Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy
weeks before I can even consider relocating.” It took a few moments to convince this guy, too. Finally, after Adam agreed to let the man know if the situation changed, Adam ended the call, stored it in his phone and headed for his minivan.
Two calls in one day. It certainly made him reevaluate his current job situation. He could tolerate teaching Tae Kwon Do classes and helping his parents for a while. He was enjoying working with Yolanda on the Victorian; he just wished she’d listen to his advice a bit more. Unfortunately, what she paid wasn’t enough to help with his father’s surgery.
He blamed himself for being broke. He’d squandered and enjoyed every minute of his time away from Scorpion Ridge. Until he opened his eyes one morning and found it all gone. Along with his girlfriend, new van and all his art supplies.
Adam knew his squandered money had been a huge mistake. Learning the hard way had always been Adam Snapp’s way. But it was time to reassess, think about his family, make better choices and find a way to stay in Scorpion Ridge for the next few weeks and still make enough money to help support his parents.
At most, they’d gain ten to twenty new students with this beginning-of-school enrollment push. The students would sign a long-term contract and pay by the month. There’d be no big chunk of change when his father needed it.
It would trickle in, instead.
Luke Rittenhouse, his boss at BAA, would let him sell his art in the habitat’s gift shop on commission, but only if it related to animals. Adam had been able to do animals easily. They allowed Adam’s quirky side to flourish. Of the five pieces of his that were on sale now at BAA, the bear had real teeth—provided by the habitat’s veterinarian—the peacock had real feathers—a simple matter really, he’d just picked them up as he walked the grounds—and the others all had something similar.
They were, however, pieces Adam had completed more than a year ago. Nothing new.
He remembered the passion he used to have. He wanted it back. Maybe he should follow Yolanda’s lead, take a community college class and come up with a business plan.
He already had a name when it came to murals, from the more than two dozen he’d done at BAA plus the five he’d painted in New Mexico, California and Chicago. They’d all been collages of small-town history. Each one had boasted a train, a long-dead high-profile town figure and whatever the town was famous for.
They’d been fun, but Adam had to admit his heart was no longer in it. Painting the history of a town he was a stranger to felt wrong.
The places he’d stayed during the few years he’d been away from Scorpion Ridge hadn’t been home. They’d been little more than glorified motel rooms. He’d come close to a home in Wildrose. The little apartment he’d shared with Stacey held good memories. He’d seen what it could be like to have someone by his side, someone who believed in him and shared his passion.
He also remembered how the refrigerator was never stocked, how few clothes were in the dresser drawers and that no photos of his family had been displayed.
It had still been a glorified motel room. He’d just not realized it.
Walking up the steps to the Victorian, he wondered if Yolanda felt at home here. She and her mother had lived in a tiny house near the edge of town. It had always looked perfect. He’d only been in it once. He remembered that the furnishings and decor appeared almost staged. Yes, that was the word. It was decorated as if a photographer were about to enter and take a picture.
It didn’t seem lived in at all.
Her grandmother’s Victorian had never looked perfect, at least not until now. Rosi Acura believed in toys on the porch, bikes in the yard and chalk drawings on the sidewalk. He’d helped her out a time or two with that. Yup, the Victorian was certainly a lot more elegant now than it had been all those years ago.
Back then, the neighborhood kids had thought it was haunted when in reality it was just the oldest house on the block and a bit run-down. The kids had dared each other to take a step into the front yard. Once, when he was ten, he’d run to the front door, rang the doorbell and then hightailed it back to his friends hiding behind a car parked in the street.
Yolanda’s grandmother hadn’t helped matters. Sometimes Rosi’d open the door and yell boo. But then she’d come out with cookies or popcorn and entice the kids into the yard again. Her presence, they pretended, would scare away any ghosts.
Yolanda had spent a lot of time here while her mother worked. She’d sit on the porch, with her nose either in a book or thrust in the air, all annoyed at the silly games boys played.
“You home?” he called, opening the door. In the neighborhood he’d lived in in Chicago, an unlocked door meant a negligent tenant. Here in Scorpion Ridge it meant come in, neighbor.
“Hey, Adam.” To his surprise, Rosi exited the kitchen. She wore a frilly brown, black and white shirt over black stretch pants. Normal enough attire until you looked at her feet. Black-and-white zebra slippers. BAA had a whole display of wild animal slippers, so these were probably a gift from her granddaughter.
“Yolanda here?”
“No, she’s in Phoenix shopping for dormers.”
He’d been the one to tell her that the four dormers in her living room were too small for the job they were performing, hence their deteriorating condition. She’d wanted to keep them; he’d urged her to replace them. Guess his pep talk about staying true to the home’s history paid off. She should have asked him to tag along, though. She’d have trouble finding the right ones without him.
Rosi followed him to the stairs, but she could no longer climb them. “What are you planning to do today?”
“Doors.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs, wanting to get busy yet wanting to talk. Finally, he set the promotional fliers on a table by the front door and sat on the fourth step up, his long legs stretched before him, and glanced at Rosi.
She still looked like she had back when she was hollering boo at him. Maybe her face was lined a bit more and maybe she walked slower. Even after all these years, she was the type of woman who took care of people.
She laughed and joined him. “I love this house. Yolanda loves it, too. You’re going to fix the rest of it up for us, right?”
“I’m gonna try. Upstairs, I’m pretty sure we’re looking at a lot of lead paint in all those doors. I need to see if they’re worth saving.”
“They are.”
That answer was no surprise as this was her house. But Yolanda wouldn’t be happy with how much more it would cost to renovate rather than replace.
“How long did you live here?” he asked.
“Since I was sixteen.”
“So, we’re talking the nineteen forties?”
“Yes. Late nineteen forties.”
“I spoke to my grandmother yesterday. She remembered the Ventimiglias. Said the same thing you did, that they weren’t very nice. Do you remember Ivy Ventimiglia?”
“I do. I remember those days like they were yesterday. Actually, I remember the past better than the present.”
“What do you remember about Ivy?”
For a moment he thought Rosi would withdraw. Instead, she said, “Well, she was a few grades behind me in school. I was in the same grade as your grandmother. Not that Ivy would have associated with us. Me, anyway. I think your grandmother might have spent some time with her. Position, family wealth, heritage, they all meant a lot more back then. Not always for the good.”
“What do you mean?” He had an inkling, but wanted her to spell it out.
“Ivy and your grandmother lived here on the hill, the rich part of town. Even if they didn’t like each other, and they didn’t, they had to pretend.”
That