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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Bindweed
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It was too much sweetness before breakfast. I didn't understand my father. Just when I thought I had him pegged, he did an about-face. Where was his curiosity regarding Toby's death? Since my father had moved into this house, he'd poked his nose into anything that had a surreptitious feel to it. Toby's untimely demise certainly qualified. What was the deal?
The elevator door started to close. I took a step toward my room but stopped. Abigail. Abby. My father was quite the charmer, quite the lady's man. Maybe he was infatuated with Ms. Dupree.
I frowned. Something about him had struck me as different. I'd noticed his weight loss and his tan, but I suddenly realized it was his clothes. Whether my father was puttering around the house or going out on the town, he favored dress slacks, polished leather shoes, and conservative shirts. This morning he was dressed in faded blue jeans, sneakers, and an ordinary white T-shirt. His arms looked muscular for a man in his seventies. Was he going for the youthful look? Why?
I spun back to the elevator and pressed my lips to the crack around the door facing. “Dad, how old is Abigail Dupree?”
His huffy answer echoed up the elevator shaft.
“That's hardly relevant, daughter.”
I walked to the horseshoe-shaped staircase that curved gracefully to the bottom floor. Leaning over the railing, I looked down into the entry hall. After a few minutes, my father came into view. “Dad, Ms. Dupree's age might not be relevant, but I'd like to know.”
He glanced up at me but continued on to the library with his
burden. “She's thirty-two years old,” he said. Then he added testily, “Your mother raised you to be a courteous, thoughtful woman. I expect to see that person present in the library when Abby and I are ready for you.”
Uh-oh. I rarely heard
that
tone from my father. I saluted his back, spun on my heel, and walked back to my bedroom.
I got dressed before I called Lois about my change of plans. I assured her I'd be at the flower shop no later than eleven o'clock. It wasn't even nine, but she said the phones had been ringing when she'd come in the back door. I told her to put a couple of lines on hold and do the best she could.
It's faster going downstairs by the back staircase, but this morning I took the main steps to the entry hall. I loved the view from this lofty perch. With time on my hands, I paused on the polished oak riser to appreciate the beauty. The morning sun shone through the windows that flanked the front door. The light caught the cut-glass prisms on the chandelier that was suspended from the second-story ceiling, and created a mosaic pattern on the parquet floor.
I'd painted the walls a soft butternut, a warm, neutral shade that showcased the house's antique furnishings. The horseshoe-shaped staircase blocked the view from the front entrance down the long central hall, but I knew each room intimately. I'd personally gotten down on my knees and brought the gloss back to the wooden floors. I'd refinished woodwork until my hands were so sore I could barely grip my florist knife, but the labor had paid off. The rooms were just as I'd envisioned.
The ground floor contained the library, formal dining room, ballroom, and kitchen. Connected off the kitchen were my father
and DeeDee's living quarters. When my father first arrived, I'd offered him his choice of rooms upstairs, but he'd declined, saying he liked the proximity to the kitchen.
At the end of the hall, a pair of French doors led to a terrace that looked out on a garden in the process of being rejuvenated. The work had come to a halt while Missouri experienced one of its hottest, driest summers on record. Now that it was September, the weather was cooler, and we'd had some much-needed rain. Eddie, my landscaper, was going full steam. He knew exactly what I wanted in the garden, so I wasn't concerned with his progress. The same couldn't be said for my next project. Turning this mansion into a boardinghouse had been an idea born out of loneliness.
Carl and I had lived in a modern ranch house in River City. Our lives had been full of love, work, and laughter. We'd gone out to eat, had friends in, but mostly, we had each other. Once Carl was gone, my social life shrank. I received invitations, but rarely accepted. Our friends were couples, and I was the odd woman out. My flower shop business saved my sanity through those first months, but coming home to an empty house had been difficult.
The solitude had forced me to make a drastic decision. I'd taken Carl's life-insurance money and made the down payment on this house with the idea of surrounding myself with people, even if they were renters.
I walked down the rest of the staircase and turned so my gaze could follow the graceful curve of the stairs. The balustrade drew the eye to a balcony that circled the upper floor. The doors to all seven bedrooms were closed, but the smell of new wood and fresh plaster had seeped into the main house. It was a comforting aroma, one I needed this morning. Toby's death weighed heavy on my heart.
