The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,117

woman who crosses your path?”

“Just the cute ones,” he said. “Hey, it’s not like you didn’t have your chance, Boss Lady.”

“Knock it off,” I said, smiling. He was such a kid; how could I be mad at him? “And quit calling me Boss Lady. You volunteered for this, remember?”

“That’s because I’m such a nice guy.” He pounded the side of the truck with the flat of his hand. “Ted-O! Let’s unload this beast!”

Teddy climbed out of the truck. Bug and Pebbles, who had been lounging on the piazza to escape the searing August heat, jumped to their feet, ran down the steps, and flung themselves at Teddy, barking and wiggling and basically losing their minds.

“Sorry,” Teddy said, catching Pebbles in his arms. “But I’ve got to change and get over to the coffee shop. My shift starts at noon.”

“That’s right,” Lorne said. “I forgot. Don’t worry about it, Ted-O. Trey’s coming over to give me a hand after church. Should be here any minute. But thanks for your help, big guy.”

Lorne clapped Teddy on the back. Teddy gave him a high five and headed toward the house with Pebbles still in his arms and Bug trotting along at his heels.

“Does Trey go to church every Sunday?” I asked. “I saw him once, over at St. Philip’s. But that was on a Monday. There was an older man with him, maybe your grandfather?”

Lorne’s grin faded. “That’s our dad. He had a stroke a while back. He lives in a retirement home now but Trey takes him to church whenever he wants, which is at least a couple times a week.”

I would have liked to know more, but if there was anything I’d learned in the previous months, it was that trying to pry information from a Holcomb, especially if it involved family, was a pointless exercise. Just in case I hadn’t gotten the hint, Lorne thumped the side of the truck to signal a change of topic, then walked to the back and yanked the handles on the door. It rolled up like a window shade. The truck’s interior was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes and furniture.

“Where d’ya want it, Boss?”

“Well . . .” I pulled an apologetic face.

Lorne’s shoulders drooped. “No,” he said, frowning and shaking his head. “Not the attic.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to put her,” I said, spreading my hands. “Once the baby comes, I’ll only have one bedroom upstairs and I need to save that for guests. Calvin’s coming down for the baby shower.

“Come on, Lorne. Polly’s got nowhere else to go and she needs some space to spread out. If she hadn’t ratted out Cabot James, Brett would still be our inspector and I’d be the one with no place to live.”

Lorne groaned and hinged his head back, as if he was too tired to carry its weight. “She’d better be here for a while,” he said at last, lifting his head and stabbing the air with his finger. “Because I am not moving this stuff again.”

“That’s up to Polly. But I told her she can stay as long as she wants.”

Lorne growled, then sighed, then shrugged, working his way from frustration to resignation. “All right. I guess, one flight of stairs one way or the other doesn’t make that much difference. But we’re still putting the shop inventory and displays into the ground-floor storage, right?”

When I didn’t respond, Lorne set his jaw and shook his head.

“Uh-uh, Celia. No way.”

A car door slammed, signaling Trey’s arrival. It was ninety-six degrees out and ninety-seven percent humidity, but he was still wearing a black suit. “Church clothes,” he said when I arched my eyebrows. “I’ve got shorts and a T-shirt in the car.” He peered into the back of the truck and frowned. “I thought Pris sold the inventory.”

“Some of it,” Lorne said. “But there’s still a whole lotta boxes here. And guess where Celia wants us to take it?”

“What do you want me to do!” I shouted, throwing out my hands. “The humidity is terrible on the ground floor, the walls are practically dripping. Polly invested her life savings in the store inventory. We can’t put it down there and just hope it won’t mildew.”

“The attic,” Lorne said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at his brother. “She wants us to cart all this stuff up three flights of stairs to the attic.”

“Ah.” Trey put his hands on his hips and popped his lips three times. Apparently, this is the noise all Holcombs make