Her Road Home. Laura Drake
a fire hydrant, but thankfully, not the child. He still woke up some nights in a puddle of sweat, dreaming of what could have happened.
Luckily, since he’d finished his class work they allowed him to graduate, though he’d spent the day of the ceremony holding down a seat in a county drunk tank. When Nick sobered up, he looked around at the jail population and had a revelation—he fit right in with the drunks and losers. His mother would have been so disappointed. Hell, he was disappointed in himself.
Nick needed a plan. By the time he’d served his six-month sentence, he had one. He left L.A. with a twelve-step card in his pocket, an idea for a business and a bad case of homesickness.
Now he needed another plan. “JJ, go get washed up. Your parents will be here in a minute, and dinner’s about ready.”
Almost all the girls he’d known in high school were married now. When he first moved back, he’d tried dating, but between the hours he had to put in with the shop and the awkwardness of discussing his past, he gave it up. He hadn’t met anyone who, an hour after spending time with them, he missed.
Time to check the cookie progress, and assess the damage to the kitchen. He turned off the grill and lowered the lid. The sound of the twins squabbling in the kitchen made him smile.
Maybe it was time to try again.
* * *
SAM CRUISED PACIFIC COAST Highway back to town, breaking into a goofy smile when she drove around a bend to see the ocean, stretching like molten metal, to the horizon. It had transformed overnight from a moody, white-capped, gunmetal gray to a California picture postcard. Foam rode the small blue rollers that combed the creamy beach sand. The ocean’s chop fractured the sunlight into blinding silver slivers.
Turning inland, the road seemed guileless in the sunshine, but as she came upon the scene of yesterday’s accident, a shudder rippled through her. Her shoulder protested with an electric arc of pain. She studied the scene, but still couldn’t see anything she’d done wrong. Even if she had seen the Mercedes, she had nowhere to go. Now it appeared the accident had led her to another job.
Sam wondered how she’d look back at her time in Widow’s Grove. Each of her project pauses on her way across country seemed like a separate lifetime—as if she’d tried on different lives, to see how they fit. When she shook her head, the thought blew away in the wind ripping through her hair. Nowhere fit. That was just the way of things. A dark wisp of the nightmare edged across her light mood. Best to keep moving.
She rolled back through Widow’s Grove. The town had morphed overnight to a sparkling jewel. Tourists wandered, ducking in and out of shops. In the park, a group in bright spandex sprawled next to their bicycles. The coffee shop did a brisk business, the umbrella’s flirty skirts flipping up in the breeze.
A picture-postcard town.
And that can only help the resale value of the house.
But time spent dreaming would be a waste if the owners didn’t take her offer. She had learned the hard way not to want things—it was less painful.
Pulling up in front of her run-down cabin, she shut down the engine and unbuckled the seat belt. She ran her hand over the sun-warmed leather seat. Someone spent a lot of time and money restoring this; even the eye-scorching yellow interior was spanking clean and perfect. Nick, obviously, but why? Clearly he didn’t take it out much. Why put good money into a garage-dweller? She stepped out of the car just as her cell phone belted out the first notes of an old Jethro Tull road song.
Her heart sped up when she recognized the soft voice on the line.
“Miss Crozier? It’s Honey, from Homestake Realty. I was able to contact the Sutton family this afternoon. I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.”
“I guess I couldn’t hear the phone for the wind.”
“Yes, well. I’ve been in touch with the family.” She hesitated. “Look, I know you don’t negotiate and I don’t mean to offend you. But the sellers find it hard to reach a consensus, and...”
From the undertone of frazzled in Honey’s voice, Sam could imagine what that conversation was like.
“The bottom line is that they won’t take less than their original asking price.”
Crap. This disappointment bit a layer deeper than most of her letdowns. She recalled the Victorian’s stately bone structure, peeking out at her from under years of neglect. Uncovering those bones would have been such a challenging project. Fun, too. She sighed.
“Ms. Crozier?”
She realized it was the second time her name had been called. “What?”
“Why don’t I call you in a couple of days? There’s no reason to make a hasty decision.”
Sam took a breath, fully intending to nix the deal. Instead, she heard herself say, “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.” She hung up, but continued staring at the phone.
This was business. Either a deal worked, financially, or it didn’t. This one didn’t. So why did it matter so much? Sure, it was a neat project, but she’d learned there were great projects scattered all across the U.S.
So what was with the soft tug in her chest?
* * *
FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Sam didn’t have much else to do but think. The rest was good for her battered body, but the forced inactivity wasn’t good for her mind. The distraction of staying busy had always been her first line of defense against dark thoughts and bad dreams. That, and traveling. Grounded and idle, they were catching up with her.
She’d taken to walking, stalking the country roads around the cabins. Something about the green rolling hills and live oaks calmed her, but today she’d gone farther than usual, and her feet dragged the dusty roadside.
In spite of repeated admonishments, her mind kept returning to the puzzle of the house. Somewhere in the country miles, she’d solved the problem. If she demolished the top floor on the water-damaged side of the house, along with the rooms below them, the entire right side would become a master bedroom loft, looking down into a huge great room. That would leave the house with only one bedroom, but what a bedroom! She imagined the fieldstone fireplace, and the firelight reflecting off a burnished hardwood floor.
There was the carriage house—the second story was one huge open room. It could be converted to guest quarters. There was enough room for two bedrooms and a bath, easy.
Damn, that would be nice. She turned in at the cabins.
But she’d done the math more than once. She’d always turned a good profit, thanks to sticking to strict budget guidelines. This one didn’t fit them.
But the location! Property values always skyrocketed near tourist towns. Maybe they hadn’t peaked yet. If she took this deal, she’d be betting on the come.
But Sam wasn’t a gambler. Gambling was for people who could afford to lose.
Screw it. I’ll just move on. After all, there would be another project down the road. She opened the hideous car’s door, gingerly lowered herself into the seat and fired it up.
Mind made up, she kicked the disappointment to a back corner of her mind. Maybe she’d head up the coast, see San Francisco. She liked the idea of working on a Victorian, and she heard they had a bunch of them up there.
I’ve got to pressure that mechanic to move faster on the bike. Without a project, she had no money coming in. She could have the Jeep sent from Telluride, but traveling was no fun on four wheels.
She turned at the Farm House Café parking lot. Listening to local gossip would be a good distraction from her thoughts. She’d just grab a cup of coffee. Her phone rang with the distinctive drum riff to “Radar Love.” Only having full use of one hand was getting old, fast. She zipped into a parking place, put the car in Park and picked up the phone.
“Ms. Crozier? It’s