her biggest project by far. She might not be getting the credit, but she had plenty of before and after pictures for her portfolio.
Jenny and Marilee left the house to return to the office. Olivia stayed behind to lock up and look around one more time.
“Your assistant is such a pretty girl,” she heard Jenny say as they walked to Marilee’s Mercedes. “We should all be so young.”
Olivia winced. Marilee would not appreciate being lumped into Jenny’s over-sixty age group, nor would she like Olivia being complimented. But that was for later.
She checked that the rear slider was locked, pausing to admire the Adirondack chairs she’d found at a garage sale for all of ten bucks each. She’d set a thrift store tray on top of a ratty plastic end table. A few shells in an old mason jar with a little sand transformed the tired poolside into something beachy.
Inside she’d covered Jenny’s lumpy sofa with an off-white slipcover, then added throw pillows in gray, blue and pale aqua. A textured throw rug in beige and cream covered most of the 1980s floor tile.
In the master she’d recovered the headboard with striped gray-and-white sheets. She’d splurged on a new comforter, then had rearranged the furniture. A few accessories—starfish, a clock in the shape of a lighthouse and piece of driftwood—continued the theme.
The master bath was pure illusion. Rolled towels and pretty jars of bath salts distracted from the outdated tile. A quick coat of white paint added a sense of freshness. She’d found a darling silk flower arrangement and put it into a child’s sand bucket. The touch of whimsy drew the eye away from the ugly tub.
Her phone chirped. She glanced down and saw she had a text from Logan. They’d met over the weekend and he’d been trying to get together with her ever since. Honestly, Olivia just wasn’t in the mood. Yes, he was Kathy’s boyfriend and stealing him would be good fun, but for some reason the idea didn’t appeal.
She scrolled through other texts and paused when she saw the one that had really caught her attention.
You should come home for a visit. We could hang out. Miss you, babe.
Every woman had her weakness. For some it was brownies, for others it was shoes, for her it was Ryan Burnett.
The man made her crazy. She knew the reason—they’d never had their chance. She’d been cruelly ripped from his arms before they could become the most popular couple in high school. Later, at college, he’d been more interested in baseball than her, something he still had to pay for.
She wanted to forget him and couldn’t. He was the promise of what could have been, of what she could have been. When she was with him, she finally belonged. She needed that—needed him. Ever since he’d moved back to Tulpen Crossing three months ago, he’d been asking her to come up for a visit. Which was ridiculous. That was the last place she wanted to be. Except for Ryan...
She dropped her phone back in her bag and walked outside. After making sure the key was in the lockbox, she checked the front door, then drove back to the office. She arrived in time to hear Jenny raving about the marketing campaign Olivia had prepared.
“I don’t know how you do it all,” Jenny gushed. “Marilee, you’re amazing.” She turned to Olivia. “You must learn so much working for her.”
“I do. Every day.” She turned to Marilee. “The house is ready to go live. Shall I take care of that for you?”
“Please.”
Olivia retreated to her small, windowless office. She went online and uploaded the listing she’d already prepared. Then she checked on their other listings, which didn’t take very long. The number of houses they were selling would pick up again in September, but until then, they were in the real estate dead zone.
An hour later, Marilee buzzed for Olivia to come to her office. Olivia smoothed the front of her sleeveless dress before walking down the carpeted hallway. Marilee sat on the leather sofa in her large, corner office.
“That woman is so tiresome. I thought she would never leave. At least she liked the staging, although I have to say I was a little disappointed.” She wrinkled her nose as best she could, considering the Botox. “Really, Olivia? Starfish and a sand bucket? Is that the best you could do?”
Olivia felt herself flush. “I had a budget of five hundred dollars. There weren’t a lot of choices. I think the unique style will appeal to buyers.”
“We’ll see. Jenny was happy at least, although that’s not saying much.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “How hot is it out there? Over a hundred?”
“It’s close.”
“I can’t wait to get out of here. Roger’s place in Colorado is going to be heavenly. The views are amazing. You should go away for a few weeks, Olivia. There isn’t much business over the summer and it would save me having to cut your hours.”
The not-so-subtle hint wasn’t new. Marilee was forever threatening her employees with reduced wages or being fired. The fact that she owned the most successful real estate firm in the city gave her power and she knew it.
