At the Corner of King Street (14 page)

We drove down Richmond Highway past the older subdivisions filled with mid-century modern homes and fully thick mature trees. I reached for my phone in my purse and pulled up the job site address. One mile to go.

“So Zeb Talbot is working this job, too?”

“He is.”

Margaret jabbed her thumb over the back of the seat toward the baby. “So that's got to be weird.”

“You've no idea.”

“And Janet's okay with you having the baby? As I remember, you two didn't get along so well.”

“She needs me, and whether she likes me or not really doesn't factor into the equation.”

“How long do you have the baby?”

“A few days.”

“Damn. I can do an hour with my nephew and then I need a drink. He's a great kid, and God knows Daisy adores that boy, but wow, a real live kid to raise? Too scary.”

“I try not to think about it.”

A soft laugh rumbled in her throat. “That's why we're on for this
excursion. You need something to do so you don't go crazy taking care of the kid.”

“I'm getting a little claustrophobic. But this should be an easy job, and the stones are going to be worth good money to the right buyer. I hate to see opportunity lost.”

The GPS on my phone warned me a quarter mile remained before I needed to take a right-hand turn. As I slowed, not wanting to miss the turn, I spotted the twin white brick pillars, surrounded by a riot of purple and yellow pansies, marking the entrance to a newer neighborhood. Gold letters that read
Belle Haven
sprawled across the white brick.

“Belhaven used to be the name of Alexandria,” Margaret said almost to herself. “George Washington surveyed this area when he was a young man and referred to the city as Belhaven.”

GPS silenced my questions and told me to turn left and then to take another quick left past newer homes and then finally into a cul-de-sac that faced Richmond Highway but was buffered by a thick stand of trees. Centered on the cul-de-sac sat a large brick colonial house surrounded by a thick stand of boxwoods. In the center of the yard stood a tall oak tree with a full and thick canopy of leaves. Hanging from the lowest limb was a thick rope that dangled above the grass, its end frayed and broken. Somewhere along the way, it had been a rope swing.

Margaret sat forward in her seat. “Nice house. This the McDonald house?”

I reached in my back pocket and pulled out the rumpled note with the name and address of the owner. “Yes. The owner of the home is Rae McDonald. She's putting on an addition or building a garage.”

No sooner were the words uttered than a large, rumbling red truck moved down the center of the street and parked behind me. I didn't need to see the driver clearly to realize it was Zeb behind the wheel.

I glanced at the baby in the backseat, figuring in five minutes she'd
realize the car wasn't running. With the air-conditioning blowing cool air, I slid out of the car and came around to Margaret. “You have men coming, correct?”

“Should be here any minute. Grad students. Not day laborers, but they love this kind of stuff and they're very cheap.”

“That works for me.”

I moved toward Zeb's truck, not sure if he were here to help or check up on me. The Morgan sisters were not known for their staying power, and we did break our word from time to time.

He got out, pulled off his glasses. “Glad to see you made it.”

Hearing the challenge, I silenced a petulant quip begging to be voiced. With all the trouble in my life, I did not need a war with Zeb Talbot. “Let me introduce you to Margaret McCrae. She works at the Archaeology Center and helps Grace from time to time.”

Margaret thrust a calloused hand forward and took his in hers. “Been a long, long time. I was at your wedding.”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. “Right. Good to see you again.”

“This should be an interesting job,” Margaret said.

“Stone removal is interesting?”

“It's history, dude. And history makes me weak in the knees.”

A hint of a smile tweaked the edges of his mouth. “Glad to hear it.”

A beat-up VW van rumbled onto the cul-de-sac and the driver ground a couple of gears as he downshifted and slowed.

“That would be my crew,” Margaret said. “We're going to dismantle the chimney carefully. We don't want to wreck any historical findings.”

Zeb rested a fist on his hip and looked at me. “We don't have weeks to do this, Addie. I can stretch this to this afternoon, but my men have to grade the land tomorrow morning.”

“Understood. Let me get the baby and Margaret and I'll go visit with the land owner.”

