3. Duke
Avery waltzes awaywith her long, tanned legs swaying like she’s walking down a catwalk, not strolling on Sandpiper Lane. And even with that grease staining her shorts, she still manages to look like she’s stepped out of the pages of a fancy fashion magazine: polished, and golden.
And way out of all of our league.
“Having those damn movie people cluttering up town was bad enough,” I grumble, heading into the coffee shop with Suze. “The last thing we need is more celebrity nonsense. What’s next, Oprah decides to rent a place in town and cause a gridlock just stopping by the diner for pie?”
Suze whacks me on the arm. Hard.
“Ouch,” I protest. “What the hell was that for?”
“You left her on the side of the highway?” she demands, looking outraged. “Alone? At night?”
I wince. “Oh. Yeah. That. It wasn’t exactly my finest moment,” I admit, before Suze hits me again. The woman’s had a mean right hook on her since high-school.
And in this case, I deserve it.
As soon as I drove away from Avery, I knew I’d fucked up. She may be a spoiled, shallow princess, but I was raised to always make sure a woman got home safely.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I add, catching Suze’s glare. “I called Larry at the tow shop right away to go pick her up. Besides, anyone tries to mess with her, she’d probably just bat her eyelashes and have them crawling on their knees in five minutes flat.”
There’s a woman used to getting what she wants, alright.
“She seemed nice enough to me,” Suze offers, placing our orders.
I snort. “She’s an actress, she’s used to turning on the charm. Besides, she won’t last the summer without her designer shopping, and fancy spa, and an assistant running around after her 24/7.”
I know high-maintenance women, and the last place they want to be is Blackberry Cove. The thought should reassure me, but I still can’t help grumbling. “She’ll probably be fleeing back to Hollywood by the end of the week, complaining about the sushi.”
“Are you done?”
I look over. Suze is smirking at me between mouthfuls of blueberry muffin. “Just, you seem to be awfully invested in Avery’s future here,” she adds, giving me a thoughtful look.
“Not at all,” I say immediately. “Couldn’t care less.”
“Mhmm,” Suze doesn’t look convinced. “Well, if you need something to distract you from our movie star friend, you can always come help me out with theater camp. I’m trying to get the kids performance-ready before the Shakespeare Festival next month.”
“I don’t know. Work is crazy right now…” I add vaguely. Suze is a teacher at the local high school, and always trying to rope me into helping out with her extracurriculars. “Can’t Lori do it?”
“My wife is claiming this wasn’t covered in our marriage vows,” Suze replies. “But you look like you’re in dire need of some fun.” She fixes her gaze on me with a determined grin, and I know, I’m not getting out of this one.
I sigh. “And by ‘fun’, you mean building sets for the production?”
“Angel. We also might need you to donate all the equipment and materials, too,” she adds hurriedly. “But it’ll be great! You, me, a hoard of hormonal teens butchering the greatest works of dramatic literature, what’s not to like?”
I have to laugh. “The last time I helped out with one of your projects, I wound up building a miniature replica of the White House,” I remind her good-naturedly. “What play are you doing this time?”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
I laugh louder. “The horniest, most violent of all Shakespeare’s plays? What made you think it was a good idea to get the kids riled up for that?”
She makes a face. “I know, I might have bitten off more than I can chew… but it seemed like such a good idea at the time! I fly too close to the sun,” she declares, and I pat her back sympathetically.
“Easy there, Icarus. Let’s see if we can’t build you some better wings.”
I would preferto forget that Avery Lawrence and her baby blue eyes ever existed, but news travels fast in Blackberry Cove, and everywhere I go, people are gushing over her unexpected visit.
“I heard she’s signed up to play Marilyn Monroe in a new movie,” Margie gossips in line at the pharmacy.
“I heard she’s fresh out of rehab, after a breakdown,” Linette Walters says breathlessly at the diner.
You’d think they’d never seen a Hollywood celebrity up close, even though we had a whole movie production set up camp here last summer. And they couldn’t get gone fast enough for me.
I’ve been living half my life in Blackberry Cove. I left for a spell to go to college, and set up shop with my construction company in Boston, but when things went south there, I came right back to the Cape. The quiet pace of life suits me here, and I like the simple, down-to-earth vibes. With all the tourists wanting summer homes, there’s plenty of work to go around, and the people here aren’t impressed by status or empty charm.
At least, not usually.
But clearly Avery’s been flashing that butter-wouldn’t-melt smile around town, because everyone’s forgotten what a highly-strung nightmare she was during the movie, and is thrilled to have her back again.
Everyone except me.
“She was in here, asking about a handyman. Pretty as a picture.”
I stop by the hardware store, figuring I’d be safe from the Avery Lawrence fan club there.
I was wrong.
“Seems she’s got a leak, staying out at Jaycee Bennett’s old house. You know, she’s just the sweetest thing,” Earl continues, behind the counter, chatting to the other old-timers who like to hang out here, shooting the shit and kvetching over the news. “I don’t believe those tabloids for a minute.”