When she’d first joined the firm, Olivia had been immune to Marilee’s pettiness and whims, but lately that had changed. Maybe it was inevitable with the passage of time. Maybe it was the fact that Olivia had caught Roger staring at her legs. No matter how much Marilee did to slow the clichéd ravages of time, the truth was she would be fifty in a couple of years. Whatever the reason, Olivia wasn’t Marilee’s favorite anymore. She was just like everyone else.
A familiar ache filled her chest. It had started when she was twelve years old and her mother had simply left. Olivia had been devastated. She and her mother had been so close. They were the two who got each other. Kelly had always been Dad’s favorite and Olivia had been Mom’s, one each, the way it was supposed to be. But when Mom had left, Olivia had been alone.
Ever since then, nothing had been right. There had been moments when she’d felt safe, as if she belonged, but only moments. Except with Ryan. When she was with him, she always knew that she was going to be okay. With him, she could believe in herself, in the future.
She thought of the messages on her phone. The meaningless parties she could waste time on, the women she hung out with. They, like Marilee, were more frenemy than friend. What did she have keeping her here? Kathy’s boyfriend? A career that was going nowhere? She had no idea what she wanted, which meant she was never going to achieve anything. She needed time to think and maybe, just maybe, the chance to make her life perfect again.
She couldn’t go back to being that twelve-year-old girl again, but she could take Ryan up on his invitation. Go back to Tulpen Crossing. That would give Marilee something to chew on and wouldn’t that be fun? Plus she could finally get her man. Because with Ryan, everything was better.
“You know what, Mom? You’re right. I should take some time off.”
Marilee’s expression tightened. “I’ve told you not to call me that. Especially at the office. I’m nowhere near old enough to have a daughter your age.”
“Good thing Kelly doesn’t work for you. She’s even older than me.”
“I have to say I don’t care for your attitude.”
“Sorry. I should probably get out of here, then. I need to pack and close up my apartment.”
“You’re actually going somewhere?”
“Uh-huh. Home. I’m going home for the summer.”
Marilee sat up. “Home? To that backwater town? Are you crazy?”
“No. I think it will be fun. I haven’t visited in forever. I’ll let you know when I’m heading out. And I’ll make sure Kathy has all the information she needs for the listings we have.”
“You can’t simply leave me. You have responsibilities.”
“You’ll be fine, Mom. You always are.” Olivia smiled. “At least this way you don’t have to cut my hours.”
* * *
Reporting for work at 5:00 a.m. was not for sissies but there were a few things that could mitigate the horror. One was the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls hot out of the oven. The other was Billy Joel blasting at a volume just short of hearing loss.
Helen Sperry walked in the front door of The Parrot Café at two minutes to five. Being on time wasn’t difficult what with her basically living around the corner. She paused to inhale the glorious, gooey scent, then smiled when she heard the opening line to “Uptown Girl.”
“I’ll bet Billy can afford to buy all the pearls he wants now,” she called as she flipped on lights. “What do you think, Delja?”
There was no answer from the kitchen, but that was okay. Delja America wasn’t much of a talker. Instead she expressed herself through her amazing cooking and baking.
Helen hummed along with the song as she walked into the kitchen. “Morning. Everything okay?”
Delja had been with the diner since she graduated from high school nearly forty years before. She was barely five feet tall, but had the build of a linebacker. The muscles of one, too. She could flip a fifty-pound bag of flour onto the counter like it was a small baggie filled with grapes. And the things the woman could do with eggs bordered on miraculous. She was a widow, with one son—the current mayor of Tulpen Crossing—and a daughter who lived in Utah.
Delja looked up at Helen and smiled. Helen crossed the kitchen to receive her morning hug—the one that nearly squeezed the air out of her body. She hung on as tight as she could, trying to return the body crushing with equal force, but suspected Delja was not impressed by her upper body strength.
Delja released her, then held her at arm’s length.
“You good?”
The question was asked in a low, gruff voice. It was the same one Delja had asked every single morning for the past eight years—ever since Helen had taken over the diner from her aunt.
“I am. Did you talk to Lidiya? Are you going to stay with her this summer?”
Every year Delja visited her daughter for three weeks. The entire town wept as the supply of cinnamon rolls dried up. Tempers grew short and people counted the days until Delja’s return.
“September.”