My father came out the library door, saw me, and pointed to the kitchen. “Please, go eat your breakfast. Abby just called. She's about a mile down the road. If you cooperate, daughter, we'll get this show on the road before schedule.”
I liked the sound of that, so I hurried across the hall and entered DeeDee's domain. The room was state of the art for creating exquisite cuisine. White walls, white floors, stainless-steel appliances, copper-bottomed pots and pans hanging from hooks over a preparation island, and every electric convenience known to woman. Bright red, blue, and yellow calico-print curtains and chair cushions softened the sterile environment, giving the room a bright, homey feeling. The television was tuned to the food channel. Wolfgang Puck was removing the bones from a chicken.
DeeDee didn't take her eyes off the TV screen. “Albert told me to f-fix you a s-substantial breakfast. I heard you coming down the s-stairs, though you t-took longer than usual. I hope your f-food isn't cold.”
I sat down and unfolded my napkin. Glancing up at the television, I saw raw pink flesh and blood-tipped bones. When Wolfgang picked up a cleaver, I grimaced. “Can we dispense with the chicken surgery until after I've eaten?” DeeDee hit the remote button and the screen faded to black. I smiled my appreciation. “Thanks. Maybe you can catch a replay another time.”
“He'll be on later t-today.” She poured coffee for both of us and sat down. “Are you ready for the m-meeting with the decorator?”
“As ready as I'm going to be.” I lifted the warming lid that covered the plate and sighed happily. Coddled eggs were nestled in a blue dish that was surrounded by slices of oranges, strawberries, and kiwi fruit. Crisp curls of turkey bacon begged
me to take a bite. Calorie wise, this was a dieter's dream. That it was attractively presented was an added bonus.
Since DeeDee had discovered that she loved to cook, I'd reaped the benefits. She revised high-fat recipes to suit my dietary needs. The results were always scrumptious. With her expertise, I figured she could take an old piece of shoe leather, arrange it on a plate, and the sight would make my mouth water. But I didn't have to contend with shoe leather. Everything she made was luscious, and my weight remained stable.
The front doorbell rang. Our heads swiveled in that direction. My father bellowed from the hall, “I've got it. Don't come out. Stay right where you are.”
I rolled my eyes and picked up my fork. The bite of egg was as tasty as usual, but annoyance with my father made the yolk stick in my throat. I took a swallow of hot coffee, and then popped a piece of kiwi into my mouth to cool off my scalded tongue. The tartness of the fruit made my lips pucker.
DeeDee caught my sour expression and said, “Give them a ch-chance, Bretta. I think Abigail's ideas are v-very good.”
I didn't bother to explain why I was making a face. “You've seen these ideas?”
“I haven't s-seen anything, but Albert needed s-someone to talk to, so he used me as a s-sounding board.”
“You never said anything to me.”
She shrugged. “I was s-sworn to s-secrecy.”
“I can appreciate that, but I want to know more about these ideas.” Seeing her mulish expression, I lowered my voice. “Look at it this way. If I'm prepared, I won't blurt out some awful remark that will cause trouble.”
DeeDee nodded. “You do have a knack for s-speaking your mind.”
“So?” I said, whirling my hand in a get-with-it motion.
DeeDee stared at me with troubled brown eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen door before whispering, “Attic.”
I pushed my plate aside and leaned my elbows on the table. “What is it with the one-word clues? First Sid, and now you. Attic, huh? Well, I'm not in the mood to play Sherlock, or Nancy Drew, or Miss Marple.” I scooted back my chair. “I'm going to the library and get this over with. I have other fish to fry. Other papers to peddle. I'm out of here.”
I got up and started for the kitchen door. As I passed DeeDee, she put a hand on my arm. “You're at the sh-shop all day, so you haven't s-seen how hard Albert has worked. He l-loves you and wants to please you. Give him a ch-chance.”
I didn't say anything, but my exasperation fizzled. Knowing my father, I was sure he had worked diligently. Look at how he'd wrestled that trunk from the attic. I frowned as I left the kitchen. And why was he doing all the heavy work? Why wasn't Abigail helping? I caught sight of my grumpy reflection in a mirror that hung by the dining-room door.