“I don’t know,” Artie Bates pitches in. “She had an attitude on her last summer, that’s for sure.”
“But I’m sure she doesn’t mean it. It’s, whatdoyoucallit, professional detachment, like,” Dick from the marina adds. “She’s probably got people buzzing around her all the time, wanting photos and autographs. You can understand her being a little cool to a fella.”
“What do you think, Duke?” Earl asks, as I fill a basket with supplies. “What’s she doing back here, have you heard?”
“No idea,” I answer shortly, and get back to browsing the crammed, dusty aisles. But their chatter drifts over, as they discuss her last movie, and broken engagement, and how if they were forty years younger, they might go making a fool of themselves for her.
“…but I told her, she’d be hard-pressed to find someone to fix it,” Earl is still nattering, when I come to the register to pay. “Say, I don’t suppose you could stop by and help her out,” he adds, looking over at me. “Sounds like it’s just the roof needing a patch. Wouldn’t take you a jiffy.”
“Sorry, busy,” I say shortly, pulling out some bills.
“But—”
“Gotta run. Thanks!” I cut him off, and get the hell out of there before he talks me into doing another favor and has me halfway up a ladder, fixing the movie star’s roof.
That’s the downside about small towns: your neighbors never learn to take “no” for an answer.
I load up the truck,and head out back to my current construction site. I wasn’t lying to Earl: business has never been better. These days, I’m turning down more work than I can take. It’s definitely a turnaround from the days I was just starting out, making cold calls trying to drum up work and moonlighting making furniture to keep the bills paid.
Back then, all anyone wanted was new, new, new. Flashy modern architecture, and concrete box townhomes. My specialty is historic restoration and redesign: building new homes using the old original plans and techniques from a hundred years ago. See, there’s a reason those Cape Cod saltbox houses are still standing a century after they were first constructed.
They were built to last.
Most contractors just want to make a quick buck, so they don’t bother to do things right. They cut corners and pick cheap materials, I hear it all the time – usually from the stressed-out homeowner trying to patch up their mistakes when all those shoddy choices add up to serious problems. It doesn’t matter if it takes one year or five before things start falling apart. If you don’t build it right from the beginning, nothing’s going to last.
And I’ve learned the hard way, that doesn’t just apply to construction.
Me? I’m all about the details. There’s something beautiful about a handmade built-in bookshelf; a wrought-iron banister that you know is going to last for generations; historic trim and details that echo the past in an updated setting. Yeah, craftsmanship, care, historical preservation – those are the foundations I’ve built my business on. It may not be flashy, but as far as I’m concerned, quality never goes out of style.
And sure enough, after struggling through a lean few years trying to get my business off the ground, historic homes came roaring back in fashion again. All the high-end buyers are tired of those cookie-cutter McMansions and want something historic again – unique – and they’re willing to pay a premium to get it. One job led to another, and soon I had a steady flow of clients. Then one of my projects got featured in Architectural Digest, and things really got crazy. The calls started pouring in… and they haven’t stopped yet.
It”s funny, my ex used to roll her eyes at my sawdust-covered boots, and complain when I came back all dirty from the construction site. Now, I’m featured in the pages of all the glossy design magazines she used to leaf through, back when all she would do was remind me of all the things we couldn’t afford just yet.
But then, that was Rachel: always wanting more. More than I could offer her, anyway. I guess that’s why she figured hooking up with her mega-bucks corporate boss would get her all those exclusive places she wanted to go.
It just would have been nice if she’d broken off our engagement before screwing him.
I snap out of past memories, and realize I’m driving by the old artist’s cottage on the outskirts of town. Aka, Avery Lawrence’s rental.
An inconvenient stab of guilt lodges in my gut. I really shouldn’t have left her on the side of the road like that. And now Earl says she’s got a leak, and can’t find anyone to fix it…
Dammit.
I pull over outside the cottage and grab my toolbox, then make my way up the overgrown front path. The cottage’s owner is a real eccentric character, and I figured Avery would be staying in some swanky beach house, not hidden away out in the woods like this. Not that I care. The sooner I fix this damn water problem she has, the sooner the scales are even again and I can go back to avoiding her.
“Hello?” I rap on the door, but there’s no answer. “Anyone home?”
I hear music playing around the back of the house, so I circle the old stone cottage, following the lyrics of some country singer listing all the ways she’ll make her man pay.
Perfect.
I fight my way through the blackberry bushes, grumbling. So much for doing a good deed and helping out a neighbor. Now I’ve got brambles in my shirt and thorns in my jeans, and as I round the corner to the backyard, let out an almighty yell, stumbling back in surprise at the sight in front of me.
A strange figure with pink goo in their hair, blue smears all over their arms and legs, and a face covered by some kind of freakish horror-movie mask.
“What the hell?!”