“Okay, then. You’ll email me the dates?”
Delja nodded once, then turned back to frosting the rolls.
There was more they could discuss. Their personal lives, what supplies might be running low, whether or not the Mariners were going to have a winning baseball season, but they wouldn’t. Delja preferred a single-word response to actual conversation and did most of her communicating via email. If something had to be ordered, she would have already sent a note to their supplier.
As for checking on her work, Helen knew better. Delja started her day at two in the morning. By five there were biscuits in the oven, all the omelet extras had been prepped and oranges squeezed. At The Parrot Café, the back of house ran smoothly—all thanks to Delja.
Helen went to her office and tucked her handbag into the bottom drawer of her desk. She glanced in the small mirror over the sink by the door. Her black hair was pulled back in a French braid, her bangs were trimmed and her makeup was subtle. All as it should be. The fact that she couldn’t see below her shoulders meant she didn’t have to notice that her last diet had failed as spectacularly as the previous seventeen. Which was not her fault. Really. How could she be expected to eat Paleo while living in a world that contained Delja’s cinnamon rolls?
She returned to the front of the store and started the morning prep. There were place settings to be put out and sugar shakers to be filled. Silly, simple tasks that allowed her to collect herself for her day. And maybe, just maybe, give her a second so that the butterflies in her stomach calmed down from their current hip-hop to a more stately waltz.
The Parrot Café (named for parrot tulips, not the bird) had been around nearly as long as the town. Helen’s aunt had inherited it from her parents and when she’d married, her husband had joined the team. From what Helen could tell, the two of them had been very happy together. The café was open from 6:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m., seven days a week. Until Helen had come along, the childless couple had shut down every August and had traveled the world. Then Helen’s parents had been killed in a car accident, leaving the only child an orphan. There had been no other family, so Helen had come to Tulpen Crossing.
She supposed her aunt and uncle had tried. As much as her world had been thrown into chaos, theirs had been, as well. They’d done what they could to make her feel welcome, but she’d known the truth. They hadn’t wanted children. It had been a choice—yet they were stuck with her.
She’d done her best to not be any trouble, and to learn the business. By the time she was thirteen, she was already waiting tables. The patrons loved her and no one knew that she cried herself to sleep every night for the first three years after her parents had died.
Her parents had been poor but happy—both musicians. That meant there hadn’t been any money for, well, anything. The only thing she still had of her parents’ was the piano they’d played and their wedding rings. She kept the former in her living room in her small house and had had the latter made into a pendant she wore every day. She hadn’t inherited much of their musical gifts, but like them, she did love Billy Joel. He was her connection to the past.
By five thirty Helen had the coffee brewing. The rest of the wait staff showed up at five forty-five and the first customer would walk through the door exactly at six. By seven thirty every booth would be full, as would the counter seats. There was always a lull around ten that lasted until the lunch crowd showed up. By then Delja had clocked out and the culinary students from the school up in Bellingham were hard at work in the kitchen, prepping for lunch.
It was a system that worked. The students got to practice in a real world restaurant, her customers had an opportunity to try new and fun food, along with traditional favorites, and she had a steady supply of labor. Many students signed up for weekend shifts and those who lived local often wanted a job with her for a couple of years to get experience for their résumés before moving on to somewhere a lot more elegant than The Parrot Café.
Helen glanced at the clock, then reached for a mug. She was still pouring coffee when she heard the front door open. Her butterflies started a quickstep and for one brief second, she thought her hands might actually shake. Which was ridiculous. And right on cue, the recorded sound of breaking glass was followed by the opening chords of “You May Be Right.”
“I may be crazy,” Helen whispered to herself before turning around and smiling as Jeff Murphy walked toward her. “Morning.”
“Hi, Helen.” Jeff winced slightly. “Does it have to be this loud?”
“Billy is my rock-and-roll boyfriend. A love like that demands volume.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jeff set paper-wrapped flowers on the counter before pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. It only took him a second to find the Sonos app and lower the volume to the level of background noise.
“One day Billy’s going to kick your ass for doing that,” she told him.
He grinned. “I’m willing to take the chance.”
It was a variation on the conversation they had nearly every day. One she looked forward to with ridiculous anticipation. Billy might be her rock-and-roll boyfriend, but Jeff was, well... Jeff was the reason her heart kept beating.
