Chapter Nine #2
“Not everything.” I shrug, still swiping through comments. “But keeping some stuff on hand helps with flexibility. Especially when I plan multiple events, or have shorter timeframes.”
He chuckles. “Like this one?”
“Exactly like this one.” I smile, smoothing my hand over my short hair. “I love being able to add personalized touches, here and there, for my clients. They’re trusting me with their milestone events. The least I can do is make it magical, you know? My props are invaluable.”
“Yeah…” Vincent lets out another heavy sigh, and I swear he curses under his breath. “I’m sorry, Ebony. It’s gone.”
I laugh, raising an eyebrow. “What’s gone?”
“I’m guessing you haven’t seen the news today.”
A wave of worry hits me, sharp and fast, as I swipe out of the PopShot app and open my web browser. “Vincent, I don’t have news apps on my phone. I don’t need that negativity. Just tell me what happened already.”
“The Ellswood Mill burned down.”
All the air seems to drain out of my lungs. “Burned? Like someone set it on fire?”
“The news said it was an electrical fire sometime after nine thirty this morning.” And that’s about all I catch before my mind starts swimming in a soupy mix of fear, anger, and utter disbelief.
An electrical fire? What the hell were people plugging in?
Who doesn’t use surge protectors? Was there no one around with a fire extinguisher?
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes closed.
“The whole building?” I drag in deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. “I was about to stop by after I locked up here.”
Vincent’s posture softens, his voice turning solemn. “Ebony, I’m so sorry. Hopefully replacing your props won’t be too hard. You said it was mostly the big stuff, and most of the smaller things are at home—”
“No, they’re not.” I close my eyes and shake my head as the reality of losing all of my physical assets hits me. “Vincent, I moved my entire planning inventory there last week. And now it’s all just…ashes. What the hell am I supposed to do? ”
I start pacing the room, kneading my temples as the floorboards creak beneath each leaden step.
“And we’re already in mid-June.” I huff out a sigh. “There’s no way I can replace everything by September. I don’t have that kind of money right now.”
“What about the insurance?”
My heart skips to an up-tempo beat.
“Oh, thank God I paid that premium last year. Yes!” Hope starts to bloom inside me, just a little. “I’ll call when I get home. They’ll need to assess the damages and all that, but I can’t see it taking longer than a month to approve the claim.”
“Yup, and in the meantime, just work from home.” Vincent looks around, then gestures to the pile of sawdust. “Or you could always work here at the manor. You’ve got to be in the space anyway, right?
The billiard room’s almost done, and the library’s got a desk.
Or there’s the six rooms upstairs. It wouldn’t be too much trouble.
I’m sure Linc wouldn’t mind you being on-site too. ”
Too.
“He’s working out of Madison Manor?”
“Well, yeah.” Vincent shrugs like it’s a given. “With Cornelia cutting down our time, he’ll basically be living here to get it done. The man’s all about the details. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re down to the eleventh hour before the wedding.”
“But I thought the permits were good, and he’d already sourced most of the materials…” The corners of my mouth tug down, my lower lip protruding as Vincent shrugs again.
“Give or take a few rooms. But he really wants to do a great job. His family’s name is on that placard outside.”
I nod, because that tracks. The Lincoln Bridges I knew was never one to cut corners because he could. If he was interested, he put in the time, effort, and care, knowing that anything meaningful required more than just a quick fix. His work—and relationships—deserved nothing less than his best.
That’s what worries me.
The next day, despite the ominous glare of “FRIDAY THE 13TH” staring at me from my wall calendar, I take Vincent’s advice.
With the last dregs of night smudged across the sky and only my iPad and laptop in tow, I settle into the dusty library at Madison Manor, thankfully equipped with an old oak writing desk and a chair.
Uh, win. Now, granted, the library isn’t my bright, beautiful townhouse with endless snacks and the TV on for white noise, nor is it the office space that—as of last night—I’ve confirmed has now been reduced to a soot-filled carcass, but it’s also not Crystal Lake, with camp counselors meeting their grisly fate, so I guess it’ll work.
Since I’ve got the entire building to myself, I blast some happy music.
A little Michael Jackson—minus “Thriller,” because…
read the haunted-looking room. I spend the few minutes singing and coughing up dust as I sweep the floor, sort through weathered book spines, and set up my devices to start my workday.
