Нора Робертс - The Next Always

Ryder merely glanced at him. “Mine.”

“Next,” Beckett continued. “I reamed the salesman. Asshole tried to tell me he meant to order that entire run, how it’ll only take a week to get in. Which is bullshit,” Beckett said before both of his brothers could. “Everything we ordered from them’s taking weeks.”

Owen grabbed the Coke from Ryder. “They came recommended, made a damn good pitch, and swore they could handle the job. Lesson learned.”

“I’m not blaming you—much. The vendor screwed up, big-time. They’re expediting the replacement tile and the one he didn’t order—at their expense, and we’re getting a ten percent discount for our inconvenience. I talked to the owner.”

“Nice work,” Owen commented.

“I learned from Dad, too. The salesman’s ass is in a sling where it deserves to be, the company’s on notice, and you’re going to follow up every day to make sure they don’t screw up again.”

“I’m on it.”

“And they’re not doing the install.”

“Wait a minute. Wait—”

“You didn’t just spend two hours on the phone listening to excuses, wheedling, and bullshit, while the owner tried to evade and stall. We don’t deal with that kind of company. We’ll stick with them for the tiles because it’s a worse headache to start over with what we’re missing, but I’m damned if they’re getting any more work out of us.”

“I’m with Beck,” Ryder said.

“Just hold on. We’ve got a lot of specialty tile—glass tile, imported, intricate patterns. We need installers with experience handling that kind of work, and a good-sized crew.”

“I’ve got the owner of another company coming in to look the job over. He’s one of the guys who dropped off a business card. He’s local, he’s hungry, and he gave me three references to check out. He checked out. He’s on his way. You talk to him,” he told Owen. “If you don’t think he can handle it, you find somebody else. But we’re finding somebody else. It’s a matter of principle.”

“You know how he is when he’s got his panties in a twist,” Ryder pointed out. “Besides, he’s right.”

“Great. Fine.” Owen scrubbed the heels of his hands over his face. “Jesus.”

Beckett pulled out the aspirin bottle he’d stuck in his pocket on his way out the door.

“Thanks.”

“Now, what about Mom and brainstorms?”

Owen swallowed aspirin, chased it with Coke. “You might need these again. Now that The Gallery’s moved out of that space, Mom wants a gift shop to tie in with the inn.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t know she wants it now.”

“What do you mean, now? She can’t have it now.”

Owen gave him a look of pure pity. “You tell her. She’s over there now with a paint fan, a notebook, and a measuring tape.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Beckett rubbed the back of his neck. Just when the headache had eased off. “You guys are coming, too. I’m not dealing with her alone.”

“I like it here,” Ryder claimed. “Doing carpentry. I like the quiet.”

“Then bring your hammer. We might need it.”

They’d owned the commercial space beside the bookstore for a few years. It had, over time, seen many incarnations. The latest, a little art gallery and framing shop, had moved across the river to a bigger location.

Now, as he could clearly see through the display window beside the door, his mother was in the nearly empty space holding a paint fan up to the wall.

Shit.

She looked over as they came in.

“Hello, boys. What do you think of this yellow? It’s pretty, it’s warm, but quiet enough not to distract from the art.”

“Listen, Mom—”

“Oh, and that wall there? That really needs to be taken down to a half wall. It’ll open up the space, lead nicely into the little kitchen area. We can leave that pretty much intact, use that for kitcheny things. Pottery, cutting boards, what have you. Then we’ll leave that doorway open leading down to what’ll be the office. Maybe do a beaded curtain or something for some jazz. Then upstairs—”

“Mom. Mom. Okay, this is all great, but maybe you haven’t noticed we’re up to our necks across the street.”

She gave Beckett a smile, a pat on the cheek. “This isn’t much. Mostly cosmetic.”

“Taking down a wall—”

“That’s just a little wall.” She bent down to rub D.A. when he leaned lovingly on her leg. “It mostly needs paint, and the bathroom there needs a new sink, that sort of thing. Freshen it up. You can spare a couple men while the floors are going in.”

“But—”

“We don’t want to leave this space empty, do we?” She put her hands on her hips as she turned a circle. “We’ll need a counter there, for the cash register, for checkout. Small again, nothing fancy. You can build that, can’t you, Owen?”

