Page 3 of Midnight Valentine
Thirty-two is hardly a girl, and I’ve never been little, in stature or personality, but she’s turning back to me, beaming, and who am I to rain on her parade with these pesky details?
“Well, that’s fantastic news, honey! I had no idea it sold! That place has been on the market, what, eight years now?”
“Ten, according to the real estate agent.”
“Suzie Martin,” the waitress says, nodding. “Excuse me, Suzanne.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s hard to call someone you knew when she was peeing her pants in kindergarten by her proper name. She’d skin me if she found out.”
When she gives me a pointed look, I make a zipper motion over my mouth. “My lips are sealed.”
“I’m Jean, by the way. Jean McCorkle. Welcome to Seaside.” She sticks out her hand.
“Megan Dunn.” We shake, and it feels as if something’s been decided.
Then Jean’s freckled face creases with a wry smile. “I hate to be a downer, honey, but I hope you have deep pockets and a background in construction. The Buttercup’s a bit of a mess.”
“Mess” is an understatement. It needs a new roof, new plumbing, new windows, mold remediation, landscaping, plaster patching, painting, new floors, and electrical work. So basically everything. It’s a Victorian, built in the late 1900s, full of character and quirks, zoned as a bed-and-breakfast and operated as one until there was a kitchen fire. The prior owner didn’t have enough money to fix it, so he put it on the market instead. There it sat, moldering in the sea air, for a decade.
“Yeah, it needs a lot of work, but I’m looking forward to the project. Suzanne gave me the name of the best contractor in the area. I’m going to give him a call tomorrow, as soon as I can survey the place and get a feel for what I should prioritize. Hopefully, he has the time to come out soon and give me an estimate. I’m anxious to get started on the work.”
Jean blinks. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll have the time. Though I’m not sure you’ll want him to.”
“What do you mean?”
The rumble of an engine and a loud backfire make me glance over my shoulder. At the curb across the street, out in the rainy night, Moody Raincoat Guy sits on a chopper, revving it aggressively like he’s waiting for a starting flag to drop. He tears off with a roar, the tires spitting water, the hood of his raincoat flipped back onto his shoulders from the force of the wind.
Jean says, “I mean you already met the best contractor in the area, honey, and by the sound of things, you didn’t like him.”
When I send her a quizzical look, she gestures with her chin toward the windows and the sound of a roaring engine, fading into the distance until it’s swallowed by the drum of the rain.
My heart sinks. “He’s the contractor?”
She lifts a shoulder, apologetic. “There’s other guys who will come up from Portland, but they’re a lot more expensive, and honestly, the work isn’t near what Theo can do. I admit he’s off-putting, but if you can get past the not talking, he’s really the best.”
Thought it’s impolite to make faces, my face regularly bucks protocol and contorts to some interesting shapes, as it does now. “The ‘not talking’? You mean he’s mute?”
“I mean he doesn’t speak.”
“Is he deaf?”
“No.”
“So he can speak, but he chooses not to?”
Jean sighs like she wishes there was something she could do about the situation. “To be honest, honey, I really don’t know what the problem is. He talked fine before the accident, but after the accident, he didn’t ever talk again. Maybe it’s physical, maybe it’s mental, who knows. All I know for sure is that he can hear, he understands what people are saying, he just never responds. So don’t expect it if you hire him.”
This keeps getting better. “How am I supposed to communicate with him if he won’t talk to me?”
“You tell him what you want, and he’ll do it. If he has questions, he writes on a little pad he carries with him.”
She says that as if it’s completely normal, a standard way of doing business. I push my plate away, wipe my mouth with my napkin, and take another swig of my coffee. “Thanks, but I think I’ll try the guys in Portland. I’ll get the info from Suzanne.”
“All right, honey. Suit yourself. You want anything else, or should I bring you the check?”
“Just the check, Jean, please.”
She walks away, leaving me staring pensively out into the rainy night, thinking about Moody Raincoat Guy, former local wonder boy turned mute, glowering diner patron with eyes like midnight at the bottom of a well.
I wonder if his heart is full of ghosts too.