I stopped and gave myself a pep talk. “Be nice. Be polite,” I murmured. “Be open-minded. Look for something that can be complimented.” I tried a smile but it was too forced. “Relax,” I said under my breath. “Be charming.” I eased my lips into a slow, gentle curve. “That's much better.” Chuckling, I gave myself a congratulatory cheek-splitting grin that exposed all my pearly whites.
The library door opened. In the mirror my gaze connected with my father's. My affected smile dissolved into slack-jawed embarrassment.
He shook his head and motioned for me to go in ahead of him. “We're ready for you.”
In a hearty tone, I said, “And I'm ready, too.”
My father wasn't fooled. In a soft voice, he said, “Abby and I
have taken this decorating very seriously. I had hoped that you would, too.” He put a hand on my back and gently propelled me forward.
Contrite, I shuffled into the library. With the walls paneled in dark walnut, the room would have felt oppressive if I hadn't lightened the mood by having the furniture reupholstered in moss green, cream, and gold. The Oriental rug picked up those colors and added a bold splash of peacock blue.
Posters and swatch books covered the sofa. A portable movie screen had been set up in front of the bookshelves. In my swift appraisal of the room, I also saw an overhead projector, but then my father directed my attention to the woman standing by the fireplace.
“Abby, this is my daughter, Bretta. Bretta, this is Abigail Dupree.”
She looked younger than thirty-two. She had a round, cherub face sprinkled with freckles. Her auburn hair was twisted into a braid that reached below her narrow waist. She wore a pair of khaki slacks, topped with a white knit shirt. Her smile was shy, but her blue eyes twinkled with excitement.
She made the first gesture, holding out her hand. “Bretta, I've looked forward to meeting you. I have everything lined up, ready to go. Albert told me you were crunched for time. We can get started right away.”
I gave her hand a light clasp. “Nice to meet you,” I murmured. My first thought, that Dad was infatuated with this woman, bit the dust. She wasn't his type. But something was going on between them. It was as if they were on the same brain wave. She had only to glance across the room and my father adjusted the blinds. He lifted one shoulder, and she gave him a tight smile and nodded.
My father was an active man—an active, wealthy man. I'd
kept him busy with the remodeling upstairs, but that job was completed. Was he looking for a new vocation with Abigail? Was she looking for an investor in a fledgling business?
Dad urged me toward a chair that had been placed facing the screen. “Sit here,” he said, “and we'll begin.”
Abigail picked up a notebook from a table next to me. Her hands trembled. My father had said he'd told Abigail that I would be a hard sell, which couldn't have eased her mind about making this presentation.
My attitude softened toward her. “Relax,” I said, and flashed a genuine smile. “I'll try not to interrupt your delivery, and I'll try to be open-minded.”
She drew a hand across her brow and heaved a deep sigh. “Whew, that takes the pressure off.” She giggled as she took a firmer grip on the notebook. “I've felt like an invader, coming around while you've been at work, but Albert thought that was the best way to gather our data. Your home is lovely. The woodwork with its scrolls and carvings are superb. I liked that you stayed with the period of the house for the decor downstairs, but for a boardinghouse, where each room is the living quarters for an individual, I felt that the decorating theme needed to be modernized.”
Modernized how? With zebra and leopard print? I gnawed my bottom lip to remind me that I'd said I'd keep quiet.
Abigail smiled. “I can see you don't agree, but have you thought about the type of person who might want to rent a room? Wouldn't they bring their own memorabilia? Decorating a boardinghouse is different from a bed and breakfast. With the latter, your guests arrive with luggage, to spend a few days before leaving. You provide a lovely, comfortable room with chairs, bed, tables, and such. But what about renters who want to move in with their own bed or Grandma's favorite
rocking chair? What if those items don't fit into the room's color scheme or decor?”
Abigail held out her hands. “I've tried to work around your idea of a boardinghouse, but I'm stymied. How much furniture do we incorporate into the theme? Do we simply paint the rooms and furnish window treatments? Or do we go all the way and add accessories such as prints, vases, and figurines? These are questions you need to consider, but because you're pressed for time, we'll skip that discussion and move on.

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