It’d been nice to see the Osterhagens today. Good people, those two. Funny how little that restaurant and the two of them had changed. Cordelia, too, didn’t look a day past sixteen—still looking a little like a chick fresh out of its shell, still staring at him as if he had two heads.
But being back in the kitchen where he’d worked in high school…it brought back a lot. The whole time he was there, he’d half expected to see Emma come in, same way she had back in high school. Back when she was on her way home from whatever after-school club she’d been running at the time. Her ponytail would swing, and she’d smile at him as he scraped plates and washed pans, and that smile would make Liam forget that he was some asshole juvie who’d followed in his family’s footsteps toward a life of petty crime.
He’d only been back in Bellsford a week, but already the apartment felt safe, housed in a solid old factory building that had been converted to apartments five or ten years ago, according to the Realtor. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, living room, kitchen, den. No memories of Emma walking through the door, which was both good and bad. In his closet hung Emma’s bathrobe… Sunday mornings had generally been their happiest times, when she didn’t work and he made pancakes and she looked so damn sweet in that pink puffy thing…?.
Well. Memories and all that.
“Things’ll be okay,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. He was astonishingly tired. Not that he’d done much today, aside from overseeing a shipment of equipment at the shop. Hopefully, a custom bike shop could bring in as much money here in New Hampshire as it did in Southern California. One thing that always surprised his in-laws—the blue-collar idiot their daughter married always made a decent living. Not as much as their daughter, but pretty good nonetheless.
Nicole’s door opened, and she stomped down the hall. “I have something to say,” she said, giving him the Death Stare. “You’re totally unfair, and if I run away, you shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Don’t make me put a computer chip in your ear,” Liam answered.
“It’s not funny! I hate you.”
“Well, I love you, even if you did ruin my life by turning into a teenager,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you study for your test?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He looked at his daughter—so much like Emma, way too pretty. Why weren’t there convent schools anymore? Or chastity belts? “Want some supper? I saved your plate.”
She rolled her eyes with all the melodrama a teenager could muster. “Fine. I may as well become a fat pig since I can’t ever go on a date.”
“That’s my girl,” he said and, grinning, got up to heat up her dinner.
CHAPTER THREE
SHILO, DON’T BE AFRAID. It’s just Al,” Posey said, trying to woo her dog from underneath the statue of Arpad the Archer, patron saint of Hungary, that currently graced the front yard of Irreplaceable Artifacts. “We love UPS! Don’t be scared.” Shilo whined, his tail wagging, but the truth was, the dog was a coward.
“I have a cookie,” Al said, kneeling down. Shilo whimpered and backed up, ramming his massive haunches against an old birdbath.
“He’s already eaten three donuts,” Posey said. “You have to up the ante, Al. Maybe a filet mignon.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Al said, getting back into the giant brown truck. “Have a good day, Posey.”
“You’re such a baby,” Posey told her dog. “Some watchdog you’d make. You’d hide and watch the killers hack me to pieces, wouldn’t you?” With the UPS truck safely gone, Shilo gave a fond woof and licked Posey’s wrist with his massive tongue.
Last year, Posey had made the mistake of going to the pound. Being adopted herself, she’d taken one look into Shilo’s red-rimmed eyes and just couldn’t say no. Bad enough that she’d inherited three cats with the church she’d bought, now she owned a 150-pound black-and-white Great Dane whose talents seemed to be sleeping, baying and cowering from deliverymen. He was, however, deeply devoted to Posey during his waking hours and didn’t quite realize that he outweighed her by a third; he often tried to sit on her lap (and succeeded more often than not).
Now that he was safe from Big Brown, Shilo went to sniff the pair of giant concrete lions from the old library up in Maine. Though her parents often frowned over why Posey had devoted her career to things that had outlived their purpose, Posey felt just the opposite. Salvage was practically a religion to her. Someone would want these things—the barbershop pole all the way from the Bronx, the wheel from an old tugboat, the stained-glass windows from an old Victorian, the chipped gargoyle from a church in Winooski—and they’d be cherished and enjoyed once more, and Posey’s job would be done.
But now it was donut time. Today was Thursday, the day when her two closest pals came over for goodies after school. Jon, her brother’s longtime partner, and Kate, Posey’s friend from grammar school, were both teachers at Bellsford High. Jon taught home-ec and was quite adored by the students… Kate, as phys-ed teacher, was not. Each year without fail, the seniors would dedicate the yearbook to their beloved Mr. White, something Jon enjoyed lording over the other teachers.
“Hi, guys!” Posey called, holding the door for her dog, who trotted happily inside, licking his chops. Three cream-filled pastries had apparently not been enough.
“Hi, Posey! How are you?” Elise Wooding, one of Posey’s two employees, beamed at her as if it had been years since they’d seen each other, not two hours. “How was Vivian today?”
“Well, she was Vivian,” Posey answered. “She didn’t love my haircut. And she didn’t sign anything, of course. Down East Salvage is taking her to dinner on Friday, as she told me three times. She showed me the date on her BlackBerry, just in case I was getting cocky.” Though a hundred and one years old, Viv was quite current when it came to the latest tech.
Vivian Appleton was the owner of The Meadows, a glorious old Victorian home on ten acres of land. The house was stunning—a three-story Victorian with ornate fireplaces and a butler’s kitchen, curved staircases and window seats. Every corner seemed to offer a treasure, whether it was an iron heating grate or a slipper tub as pretty as a calla lily. Viv didn’t live there anymore, having moved to a swanky elderly housing complex in Portsmouth. For more than two years, Vivian had been dangling the rights to The Meadows in front of every salvage operation in New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont.
Vivian’s heirs, four grand-nieces and-nephews, planned to tear down the beautiful old house, the caretaker’s cottage and the barn and sell the land, with its orchards and stream, to a developer. It was a tragedy, Posey thought. But the heirs—or the Vultures, as Viv called them—would get more for the land than they could for the house and property, and Vivian was determined to let them do as they wished—some sense of Yankee familial duty or something. But if the house was going to be torn down, Posey wanted to be the one who did it. It would be like giving last rites to a much-loved friend, and she and Mac, her pathologically shy carpenter, would take the time to do it right, with care and respect, and yes, even love.