Authors: Lili Grouse
“I didn’t steal anything. And it’s
your
fridge now? Don’t I live here, too?”
“Of course you do,” Ford sighed. “Sorry, Annie.”
“Whatever. I’m going out.”
“Whoa! No, you’re not.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“You and I are going to go out and grab some dinner, and then we’re going to talk about your attitude adjustment.”
“My what now?”
“You’re going back to your mom’s house in two weeks, and I don’t want to hear about you getting into trouble at school again this year. This attitude you’ve got going on here needs to change.”
“You’re one to talk, Dad,” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You’re always barking at people. It’s not like I have such a stellar example to live by, is it?”
Ford ran his hand over his face, taking a beat to calm himself. Yelling had gotten him nowhere in the past year, and so he was going to give reasoning a try.
“Okay. Let’s just go grab some food and…”
“Sorry, Dad, I’ve already got plans.” As if on cue, a car horn honked outside and Annabelle flung her bag over her shoulder. “See ya.”
Ford knew he should go after her, but he suddenly felt bone-weary. He pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table and sunk into it. A pile of bills sat at the far end of the table, and he reached for them without much enthusiasm.
He loved his daughter to death, but the child support check he made out to her mother every month really put a dent in his finances. He was happy to pay for his child’s care, but less than happy to pay for his ex-wife’s shopping addiction. Annabelle had started taking after her, too. All she could talk about when he called was the latest beauty product or fashion statement she needed to get her hands on. Next year, it’d be cars she was mooning over, he was sure of it.
Suzy had traded him in for a more expensive model, so to speak. Burt Simons, Suzy’s new husband, had a house on Cape Cod and a villa in Spain, and of course their home in Beverly Hills. Simons was a film producer, and now Annabelle was talking about getting into acting. No way that was happening. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure that Annabelle knew what kind of movies Simons produced, but
he
did. As long as he had a voice, he was going to say exactly what he thought about Mr. Moneybags and his bad influence on Annabelle. Not that Suzy cared much what he thought about anything these days.
Ford had been sure that a summer spent in Greenport with him would turn Annabelle around, make her see there was more to life than glitz and glamour. He was as far removed from that scene as any person could get, after all. He’d been wrong. From the moment Annabelle had set foot in Greenport, she’d complained nonstop. He finally had to confiscate her phone and laptop and force her to take a job at the grocery store to learn the value of a paycheck and hard work. Now he was down to two more weeks to turn things around. He was so screwed.
Kristen woke up with the sun. That, and her screeching alarm. She fumbled for the off button, and slammed down hard on the alarm clock. Another would go off in a few minutes, and that one was further out of her reach.
However, the wailing didn’t stop with Kristen’s well-aimed hit. If anything, it seemed to increase. Puzzled, Kristen rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up against the headboard. What was going on?
The less than melodious sound was coming from the other side of the door. Was that a-? Frowning, Kristen swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tiptoed over to the door, putting her ear to it. She’d seen enough horror movies to know this particular maneuver would never end well, so she gave up on trying to determine the source of the racket and wrenched the door open.
Kristen shrieked as a ball of lightning with furry exterior came through the cracked door. Putting her hand to her chest to calm her racing heart, she located the little hairball monster by the French doors.
“Frank Sinatra, I take it?” she muttered, recognizing the cat Mrs. Breezer had fed in the kitchen. The one who only ate veal.
The black cat scratched at the glass door in reply and Kristen tentatively approached the semi-wild creature. It looked at her with inscrutable eyes, and she extended her arm as far from her body as it would go, opening one of the French doors to let the castrated singer out. She quickly shut the door behind it, watching from a safe distance as the cat jumped up on the balcony ledge and started scouting for intruders.
A blue jay caught Frank Sinatra’s attention, and before she knew it, the feline had pushed off the balcony and flung itself at a tree. It was all she could do but stare. Was she living in a cuckoo’s nest with these cats? She’d yet to see the elusive Humphrey Bogart, but if he took issue with guests waking him up, she was happy to have missed the encounter thus far.
Well, she was up now, and so she might as well get dressed for the day. Today was her first official meeting with Quinlan Bankhead, and she would need to dress to impress. Closing the door to the staircase to avoid risking other felines pouncing on her and leaving their hair – or other forms of markings – on her clothes, Kristen turned on the shower and proceeded to get herself ready.
The kitchen was empty and Kristen went straight for the cereal. In L.A., she would be going out for breakfast, not slave away at the stove, so pouring herself a bowl of milk and cereal felt like an easy enough way to put some food in her system.
She ate at the sink, suspecting she’d find cat hairs on both chairs and table and not wanting to risk having to find a lint brush before her meeting. Her portfolio was stocked with drawings and notes and she was ready to face Mr. Bankhead.
After returning from the restaurant last night, Kristen had pulled out her notepad and started scribbling down ideas. She could only hope Mr. Bankhead wanted his new home to reflect the spirit of Greenport.
From the early specs she’d received, she knew he wanted to keep the lighthouse shape while creating a new structure around it. After all, what was the point in buying a lighthouse if you didn’t like the shape of it? Kristen had done her research on other lighthouse renovations and remodels, and she had some ideas on how to use the space.
There was no getting around that the staircase would have to remain and that the only living space in the Greenport lighthouse would be the old lighthouse keeper’s office at the top, offering a 360 degree view. Heating would be an issue, and she’d need to discuss with the contractor on how to make the space livable all year round.
Kristen had already called for a cab to bring her over to the lighthouse, where she would meet with Mr. Bankhead. He was currently living in Boston and, from what Kristen had gathered, wasn’t planning on moving to Greenport anytime soon. It was a vacation home, but he wanted year-round living conditions. It wasn’t impossible to walk to the lighthouse from
Breeze Inn
, but Kristen was intent on wearing her heels today, paired with her business suit which consisted of a cobalt pencil dress and a short black jacket. She’d pulled up her hair in a loose French twist and hoped the breeze coming in from the sea wasn’t going to mess it up too badly before she arrived.
