In her great aunt’s time, the doors had been painted in a psychedelic rainbow, but the paint had long since faded and peeled, revealing the gray wood beneath. “Your assignment, should you choose to accept it.” She ceremoniously yanked open the rusty lock that hadn’t worked in years.
She let the men go down first, wielding the brooms like swords. She had no intention of cleaning out spiders if it wasn’t necessary.
“Oh man, an originalPacMan pinball,” Reuben crowed as he annihilated cobwebs. The nerd was good with weapons. “There’s a whole arcade down here!”
Entering the dim cellar and flipping the switch for the fluorescents, Roark just whistled.
Evie sat on the concrete block steps. “Museum territory. It’s either use it or sell it. What do you think?”
They weren’t even listening.
“Man, is that an original Apple? Does it work?” Reuben spoke in tones of awe, settling into a space-age gamer chair in front of the ancient computer, checking the wires.
“Val’s first husband liked to play. This was way before I was born, as I think you can tell.”
“Look at dis futon, man!” Roark cried, examining a moth-eaten faux leopard fur couch. “Clean it up and it would sell in Vegas.”
Evie snorted. “Good eye, hotshot. I think that’s where he was from. And the showgirls may be why he’s Val’sfirsthusband. She likes her drama but she doesn’t share her men. The disco ball appears to be shattered by shotgun pellets.” She glanced at the mirrored ball on the ceiling.
“Billiard tables never grow old.Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Roark discarded the futon for the pool table, running his hand over the felt. “How did you keep out mold?”
“Val isn’t poor. The place has good ventilation, natural air-conditioning from being underground, and a dehumidifying system. You just have to talk to the spiders. What do you think?” She waited for them to get a clue.
Reuben swung the cobweb-coated gaming chair to face her. Roark hefted a custom-made pool cue, cleaning it reverently with the front of his extra-large shirt.
“What do we think about what?” Reuben asked suspiciously.
Evie sighed. Men, the very definition of clueless. “We need work, right? And the two of you will roast in that oven if you try living in your van in summer. So I figure you’ll be moving on unless I make an offer you can’t refuse. I don’t have any money. I can’t pay you a salary while I look for clients. I just figure we’re all smart enough to market our little success story into a few more jobs.”
“Market?” The muscle-bound Cajun set down the cue.
“Offer?” Reuben flicked the switch on the Apple. The screen lit up. His scarred, dark face lit up with it.
“We probably can’t call it the Psychics Solution Agency, since you’re not psychic. We’ll need a better name. We’re not detectives, so we have to say Solutions, not detective agency. We’ll solve problems in our own unique ways.” Evie tried to sound cheerful and confident, as if the answer was obvious. “And while we’re building the business, you can live down here and use it as an office.”
Loretta came down carrying a basket of food. “Are you staying? Does the Apple work? Do you like peanut butter?”
“You’re not eating down here until we clean up this slum,” Reuben warned, pointing at the door. “Outside with you, kid.”
Evie’s heart warmed. She thought that answered her question.
Roark picked up a cue and hit a ball in a pocket. Yep. She’d read their auras right.
The boys needed a home.
Twenty-seven
Jax signedthe final paperwork making Evangeline Malcolm Carstairs co-guardian of Loretta Aurora Post. His secretary had prepared the formal document Evie could use to show to schools and doctors that proved she was Loretta’s legal representative. If she wanted to start adoption procedures, she’d need to hire her own lawyer.
Thinking of Evie conjured colorful images that filled him with regrets he couldn’t afford.
He handed the paperwork back to his secretary.
He’d forced the firm to allow him to remove all of Loretta’s fortune out of Stephen’s hands and into his control, with the investment broker and bankers as countersignatures. After verifying all was well, he closed his laptop, dropped it into his briefcase, and walked out of his adoptive father’s firm.
At his condo, he paid the movers who were hauling his personal belongings to storage. He gave his keys to the real estate agent who would be handling the sale. He wanted no obligations hanging over his head.
He’d already deposited the funds for the Jag. He handed over the keys to the new owner with only a little pain. The XKE had been his pride and joy, but it wasn’t practical for a cross-country trip involving suitcases and office equipment. The sale price had allowed him to buy a sturdy Subaru with a bundle of cash left over.