Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“You know it.”
I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull out my apple. I ate a late breakfast before driving out, so this will be enough to get me through the rest of the day.
Yet another big golf group is pulling up, with two teenagers who challenge each other to a swordfight with their golf clubs.
Hmm. I love the barn, but I should probably check the golf course hours. The last thing someone needs is to get whacked with an errant ball or hear very loud talk about balls and the inventive and repeated use of the word fuck.
I’m good with balls and fuck, but some of my clients won’t like it, and it’s the little things that can ruin a wedding.
Then again, if I get shot for trespassing in the next hour as I drive all willy-nilly down the backroads trying to find someplace that looks both old and inviting, I might not need to worry about that.
It blows my mind that people approach other people’s yards like that for a living, but then, that’s probably what some folks would say about my job. Weddings and technical fussy details aren’t for everyone.
I do have to get back for a meeting with a prospective client this afternoon, so I shoot up from the bench and take my apple to go.
If I’m going to get shot at, I suppose it’s best to get it done and over with.
Chapter nine
Rowleigh
Bellatrix sent me a ping late last night. Considering that she warned me to drive something with clearance, wear clothes I wouldn’t mind throwing out after, and also have shoes that could withstand rusty nails, I had more than a slight inkling about what we were going to be doing before I pulled up to the long, narrow driveway.
I only have to wait a few moments at the side of the gravel road with my favorite nineties punk band blasting over the SUV’s speakers before Bellatrix’s old blue car edges up behind me.
She drives past, waving at me. Even in the old beater sedan, which is rusty but probably trusty because it’s from the golden era of imports, she’s as regal as a queen.
The driveway has to be half a mile long, and Bellatrix’s car kicks up an ungodly cloud of dust.
As I pull up just behind her, she emerges from her car with her hair in a messy bun, her face makeup-free, and in old baggy jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt that’s the opposite of baggy.
I quickly look away before she catches my eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.
It’s overcast today and so muggy that my T-shirt clings to my body like a second skin within a minute.
“I’m just going to let Mr. and Mrs. Davis know we’re here. They’re super sweet. They invited us in for tea after.” She turns to hide her grin. It’s sneaky looking, as though it’s just for her.
I have no idea what it means, but the way she’s glowing is a straight punch to the lungs.
I wait by my SUV while she skips across the farmyard to the faded-out baby-blue two-story house. It looks like something that was ordered from a catalog and assembled right here with love, excitement, and pride. It might be a little bit run down, with the paint looking sun blistered, the shingles peeling, and the porch looking more like a suggestion of a structure rather than actually being safe to walk on, but I can picture it in its glory.
That’s what always appealed to me about antiques. It wasn’t the restoration process, though I did my share of fixing and cleaning. It was the story they told in their current condition. At one time, they were new and pristine. Only they knew what the years between then and their rediscovery held. Some had been cherished and meticulously cared for. Others were packed away and forgotten, and some loved so much that they grew threadbare and thin with it.
The barn on the other side of the farmyard was red at one point, and it once stood straight and true, but like the house, it’s faded now and a little bit wobbly, though it will probably stand for years yet. The stone foundation is in good shape. It’s the cedar boards that are starting to give way in places.
There’s a long row of dilapidated outbuildings to the side of the barn, and at the end of the driveway, far to the left of that, are several metal grain bins and an old fuel tank. Like most farmyards, old or new, this one has its fair share of vehicles from all eras parked there. Some are littered beyond the barn, with grass so tall that it’s almost covered them, while others line the driveway and are clearly still going on the road.