Stupid, but there it was. The truth. She was wildly, desperately in love with Jeff Murphy.
The man was gorgeous. He looked a little like the actor Jason Bateman, with shaggy hair and big brown eyes. He was tall, fit, funny, kind and he could play guitar like nobody’s business. In a word—irresistible.
He was also single, so what was the problem? Why couldn’t she simply tell him how she felt? Or ask him out to dinner? Or rip off her clothes and smile winningly? Jeff wasn’t a dummy. He would get the message.
Only three things stopped her. One, he was older. Sixteen years, to be exact. While she didn’t care, she thought he might. Two, the extra thirty pounds she carried. She was currently subscribing to the when-then philosophy—distant cousin to the if-then concept. When she lost weight, then she would be brave and throw herself at Jeff.
She acknowledged that pending moment of disaster might be the reason she seemed in no hurry to commit to a weight-loss plan but she wasn’t sure.
Reason number three—which was probably the most important and therefore should be the first—Jeff was her best friend’s father.
Yup, Jeff was Kelly’s dad, which added a whole layer of complicated to the situation. Because should she ever confess the truth to said best friend, there would be a conversation filled with “WTF” and “Are you kidding me?” All of which would be screamed rather than spoken.
Oh, wait. There was a fourth reason Helen hadn’t thrown herself at Jeff. He’d never once made a move in her direction. All the more reason to bury her unrequited love/lust in a warm cinnamon roll.
“Let me show you what I brought you today,” he said, unrolling the paper. “Havran.”
Helen stepped closer to study the beautiful tulips. They were deep purple with a slightly pointed petal. The stems were pale green and smooth.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.”
She knew better than to offer to pay for them. She’d tried a couple of times, but Jeff had simply shaken his head. “I grow tulips, Helen. I want to do this.”
She’d tried reading something into his words but weeks, then months, had passed with nary a change in their relationship. Not by a whisper, look or touch did he ever hint that he thought of her as more than a friend. She’d learned to accept the flowers as a kind gift. The man was a tulip farmer, after all. It wasn’t as if he’d bought them for her.
She collected a tray filled with small vases, along with clippers. Together they loaded the vases and put them on each table. When she returned to the counter, he held out a small wrapped package the size and shape of a single stem.
“For you. Don’t tell Kelly.”
Humor danced in his dark brown eyes. Eyes she would very much like to get lost in. Maybe while he slowly undressed and reached for her as they...
“Helen?”
“What? Oh, thanks. Although I’m not sure I should thank you for stealing from your daughter’s private greenhouse.”
“She’s not going to notice one flower missing.”
“You take one every week. At some point she’s going to catch on.”
He winked. “She hasn’t yet.”
No, she hadn’t. Because Kelly would have mentioned the thefts, had she spotted them.
Yes, it was true—father and daughter worked together on their tulip farm. In addition to growing millions of blooms for florists and grocery stores, Kelly had a small, private greenhouse where she cultivated special flowers. Flowers Jeff occasionally stole and brought to Helen.
Today’s offering was red with a yellow base. But what was most remarkable were the long, slender petals that came to a needlelike point. They were delicate and exotic and incredibly beautiful.
“Tulipa acuminata,” Jeff said.
Helen didn’t know if the words were Latin or just scientific, but hearing him say them made her girl parts sigh in unison.
“It’s stunning,” she said. “I’ll put it in my office and not tell my best friend, which makes me a bad person and it’s all your fault.”
“I do what I can.”
He took a seat at the counter. His regular seat. The one she thought of as Jeff’s chair. When she had a moment between customers, it was where she later sat. Sad, but true.
“Want to see a menu?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that your idea of humor?”
Because he’d been coming to the café all his adult life and knew everything they served.
“I’m trying to mix things up,” she said.
“I’ll have an omelet.”
“With bacon, avocado, cheese.” A statement, not a question.
“You know what I like.”
If only that were true. If only she knew the words or moves to get him to see her as more than a friend. Unless, of course, he wasn’t interested. Which he probably wasn’t, because he was a decisive man. So she should get over him and move on with her life. Only she didn’t want to get over Jeff. She wanted to get into him. Or have him get into her, or...
“I need more coffee,” she muttered. And a hormone transplant. Or maybe just some more Billy Joel.
