A High-End Finish(87)
“They’re really cute, but that’s not it,” she said, shaking her head.
“So how do you mean?” I wondered.
“You’re happier,” Lizzie said thoughtfully.
Jane smiled knowingly. “I think you’ve found your niche.”
“Oh, definitely,” Emily said, and glanced around the table. “Wait. Did she lose it somewhere along the way?”
I laughed. A few years back, I had told Jane and Lizzie that I wanted to rediscover that happy niche I felt I’d lost when Tommy broke up with me back in high school.
Had I really not found happiness in all the years since then? That sounded a little pathetic—and not true at all. I loved my life, my work, and my friends. My house and my garden. My town. The beach. Beautiful sunsets. Ocean breezes. I had been content for a long time. Still . . . I thought about it now and concluded that I did feel happier these days. I let it go at that.
Jane swirled her wineglass. “It probably helps that you’ve vanquished the enemy and have two gorgeous men besotted by your charms.”
“Vanquished,” Marigold murmured, clearly impressed. “That’s a good word.”
Emily leaned over to look at Jane. “Besotted, really?”
“Don’t mind Jane,” Lizzie said, shaking her head. “She’s back on a Regency romance kick.”
“Whatever you want to call it,” Emily said wisely, “that’s quite a lovely niche to fall into.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
Turn the page for a peek at Shannon Hammer’s next challenging case in
This Old Homicide
A Fixer-Upper Mystery
by Kate Carlisle
Available in February 2015 wherever books are sold or at penguin.com.
“It’s a monstrosity, isn’t it?”
I gazed at the behemoth structure before us and hid my dismay with a bland smile. “No, not at all. It’s . . . beautiful. In its own way.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Shannon,” my friend Emily said. Her soft Scottish accent was thicker than usual, probably due to the stress of deciding to buy a house and then doing so in less than two days. “But I appreciate your attempt to make me feel better.”
She frowned at the three-story, multigabled, overspindled, gingerbread-laden . . . monstrosity—there was no better word for it—she’d just purchased. The old Victorian house was shrouded in shadows, making it appear even more foreboding than it might’ve been if even a smidgen of sunlight had been allowed to peep through the thick copse of soaring eucalyptus and redwood trees that surrounded the place on three sides. This wasn’t the time to mention it, but I planned to suggest a good tree trimming once Emily closed the deal.
To be honest, the place was magnificent—if you overlooked the obvious: peeling paint, broken shutters, slumping roof. All of that was cosmetic and could be magically transformed by a good contractor. Luckily for Emily, that was me. I’m Shannon Hammer, a building contractor specializing in Victorian-home renovation and repair. I took over Hammer Construction five years ago when my dad suffered a mild heart attack and decided to retire. I had grown up working on the grand Victorian homes that proliferated along this part of the Northern California coastline, so I couldn’t wait to get started on Emily’s.
For many years, Emily had been living in the small but pretty apartment above her adorable tea shop on the town square. In the last few years, though, the square, with its multitude of fabulous restaurants and charming shops, had become such a popular destination spot that she’d decided it was time to find a quieter place to live. When an uncle back in Scotland died and left her some money, Emily decided that with property values being what they were, it was a good time to buy her first home.
She had announced her major purchase earlier today, after gathering together our small circle of friends in the back room of her tea shop.
“Champagne?” I said when I walked in and saw the yummy spread and the expensive open bottle in her hand. “What’s going on?”
My friend Lizzie shook her head. “I don’t know. Did somebody die?”
Jane, my oldest friend, laughed. “I don’t think we’d be drinking champagne if somebody died.”
“Are you sure?” Lizzie whispered. “Maybe that’s how they do it in Scotland.”
Emily, clearly excited, shushed everyone and held up her glass. “I want to propose a toast to the town’s newest homeowner. Me.”
“You bought a house?” I said, a little stunned that I hadn’t heard. I liked to think I had my finger on the pulse of the housing market in Lighthouse Cove.
“Cheers!” Marigold cried.
Lizzie gave Emily a quick hug. “That’s wonderful, Emily.”
Emily took another sip of champagne before placing her glass on the table. “I figured it was about time I set down roots in Lighthouse Cove.”
“You think so?” Marigold said, laughing. “You’ve only lived here for ten years.”
She grinned. “I’m a thrifty Scotswoman. It takes me a while to part with money.”
Emily had moved from Scotland all those years ago with her boyfriend, who was going into business with one of our local fishermen. Sadly, a year later, the boyfriend was lost at sea. Emily was devastated, but decided to stay in Lighthouse Cove. She had only recently opened her tea shop and she had her good close friends who saw her through the tragedy.