I think about the house and the state that it’s in. After my mother died, my father let the property fall apart. He didn’t have the money, but I also think he lost the ability to care.
The place needs a lot of work. I put my leg through the floorboards today and nearly broke my neck. There are pails all over the attic where the roof is leaking. There’s no furniture to speak of, the carpets have holes, and the wallpaper is faded and torn. Spider webs festoon the corners. There might be a mold issue that I’m trying very hard not to think about.
Ever since I moved in, I've been in deadline mode. I've had no time to fix the place up. Even the thought of it is overwhelming.
I guess I can’t avoid it any longer. “Of course.” I ruthlessly squelch the thought of how much work is involved in getting the house wedding-ready. Hannah hasn’t asked me for help in years. I haven’t been there for her. This time, I won’t let her down. “When are you getting married?”
“Christmas.”
“This year?” I manage to keep the panic out of my voice. That’s four months away. Fuck.
She notices my reaction. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Yes. It’s going to be impossible. “No. Christmas is great.” If Hannah is trying to replace bad memories with good ones, then the timing makes perfect sense. Our parents treated us differently, and the inequity was never starker than at Christmas. I’d be surrounded by toys, and Hannah would get shockingly little in comparison. “Christmas is perfect.”
One way or the other, I will make this happen.
“Will you give me away?”
Her softly-spoken question drags me from the problems of the house. “Really?” I stare at her in shock. “You want me to do that? After everything?”
She nods wordlessly.
I force the words out past the lump in my throat. “I would be honored, Hannah.” No matter how much money it’s going to cost, Kincaid Castle will be ready. My baby sister’s wedding will be perfect.
Back home,my heart sinks as I walk from one dust-filled room to the other. This place is a wreck. I have four months to fix it, and I don’t know where to start.
I pick up my phone and call Damien. “Hey,” I say without preamble. “What's the name of your contractor? The one who worked on your cottage?”
“Isaac Foster,” my best friend replies. “Are you finally doing something about that dump? Why now?”
“I'll tell you tonight.” A community health center opened up in Highfield last year, and Xavier Leforte is hosting a fundraiser for it. He’d explained why, but I was working when I got his email, and I don’t remember any of the details.
I hang up on Damien and dial Isaac Foster. I get his voicemail. Biting back my frustration, I leave my name and number and beg him to call me back.
Shockingly, he does. “The mansion on Hill Street? The one with the green shutters? I thought it was condemned. I had no idea someone was living there.”
“Yeah. Me. I need a contractor to fix it up by Christmas. Can you do it?”
“No can do,” he replies instantly. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I'm booked solid. Everyone wants to renovate this year, and I have more work than I know what to do with.”
Fuck. “Do you know anyone who might do the job?”
“Hmm. Try Greg Liu.”
Greg Liu doesn’t have any availability either. “Next year, yes,” he says. “This year, impossible. Sorry.”
I spend three hours on the phone and Internet trying to find someone, anyone, who will do the work. I leave dozens of messages all over, but I get nowhere.
I am totally screwed.
My phone beeps, reminding me it's time to get ready. I head into the bathroom I’ve been using and turn on the shower. About fifty percent of the time, I get hot water. Today's not one of those days. I hastily shower in icy cold water and get dressed, muttering curses at my father, and then I head out.
Damien is already at Summit when I arrive. He takes one look at my face and hands me a drink. “Tell me about it,” he says, sounding half-amused and half-sympathetic.
I fill him in, and he whistles between his teeth. “Yikes,” he says. “That’s quite a challenge.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.” I gulp down the whiskey he’s handed me, and it burns a path of pure fire down my throat. “What the fuck am I going to do?”