The cab driver was a different one from her ride from the airport – thank goodness – and she got to the lighthouse in a matter of minutes. She tipped the driver for his effort, which made him smile just a little bit brighter at her and promise he’d be back to pick her up if she called him directly. A business card made its way into her hand and she tucked it into her portfolio’s outer pocket as she approached the little cottage that sat a short distance from the lighthouse.
The Greenport lighthouse had been used to mark the entrance into the Greenport harbor in its day, but the lighthouse keeper had retired years ago and none had taken his place. The lighthouse and accompanying cottage had been property of the Greenport municipality until Quinlan Bankhead had come along, maintained with a minimum of effort, as far as Kristen could see.
The paint was peeled and the roof of the cottage bore signs of storms passing and ruffling the tiles. They could be looking at leakage and structural damage, so hopes of keeping most of the original structure intact were slim. She would know more once she got inside, and so she walked up to the door and knocked.
There was no response. Kristen checked her watch. She was a few minutes early, so maybe Mr. Bankhead hadn’t arrived yet. She decided to walk around the house and inspect as much as she could from the outside.
The back of the house faced the ocean, a set of rocks shielding it to a small extent. Not a lot of room for expansion on the seaside. A trodden path led to the lighthouse, and she followed it. She’d made two different sketches to present – one where they built a house that connected directly to the old lighthouse, and one where an enclosed walkway connected the house to the entrance to the lighthouse.
The latter suggestion would require sturdy glass to withstand harsh winds, but it would let the light and view from the sea through to the harbor village, not block it like a large house would. Kristen tried the weathered door to the lighthouse and it opened. Stepping inside, she felt the chill that inch thick walls of white brick brought to a space. The spiral cast-iron staircase leading up to the lantern room and galleries looked as if it would rattle under the weight of people walking up and down it. Could it be reinforced, or should they replace it entirely?
The sound of a car rolling to a stop on gravel made Kristen startle and leave the lighthouse. It was a black limo that had pulled up, and a uniformed driver stepped out to open the back door. The man stepping out turned his head to look at her, and his back slicked hair glistened in the sunlight. Light brown, like her own in its dyed state.
He looked more attractive in person, she’d give him that. He also looked more arrogant. It would appear a lot of things could be done with Photoshop these days; anti-glare, anti-red-eyes, anti-smug-face.
“Miss Barnes!” he hollered over the roof of the limo. “Glad you could make it!”
Kristen pulled back her shoulders and walked across the gravel yard, careful not to trip. Not the best first impression if you fall flat on your face.
“Mr. Bankhead, I assume,” she said, extending her hand as she stepped closer.
“Shall we inspect the premises, then?” he said after shaking her hand.
“After you,” Kristen said and stepped aside to fall into step next to him.
“The last time I was out here there were rats,” he said, his nose pulled upward and drawn in a mask of distaste. “I assume you took care of that.”
Kristen frowned. She was hired to design, not chase away rodents. Besides, he must know she’d only arrived in town yesterday. “I have a good lead on a couple of cats that could take care of that problem for you,” she joked. The look he turned on her made her smile fall.
“I understood it as you running a full-service business, Miss Barnes,” he said, his gaze giving her a chilled once-over. Oh, if he thought she was going to- Kristen rejected the idea at once. Quinlan Bankhead knew her father, he wouldn’t dare suggest anything untoward.
“Pest control, I’m afraid, is not on my services offered list,” she said calmly. “I will of course make sure the house is in pristine condition upon delivery.”
“I should hope so, Miss Barnes. If not, I hope you have legal insurance.”
Things didn’t improve after that. By the time Kristen forced a cheery wave goodbye as Quinlan Bankhead drove off, she felt like she’d run a mile. In rain. Mixed with ice. He’d rejected all of her ideas, even the ones he’d given a general approval of before the meeting, and instructed her to go back to the drawing board and ‘get it right this time’.
He’d also set the time limit. He wanted to have the house ready for final inspection no later than August 1
st
the following year, giving Kristen a timetable just shy of 12 months. If she could not deliver the house at that time, or if it failed to pass the final inspection, she could expect to hear from his lawyers.
The right thing to do would be to tell Mr. Quinlan Bankhead to stuff it, but the sad truth was that he had influence, and she couldn’t risk having her reputation dragged through the mud. It wouldn’t just reflect poorly on herself, but on her father, as well. So Kristen had smiled and nodded and signed the dotted line, determined to come out the winner.
She pulled out her phone to call Benny the friendly taxi driver, but her battery had run out. Kristen felt like jumping up and down in frustration, but not only would that make her look like a big baby to anyone who happened to see her, it would also break the blisters she had going on after trotting around the property in her heels. She wondered if Greenport had a spa. Maybe even a fish spa, given its location and all.
Well, she had no choice but to walk back into town and over to her temporary place of residence. She needed to get back to charge her phone so she could call the contractor that was apparently the only contractor in the state of Massachusetts that was licensed to restore and/or remodel lighthouses. She really hoped he wouldn’t give her a hard time about it, because she already had one too many difficult men in her life.
Ford was driving home from a job just outside town when he spotted her. The crazy tourist that had been walking in the middle of the road last time he saw her. This time, she was walking on the edge of the road, but she was also limping. Did she learn her lesson about walking all over the place because someone hit her with a bike or car? Nah, she didn’t look like she’d been injured, there was no dirt on her legs. Nice legs, but they were stuffed into heels. No wonder she was limping. Evil little inventions, that.