The Secret Sister. Brenda Novak
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to start writing again.” She couldn’t fall apart after all the encouragement and advice she’d offered him. She couldn’t even admit how close to despair she really was. She had to stand tall and lead the way, set an example for him.
They turned onto the narrow dirt road that led into Smuggler’s Cove and, about a quarter of a mile ahead, spotted a black pickup with a High Tide Construction placard on the door. It was parked outside the first bungalow on the back row—Unit 5. Maisey knew because of her familiarity with the cove; she couldn’t see the house through the trees that’d grown so much since she’d last been on the island.
“Looks like Mom’s contractor’s hard at work,” she said.
“Actually, he must be at lunch.”
“How do you know?”
Keith shrugged as he slowed to navigate the various potholes. “He lives there.”
Maisey gaped at him. “Only for the duration of the project, though, right?”
“Permanently—unless he decides to move. He told Mom he’d give her a heck of a deal on refurbishing the others if she’d sell him one. So she did.”
A wave of resentment washed over Maisey. Her mother had mentioned other interested parties through the years but Josephine had always refused them. “The bungalows aren’t for sale. They never have been.” And if it was up to her, they never would be. Her father had told her they’d belong to her.
“Since Dad’s gone, Mom’s in charge, and I have to admit that selling made sense.”
As soon as they passed the black truck, which was loaded with lumber, and the curved drive came into view, Keith pulled to the far side of the road.
“How do you figure?” she asked.
“He’s going to maintain and manage the properties once he’s finished with the refurbishing. Maybe you’ll wind up with one less house, but they’ll be in good shape when you take over.”
“And what does he get for staying on? Will he become one of her employees?”
“Not really. He just won’t have to make house payments.”
“That’s generous, considering the winter months are so quiet around here. Once he gets all the cottages fixed up, he won’t have much to keep him busy.”
Keith put the transmission in Park but didn’t turn off the engine. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about cash flow. What she would’ve had to pay for the repairs she keeps as the down payment. What she would’ve had to pay for an on-site manager she keeps in lieu of a mortgage payment.”
“She’s sacrificed a valuable asset!”
“Sacrificed? It’s not a sacrifice if she receives fair compensation.”
“Is she that tight for money?” Would she sell the others? Maisey wouldn’t put it past her. What her father had brought to the marriage paled in comparison to what Josephine had contributed, so she wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever she wanted, despite his promises to Maisey.
“Not necessarily. It’s about being strategic.” He ducked his head to peer out her window. “Even if she was in financial trouble, unless it became so obvious we couldn’t miss it, we’d never know. She’s very private about her finances, as you know. Not only that, but she acts as if I’m too stupid to understand business.”
He’d never shown any aptitude. Maisey couldn’t fault Josephine there. So she pretended to be too preoccupied to respond to that comment. “Why’d Raphael pick Unit 5?”
“Mother wouldn’t let him have any of the first four. They’re closer to the sea, more in demand during the summer.”
Thank God for small favors! Maisey glared at the contractor’s truck. She’d never shopped for a Ford F-250, but it looked big, rugged and costly. “A mortgage is only part of the cost of living. He’ll have other bills to pay.” She’d learned all about those other bills when they’d quickly drained her bank account...
“I’m sure he’s got income. He still has his business, and Mom doesn’t care what he does as long as he keeps everything up around here. He probably plans to fold Smuggler’s Cove in with his regular work.”
“I see,” she said, but gripped her purse tightly—as if she wanted to fling it out the window at that truck, which was impeding the limited view through the trees.
“That’s okay, isn’t it?” Keith asked.
“It’s not what I would’ve done.”
“You’re sentimental. Mom is...less so. And that still leaves you with eight units.”
She was upset that he didn’t seem to care, because she knew how he’d react if it’d been his inheritance Josephine had diminished. What if she’d sold the flower shop, which they’d both been told would go to him?
He shifted the transmission and began to drive away.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Maisey asked. “We’re not going to talk to the contractor?”
“I don’t want to interrupt the poor guy at home. I figure you should see what you’re getting into before we bother anybody.”
“Won’t we need keys?”
“Not to poke around a bit. You might take one look at the other bungalows and tell me to drive straight to Coldiron House.”
“They’d have to be a lot worse than this. The little I can see looks fine.” What if this guy had his sights set on owning the whole development one day? And if she ever tried to make the property complete again, what if he refused to sell and she couldn’t get the bungalow back?
“Unit 5 is in decent shape because he finished it right away, so he could move in,” Keith explained. “Now he’s starting on the seaside units. They have the highest priority since they go for the highest rents.”
She peered through the trees, craning her neck to see the next unit. “I don’t like that he’s here—or that he might become a permanent fixture.” She didn’t want anything to change, not in this place.
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t need to meet him.”
When they turned in at Unit 6, she cursed under her breath. “Look at that.”
“Told you. Not quite what you saw at the last cottage, is it? And it’s the best of the ones that are left.” This time he cut the engine, but she didn’t get out. She stayed in her seat, gazing at the buckled porch, the sagging and missing shutters and the all-too-obvious water damage, which had left a mark halfway up the walls.
“Is it completely empty inside?” She hadn’t considered that...
“Everything’s been gutted, so Raphael can do what he needs to do.”
She began to worry that she wouldn’t be able to stay here, after all. “Where’s the furniture? Was it ruined?”
“Not all of it. Mom had me help move everything. She insisted we throw out the drapes, bedding and towels, stuff like that. They needed to be replaced, anyway. Most of the furniture, even some of the mattresses, were salvageable, though. What’s left has been stacked in the last unit.”
That was good news. Depending on what had been saved, Maisey could furnish whatever unit she chose. She could always buy bedding. Perhaps she’d make her own drapes—or order them online if she couldn’t come by a sewing machine.
But there was no denying that the bungalows looked worse than she’d expected. She’d been living in New York, newly single, when the hurricane hit, but she’d heard it was the worst Fairham had ever endured.
Now she could see that was true.
Keith