Home for the Haunting(12)

The daughter most like him turned out to be me, though we had fought a lot in my teenage years, and when it came to politics we remained in opposite camps. Still, I shared his love for old buildings and his talent for renovation. My sisters lived in brand-new housing developments and refused to come anywhere near a compressor, much less a power saw. But Dad’s gung-ho approach to life took a beating a few years ago when my mother passed away suddenly. Overnight, my tough-guy father just lost it. Somebody needed to take over Dad’s construction business, and since I was at a crossroads in my own life, I had stepped in “for a few months.” Three years later, here I was, still acting like the general.

I was a bit cranky about it.

“How soon can you finish up that project and move on to something that makes money?” he asked.

“The police need a few days. Monty’s flexible, so there’s no huge rush. Probably next weekend.” I slewed my eyes toward him. “Say, any chance you’re available next weekend?”

He stuck out his chin, which was peppered with white stubble. “I dunno. A job like this is hard on a man my age. Might need to spend next weekend relaxing and watching the game.”

Behind us, Dad’s project was buzzing along, alive with well-directed, skilled workers. In addition to his regular crew, several of my volunteers had shown up this morning as well.

“Doesn’t look to me like you’re working too hard,” I pointed out, then realized how my words echoed Kobe’s from yesterday. Speaking of whom . . . I wondered if the boy knew more about the poor woman in the shed than he had admitted. He seemed to know a lot about what went on in the neighborhood.

I heard Dad chuckle. “Course we’ll come back. Turners aren’t quitters, right, Caleb?”

He slapped my teenage stepson—my ex-stepson, actually—on the shoulder. Caleb wasn’t technically a Turner, but he seemed pleased to be called one, and stood a little taller.

“That’s right,” Caleb said. