4. Not My Problem
Chapter four
Not My Problem
Jack
The storm still hasn’t arrived.
Which makes everyone rushing the hardware store yesterday seem even more ridiculous.
Almost as ridiculous as the fact that I’m still wondering why Claire needed a dolly.
I stare into my hot chocolate.
Why do I care?
She bought a dolly. People buy dollies. Presumably to move things.
Like refrigerators.
I close my eyes.
Of course.
The refrigerator.
I take another drink of hot chocolate and look across the room at Dusty.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
He lifts his head from the rug and gives me a slow, unimpressed blink.
“Exactly.”
His head drops back down.
I turn toward the window.
The sky is still a pale, stubborn gray. No rain. No wind screaming through the cracks. Just the kind of quiet that makes people do stupid things like panic-buy batteries and enough bottled water to survive a six-month siege.
Still, the storm is coming.
And when I climbed the Monroe porch yesterday, I noticed more than the crooked steps leading down toward the beach.
The front landing has shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
I stare into my hot chocolate again.
I could stop by.
Just to check on it.
I immediately shake my head.
“Yeah, that's not happening.”
Dusty lifts his head again.
I point at him.
“Don't look at me like that.”
He blinks.
Apparently, we've reached an impasse.
I turn back toward the window.
The problem is, I can already picture what will happen when the rain starts and the first hard gust hits. The wood will soak through. The subtle give in the landing could turn into something worse.
A crack.
A snap.
Someone getting hurt.
Last season, a shingle came off the Monroe roof during a storm and landed in my yard like it had been personally delivered.
It didn't hurt anyone.
But that's the thing about houses.
Small problems rarely stay small.
A missing shingle means water.
Water means rot.
And rot means an expensive repair that could've been avoided if someone had dealt with the problem in the first place.
I look at Dusty again.
“She's going to have to listen to me whether she wants to or not.”
His ears perk up.
“Exactly. I'm not sitting here waiting for someone to get hurt.”
There.
Decision made.
I set my mug on the table with a decisive clink and stand.
The shingle from last season is still shoved into the back of the hall closet. I dig it out and bring it with me as evidence.
Or a visual aid.
Definitely not an excuse to go back to Claire Monroe's house.
Half an hour later, I'm standing on her front porch.
Again.
I look down at the landing.
It's worse than I remember.
One bad step. One slick board. That's all it would take.
I knock.
Then wait.
And wait.
Still nothing.
I glance down at the shingle in my hand.
I could leave it on the porch like some kind of threatening message from the roofing gods and go home.
I could also behave like a normal person and stop showing up uninvited at the house of a woman who has made it very clear she doesn't want to be bothered.
I'm seriously considering both options when the lock finally turns.
The door cracks open.
“Yes?”
Claire peers out at me with an expression that's technically polite but not remotely inviting.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Her eyebrows lift.
“It's about the storm,” I add.
Kind of.
Apparently, that's enough to get her to open the door the rest of the way.
“My weather app says there's a ninety percent chance the storm is going to take one look at Tidehaven and change its mind,” she says, leaning one shoulder against the door frame. “So I'm just fine, thank you.”
“It's about your house.”
I tip my chin toward the porch, then the landing beneath my feet.
“This is a safety hazard. Once the rain starts, it'll only get worse.”
Claire crosses her arms.
“I'm fully aware there are repairs that need to be done. I spent hours with my realtor last night making a ridiculously long list. I have everything under control.”
“So you're fixing the steps before the storm gets here?”
My grip tightens around the shingle.
“The landing will hold.”
Her eyes narrow slightly before dropping to the object in my hand.
“But thanks for your concern. If that's what this is.”
I exhale slowly through my nose.
I'm not taking the bait.
Mostly.
I angle the shingle so she can see the nail hole and warped edge.
“This came off your roof last season. It landed in my yard.”
Claire looks at it.
“Did you and your realtor take a walk on the roof last night too?” I ask. “Check for loose shingles? Water damage? Rot?”
Her gaze snaps back to mine.
I probably could've phrased that better.
I lower my voice.
“Look, I don't care about the sale right now, okay?”
Something in her expression changes.
Barely.
But I notice.
“I'm not going to stand by and watch you get hurt because you're determined to pretend nothing needs immediate attention.”
Her eyes soften.
Just a little.
At least she's listening.
“Just look.”
I use the shingle to point toward the seam where two boards meet.
“The wood is darker along the grain. Those screws are starting to lift, and the support post underneath isn't sitting flush anymore.”
