Page 4 of Clear Path

Rory snapped a photo as a stocky man with close-cropped gray hair emerged from the passenger side of the lead truck. He wore a fleece jacket and clutched a clipboard. The driver hopped out and grabbed a pair of blaze orange safety vests fromthe truck bed. After shrugging into one, he offered the other to his passenger, who tugged it on over the fleece. Then the pair retrieved hard hats from the footwell of the truck. Behind them, the rest of the crew was doing the same.

“Sam,” Lydia muttered the name as if it were a profanity.

Rory lowered her camera and turned toward the older woman. “Pardon?”

She jerked her chin toward the approaching man and flared her nostrils. “Sam Folger. He’s the supervisor of the county construction crew. More like destruction crew.”

Sam came to a stop in front of the steps to the porch. “Come down from there, Lydia. We’re on a schedule.”

Rory’s eyes widened at his gruff, unsympathetic tone. Lydia seemed unsurprised.

“Go to hell, Sam.”

Sam grunted and gave his head a rueful shake. Lydia made a low noise in the back of her throat. It sounded like the warning Rory’s childhood cat used to give before she attacked.

The foreman waved Rory and Lydia over. “You ladies need to get out of this area. It’s not safe.”

Lydia seemed unable to respond, so Rory said, “We’d like to watch.”

He frowned. “Not much to see.”

In return, Rory gave him a bright smile and waited.

He scratched his neck under the collar of his flannel shirt. “I suppose as long as you cross the street, you’ll be safe enough, but you got to keep an eye out for flying debris.”

“We will,” Rory promised sweetly. “I just need to be close enough to take some photos for Mrs. Hudson.”

The man’s gaze shifted to Lydia and her stony face. “Why are you are doing this to yourself, Lydia?”

Lydia croaked out a laugh. “Funny. Thought you were the one doing this to me, Sam.”

His shoulders slumped. “Come on, Lyd. I don’t make the decisions. My crew and I are just doing our job.”

Lydia’s neck muscles twitched and her jaw tightened, and Rory placed a gentle hand on her elbow to lead her across the street before she exploded. They settled atop the low brick wall that fronted the yarn shop. As Rory shifted and folded her long legs lotus-style, Lydia gave her a sidelong look. “You always get what you want?”

Rory shrugged. What was the point of having a face card, if you weren’t going to play it? She was beautiful—objectively. It was an accident of genetics. It didn’t have anything to do with her; it justwas.People fell over themselves to please her. It had been that way her entire life, or at least as long as she could remember.

She tried—especially these days—not to misuse it or rely too heavily on it. But she couldn’t deny that when she wanted something, almost invariably a bright smile and a sweet voice got the job done. Lydia watched her, waiting for a response.

“You know what they say,” she finally answered. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

Lydia laughed. “Catch those flies while you can. Believe me, one day your looks will fade and you’ll be invisible. Happens to us all.”

I can’t wait,she thought fervently. She meant it with her whole being but refrained from saying it aloud.

Instead, she nodded and pointed toward the house. “They’re getting started.”

The older woman turned to watch, and they both stood up as the demolition crew confirmed the utilities had been disconnected and set up a row of orange cones. A pair of workers lowered the tailgate of one of the trucks and headed out to the intersection to stop traffic, while Sam consulted the paperson his clipboard. Rory photographed it all, conscious of Lydia standing ramrod-straight beside her.

Then he raised one hand and gestured for the driver to start the excavator. The engine growled to life and the vehicle bumped over the hard earth until the huge bucket attached to the end of its hydraulic arm was lined up with the side of the house. The digger reversed, and its arm rose with a whine until the bucket was high, hovering over the roof of Lydia’s home.

It began its slow descent and plowed into the shingles, smashing into the roof and sending a cascade of tar, nails, and wood raining down onto the ground. Lydia inhaled sharply. Rory kept snapping pictures.

Over and over, the bucket slammed into the roof until it collapsed. Then the driver moved on to the walls, loudly maneuvering around the house as the bucket swiveled on its track. Dust and debris filled the air. When the excavator stopped, the house was less than a shell.

A worker waved on a gleaming white SUV, which was followed by a roll-off truck carrying a pair of dumpsters. The SUV came to a stop on the road, and the truck swerved around it to park on what had been Lydia’s front yard.

The driver’s door opened, and a woman emerged from the SUV. She wore oversized sunglasses and a blue tweed designer pantsuit that Rory immediately recognized as a St. John. But not until she pushed the sunglasses up on top of her honey-colored hair did Rory recognize the woman. What was Julie Mason doing here?

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