“Thanks for the heads-up.” I pause. “Can I ask something else? About Owen.”
“Depends on the question.”
“Barbara from the realty office said something about the Carvers and... unfinished projects. That part of the curse?”
Walt sighs, leaning on a shelf. “Owen’s dad had a stroke three years ago. Bad one. Owen came back, took over the business. Put his own stuff on hold.”
“He was doing custom work in Boston, right?”
“High-end design. Had plans. Was going places.” Walt gives me a look. “But some people don’t run when things get hard, city girl.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“I should get back to the B&B,” I say, suddenly hyper-aware of how easily this stranger sees through me. “Thanks for the floor offer. I plan to earn it.”
Walt nods. “We’ll see.”
As I reach the door, he adds, “Owen’s particular about his work. Doesn’t tolerate fools or flakes. If you want this renovation to happen? Show up. Pay attention. And for God’s sake—wear proper shoes.”
I glance down at my boots. Sturdy in LA. Laughable here.
“Noted,” I say, and head out, his warning echoing behind me like abenediction.
Back at the B&B,Marge makes good on her promise of“proper tea.”It involves a teapot, loose leaves, and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. We sit in her cozy kitchen, and she fills me in on gossip I haven’t earned—but gratefully accept.
“The Hendricks place has a story,” she tells me, pouring tea into mismatched cups that still somehow go together. “Built it for his daughter. She moved to Portland before it was finished. Place sat empty for years.”
“Until the auction company bought it?”
Marge nods. “Northwest Community Housing Initiative. Sounds sweet, right? But it’s business. They buy cheap, bundle it with a ‘service package,’ then sell it at auctions to out-of-towners.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “No offense.”
“None taken. Iliterallydidn’t know better.” I sip my tea. “So I’m not the first sucker.”
“Third in five years. But you might be the first with a fighting chance.” She eyes me over her cup. “You’ve got a look.”
“A look?”
“Like someone who’s used to proving people wrong.”
I laugh. “I’m more used to convincing people they’re right. PR is basically professional agreement.”
Marge smiles. “That’s not the same as believing it yourself, is it?”
Before I can answer, she adds, “Walt says you met his floor challenge.”
News travels fast.
“Word gets around.”
“Like wildfire. By breakfast, everyone will know you plan to stay through Christmas.”
“Great,” I mutter. “No pressure.”
“Pressure makes diamonds, dear.” She stands, collecting our dishes. “Your room has a desk if you need it. Wi-Fi password’swelcomehome.All lowercase. No spaces.”
Back upstairs, exhaustion crashes into me like a truck. I curlup in the window seat, laptop balanced on my knees, intending to check email. Instead, I stare out at Marge’s garden, lit golden in the evening light.