“You brought the baby?” Zeb said.

“I didn't have a choice. Grace won't watch her.”

“It's going to get hot today.”

“I know. But the truck has air-conditioning, and I'll keep her out of the sun. I have a hat for her.”

“Not really ideal, Addie.”

“Doing the best I can, Zeb.” Irritated, I turned and went back to the truck and dug the baby sling out of the diaper bag. I hooked it over my arm and then, unfastening Carrie, slid her into the pouch.

I came around the truck and Margaret and I walked to the front door. A large brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion glared at us, a large ring dangling from his mouth. I lifted the knocker and banged it against the door a couple of times.

“I'm dying to know when this place was built,” Margaret said. “I'm betting 1820s or '30s.”

Inside the house, high-heeled footsteps clicked against a hardwood floor before the door snapped open to reveal a young woman. She was in her early thirties and her neat blond hair brushed her sharp jawline. A delicate strand of pearls hung around a pale slim neck above a cream-colored silk top that vanished under the waistband of a navy blue pencil skirt. Her legs were long and she wore no stockings. It wasn't odd for women not to wear stockings this time of year but, for this woman, I guessed the move was more a silent rebellion than a nod to the heat. She wore no trace of makeup, but on her, added color would have looked garish.

“I'm Dr. McDonald. May I help you?” she said.

I shifted, doing my best to feel like a professional and not such a clumsy hack, which would be a neat trick with a kid dangling from around my neck. “My name is Addie Morgan and this is Margaret McCrae. We're with Shire Architectural Salvage. And back on the street”—looking irritated, I thought—“that's Zeb Talbot.”

Dr. McDonald's gaze flickered in Zeb's direction. “I've worked with Mr. Talbot before. If you'll follow the stone path around the side of the house, I'll meet you in the backyard.”

“Will do.”

The heavy lacquer door closed, leaving the brass lion to glare at us. Margaret and I glanced at each other and followed the side pathway made of stone that cut through a tall stand of yellow dahlias. At first glance, the pattern appeared random, but a second take and I could see the root of each plant was spaced at equal distance. After the dahlias, clumps of hostas clustered around a tall wooden archway covered in a rich clinging vine of honeysuckle. Though most of the sweet buds were gone this time of year, the faintest trace of their scent hung in the air.

In the backyard, Zeb's red flagged stakes marked the outline of the new garage.

Rae McDonald came out a side utility door. She'd changed her shoes into a set of more practical flats and easily crossed the neatly trimmed backyard toward us. She extended her hand and my gaze followed, settling on the stone hearth.

The base was ten feet wide, and the stack rose up about ten feet in the air, though judging by the random stones scattered around the base, the original stood several feet taller.

“My hope is to build the new garage on the back portion of the property, but I can't do that with the fireplace there. I hate to remove it. It's been there since I was a kid, but a couple of months ago it was struck by lightning and several stones were knocked loose. I'm not so sure how safe it is anymore, and I suppose it's time to let it go.”

“Do you know how long it's been here?” Margaret asked.

“My great-great-great-grandfather built this main house in 1815 and his diaries mention the ruins of the hearth.”

“I'm surprised no one ever pulled it down before. That's good stone,” Margaret said.

The woman's gaze remained fixed on the hearth. “Rumor has it in the family that the hearth was cursed. No one could say why, but all my ancestors assumed there'd be trouble if the hearth were destroyed.”

“And you're not worried?” I asked.

A delicately plucked brow arched. “No. It was a nice conversation piece, but now it's a safety hazard and it has to go.”

Questions sparked in Margaret's eyes. “Did your ancestors keep detailed diaries?”

“Not really a diary, but there are letters and logbooks detailing the goings-on in the house and the area. The hearth was mentioned only once by my accounting.”

Margaret tore her gaze from the stones. “I'm with the Archaeology Center. Would you ever allow me to look at those house accounts?”

Dr. McDonald's chest rose and fell with a delicate yet determined breath. “Not at this time.”

The rebuff sent a cold bristle up my spine. Margaret's smile froze. She opened her mouth to reply, but I quickly spoke up.