I shift to the side so she can see it better.
“The whole corner has moved enough that it's carrying more weight than it should.”
Claire follows my gesture.
“Yeah. I see it.”
I look at her.
“I saw it last night too,” she adds.
“Put your weight on this corner.”
She gives me a look.
“No.”
“I'm not trying to kill you.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
I immediately regret them.
Because telling someone you're not trying to kill them has probably never made anyone feel safer.
Claire's mouth presses into a thin line.
“I've been here less than twenty-four hours, Jack.”
Something in her voice makes me stop.
“You've made your point. I just…” She looks away for a second. “I can't do everything at once.”
The irritation drains out of me.
Not completely.
But enough.
I clear my throat and hold out the shingle.
“Keep this.”
She looks at it.
“Put it on your list.”
Claire takes it from me.
“I will. But the steps will hold through one storm.”
My jaw tightens.
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“You can't know that.”
“The landing creaks. It doesn't collapse.” She lifts her eyebrows. “And I'm not planning to host a dance party out here.”
I let out a hard breath.
“Fine.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
I turn away before I can start arguing again.
I've made my point.
She heard me.
What she does with the information is her business.
“Jack.”
I stop.
Then turn halfway around.
Claire is still standing in the doorway, holding the old shingle like a peace offering neither of us knows what to do with.
“Thank you,” she says. “For… pointing it out.”
I nod once.
Then I head down the stairs.
Carefully.
Because they're a hazard.
As I cross the yard toward my truck, I can feel her watching me.
I don't look back to confirm it.
I've already spent enough time looking at Claire Monroe for one morning.
I climb into the truck and shut the door.
“Stubborn,” I mutter.
Then I pause.
Because I'm not entirely sure which one of us I'm talking about.
I look back toward the house.
If Claire Monroe won't fix those steps before the storm…
I will.
***
It's possible I exaggerated the immediate danger posed by the Monroe landing.
Slightly.
But it's too late to turn back now.
At least yesterday's rush on the hardware store has passed, which means I can move through the aisles without dodging carts full of bottled water or watching grown adults fight over sandbags.
I toss a coil of rope into my cart even though I have plenty at home.
You can never have too much rope in Tidehaven.
Besides, buying another coil saves me the trouble of digging through my own supplies.
I grab a box of deck screws and a set of brackets, mentally running through everything I noticed on Claire's porch.
The bottom step shifted too easily.
The landing isn't square anymore.
The support post needs reinforcement.
None of it requires a full rebuild. Not yet, anyway. But if I stabilize the weak points before the storm, it'll buy her some time.
I'm reaching for a second set of brackets when a voice comes from behind me.
"Is that for the harbor," Harris asks, "or for your own bad decisions?"
I look over my shoulder.
For once, both options are equally valid.
"My own bad decisions."
Harris's eyebrows lift.
"I accidentally committed to fixing the Monroe stairs," I explain, dropping the brackets into my cart. "They're a hazard, Claire isn't fixing them, and there's a storm coming."
"Accidentally committed?"
I grimace.
"I may have slightly overstated the urgency of the situation."
Harris stares at me.
"How slightly?"
"I told her someone could get hurt."
"Could they?"
"Technically, someone can get hurt anywhere."
His mouth twitches.
"Jack."
I sigh.
"The landing needs work. The stairs aren't great. But are they going to collapse the second the first raindrop hits?"
I pause.
"Probably not."
Harris starts laughing.
"Glad you're enjoying this."
"Oh, I am." His grin widens. "So let me make sure I understand. You went over there again—"
"Yes."
"To talk about the stairs."
"Yes."
"And now you're buying supplies to fix them even though Claire didn't ask you to."
I tighten my grip on the cart.
"She said she can't do everything at once."
Harris's grin disappears.
I realize what I've said a second too late.
He looks at me.
I look at the deck screws.
"Interesting," he says.
"It's not interesting."
"It sounded interesting."
"It wasn't."
Harris folds his arms.
"Was this another attempt to get information about the sale? Except instead of talking about refrigerators, you told her the house was going to fall apart unless you personally intervened?"
I glare at him.
"That is not what happened."
At least, I don't think that's what happened.
Not intentionally.
I specifically told Claire I wasn't there to talk about the sale.
So that has to count for something.
"But you're fixing her stairs anyway?" Harris asks, sounding far too pleased with himself.
"The storm is late."
He waits.
I wait.
Apparently, that isn't the explanation he was looking for.