But as I moonwalk myself over to my chair and settle in—and because I’m still alone with my overactive brain—I try calling Hillary again.
As the line rings once, then twice, I hold my breath, hoping in my gut that since Hailey didn’t mention any emergencies when we met yesterday, her sister’s okay. Then the third ring comes.
No surprise, I get her voicemail.
“Hey, Hil…” I pause, evening out my tone, not wanting to sound too eager or angry.
“It’s me again, just checking in. I’d love to know what’s going on.
I hope you’re okay. Please know that whatever it is, I’m your friend, and I’m here for you if you just want to vent or you need advice… Give me a call when you can. Love you.”
That familiar, uneasy sensation trembles over my skin. I wish she’d just talk to me. I know we can work through it.
I pull in a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then slowly release it through my nose.
Then I move on to greener pastures. Rather, slightly less yellow pastures.
Emails, wedding announcement cold calls, and the insurance claim.
But fifteen minutes into my call with the insurance company to file my claim, voices pick up outside the library door, and I go full deer-in-headlights.
My attention is laser-focused on the loud, thudding footsteps and shadows passing beneath the jamb.
“Please, hurry up,” I whisper to myself. “Keep going—”
“Yes, ma’am,” the claims representative’s voice blares in my ear, giving me a full-body jump scare. “I’ve only got a few more questions for you.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean you,” I say apologetically. “There was, uh…a bug coming dangerously close to me, and I wanted it to hurry up and go away.”
She laughs. “Of course, I completely understand.”
After we spend an inordinate amount of time exchanging insect trauma stories to the soundtrack of MJ and power tools roaring to life throughout the manor, finally, she tells me my claim has been filed.
It’s now pending a supervisor review, since she’s new to the job, but I’ve got nothing to worry about and should expect a callback within the week. It feels like the best-case scenario.
Especially since I want to be in the right headspace as I switch gears. My virtual consultation with the dating concierge Savannah set me up with—the one my followers can’t stop talking about—is in two minutes.
I flip open my laptop and toggle to the camera to check my makeup, and as soon as it opens on me, I twist around, scrunching my face. My backdrop options consist of dilapidated and ugly bookshelves—no thank you—and a discolored fireplace that probably hasn’t worked in decades.
“Not ideal.” Tilting my head and squinting, I sing along with “Smooth Criminal” as I frame the mantel with my hands. “Maybe with a little pop of color…”
Dashing out the door, I round the hall, cut through the foyer, and into the front garden, where I quickly grab a bunch of vibrant yellow tulips and loose foliage. As I’m rushing back to the library, Linc’s thunderous laughter echoes through the manor.
“Annie, are you okay?” he teases, making an adorably horrible attempt at Mike’s gravity-defying forty-five-degree tilt. “I’m a smooth law-abiding citizen…”
He’s all full-teeth smiles and lighthearted banter.
I’m assuming his easygoing demeanor’s got everything to do with my following him back on PopShot yesterday and now working on-site.
Our past is water under the bridge. We’re now free to share cute jokes and expose our extremely toned forearms. Yay, me.
Admittedly, I preferred the stilted interactions.
For professional reasons, of course.
Lucky for me, I don’t have time to stop and chat.
Not that I’d want to. I’ve been actively avoiding him all day, locking myself in the library.
Again, Cornelia cannot win. On principle.
I’m chasing life on my terms. He’s presumably still on a mission to reclaim his family’s roots, one Ellswood landmark at a time. So, no room for distractions.
Letting the door drift closed behind me, I toss the flowers on the mantel, angling them just so, and plop into the chair.
“Breathe, Ebony.” I inhale, deeply, then click the Virtucon notification link, waiting for the app to load.
My picture flashes onto the screen, right next to a black square labeled Leslie Browne in the corner.
I’ve never actually met the person I’m about to meet with.
Up until now, all I’ve done is create a “starter profile.” Today’s the day that Leslie, I guess, will help me navigate online dating apps and revamp my profile.
She’ll suggest the best photos, figure out my preferences and dealbreakers, and they’ve got professional matchmakers on standby. Easy-peasy.
Except, as my attention flits between the black square and the time glaring at me from the top-right corner of my screen, I wonder if she’s really late. The camera’s off; the mic’s muted. She could be sitting there, silently watching, analyzing my every move like a two-way mirror situation.
Why do I suddenly feel…paranoid?
Be normal.