“Ready to get started on the hearth?” I asked. Redirecting was a trick I used when my mother was ranting about anything and everything.

Margaret nodded, seemingly soothed by the mystery that might lie before us. “We need to start at the top. If we do this right, I should photograph the site, and we should be numbering the pieces so that the next person who wants to reassemble can do it properly.”

“A buyer will reconfigure them however they choose.”

“Maybe, but having the history and the deconstruction documented will boost the price. This won't be a pile of stones, but a chunk of living history.”

Carrie fussed, but a pat to the bottom settled her. I understood the
scope of the job and understood what it took to keep this kid happy, but I think I'd misjudged the toll juggling the two would take on me.

“I'm going to get my camera,” Margaret said. “It's in my purse in the truck, and if you don't mind, I'll dismantle this hearth. You can help, but my guys and I have done stuff like this before, and I want to see it done right.”

Dependence was a slippery slope. Initially, help is a relief. The next day the hope for it is strong, but soon enough you grow to expect it. I didn't want to rely on anyone. My mother taught me the downfall of dependence.

“I can help.”

“You can help by watching,” Margaret said, glancing at the baby pouch. “I know this is your company, and your job, and your gig, but history is my specialty. Give me a couple of hours to do this right.” She smiled. “Please. This is my passion and it's almost my birthday.”

“Really? When's your birthday?”

“Seven months.”

Humor eased the sting, but it still hurt to accept help. “Happy Birthday.”

Margaret dashed to her car and got her camera and sketchpad from her purse, leaving me with nothing to do and wondering why we were even here. The stones would fetch a thousand dollars, but they wouldn't change much. Fixing the details of Janet's and Carrie's lives wasn't as simple as harvesting hearthstones or launching a new wine. Check one item off the “to be fixed” list and it reappeared at the bottom of the list within minutes.

Zeb walked up to me and stood with booted feet braced, much like the captain of an ancient sailing vessel. “I've got a couple of my men who can help with the stone removal.”

“That's not necessary,” I said. “Thank you, but you've done enough.”

“I haven't done anything.”

I glanced at the collection of stones, weighing the debt of each one. “You sent this job to Grace. Even when she turned it down, you kept sending it to her.”

“I was hoping it would excite her.”

As much as I wanted to know what was going on with Grace, I couldn't ask him.

He stood silent, expectant, but when no question came, he nodded, almost relieved. He'd tried to help a Morgan woman before and was burned.

Margaret stood in front of the stone hearth and snapped picture after picture, moving around it, studying it like a painter studied a masterpiece. Finally, after she took several dozen images, she pulled a sketchpad from her bag and began to draw and make notes.

Dr. McDonald ran a finger along the strand of pearls circling her neck. “I thought you were going to carry them away. I didn't think this was going to be such a project.”

Addie Fixer of All Things smiled. “It won't be long now. If we can document the removal, it will help us with resale.”

Dr. McDonald watched curiously as Margaret gingerly touched a stone. “I've got a client coming in fifteen minutes. I can't wait any longer.”

“Oh, please go inside,” I said. “We'll take care of this. I'll come and get you when we're finished.”

“If you have any questions, ring the front doorbell. I'll see you in a few hours.”

“Will do.”

I moved toward Margaret. “The client is restless. I think we'd better start moving rocks.”

Margaret's gaze lingered on the stone hearth another long moment before she shoved her pencil in her topknot. “Ready to roll.”

Margaret and her workmen settled a ladder on the side of the hearth and began to chip away at the mortar. The mortar joining the stones, beaten and worn by the weather, crumbled easily, almost turning to dust in their hands. The top pieces all but fell into the workmen's hands and they carefully began to stack the rocks in a wheelbarrow.

Carrie fussed and pounded a tiny fist against me, expecting to be fed. I moved toward the truck and took one of the pre-mixed bottles and popped the top. I sat in the shade of an oak tree with the baby and fed her. “Carrie, be careful about needing too much. You can't count on your mother and you can't count on me.”