“Ah . . . sure.”

“Coward,” Beckett muttered as their mother walked back to study the closet-sized powder room.

“Bet your ass, bro.”

“Pretty little wall-hung sink, a new toilet, nice little mirror and light—done. Paint and pretty lights out here and upstairs. Oh, new exterior paint. We’ll go with what complements what we’re doing on the inn.”

“Mom, even if we could split some of the crew, get this done, you have to get somebody to run it, stock it and—”

“Already there. Don’t you worry about any of that. I’ve talked to Madeline—from our book club. You know Madeline Cramer,” Justine continued in her cheerful steamroll over objections. “She used to manage an art gallery in Hagerstown.”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“She knows all sorts of local artists and craftsmen. We’re going to do all local art and crafts, showcase what we have, who we are.” Sunglasses perched on her head, paint fan at the ready, Justine beamed at the space. “It’ll be wonderful.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He couldn’t argue at all, Beckett realized. He was outgunned. “We’re only going to be able to send somebody over to work when we can clear them from the inn job.”

“Well, of course, sweetie. Ry, do you have time to help me figure out the wall there?”

“Sure.”

“Won’t this be fun?” She turned that cheerful beam on all of them. “We’ll add a fresh, new business to town, give local artists a wonderful venue, and have a nice little lead-in to the inn before it’s done and open.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Any of you have dates tonight?”

“Who has time?” Owen muttered. “No, ma’am, not me.”

She got shakes of the head from the other two, sighed loud and long before bending to address Dumbass. “How am I going to get girls and grandchildren unless they start hunting them up? Well, why don’t you all come to dinner? I’ll pick up some fresh corn on the way home, make you a feast.”

And rope them into refining details on her latest brainstorm, Beckett thought. But what the hell.

“I’m in.” He glanced around as Clare poked her head in the door.

“Hi. Family meeting?”

“Just adjourned,” Justine told her.

“Oh, it looks so sad in here now. I’m sorry to see The Gallery go, but I know she’ll love having a bigger space over in Shepherdstown.”

“It won’t look sad for long. You’re just what I need.” Justine held the paint strip up again. “Tell me what you think of this color for the walls.”

“I love it. Sunny. Warm, but not overbright. Do you have a new tenant already?”

“We’re the new tenant. I guess you haven’t talked to Madeline recently.”

“Not since our last book club meeting.”

While his mother filled Clare in—surely satisfied with Clare’s enthusiastic delight—Beckett walked outside, then sat on the steps leading up to the bookstore porch.

They’d figure it out, he decided. The scheduling of crew and work, the materials. He could eke some time out if it needed a bit of redesigning. No need for permits if they didn’t change anything structurally, and since it would remain a retail space.

Owen would deal with the business license, the paperwork, and the rest.

But, Jesus, the timing. Crap timing at the end of a crap day.

At least he’d get a home-cooked meal out of it.

His mother came out with Clare, repeated the process, this time holding a new strip up to the exterior wall before she frowned over at Beckett.

“You look beat, baby.”

“Hard day at the ranch. Ironed out,” he added before she pecked at him. “We’ll fill you in later.”

“See that you do. For now, why don’t you go ahead and run Clare home.”

“Oh no, I’m fine. It’s a nice walk.”

“Why are you walking?” Beckett asked her. “It’s nearly a mile.”

“Hardly more than a half mile, and I like to walk. My sitter’s car was acting up, so I left her mine in case. I don’t want her to have to pile the boys in and come get me.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Really, you don’t have to bother.”

“You can argue with me,” he said as he pushed up. “But there’s no point in arguing with her.” He stepped over, kissed his mother’s cheek. “Remind Ry and Owen they’ve got the tile installer coming.”

“Will do.”

“See you later, slave driver.”

“I appreciate the lift,” Clare began as they walked to his truck. “Especially since you look tired.”

“Not tired. It’s just been a pisser of a day.”

“Problems with the hotel?”

“Irritations equaling a day I’d rather have been swinging a hammer than talking on the phone. It better be worth it in the long run,” he added with a glance toward the inn.

“It will be. And now the gift shop. That’s exciting.”

“It’ll be more exciting six months from now.” He opened the passenger door of the truck, took a clipboard, a fat notebook, and an old, dirty towel off the seat.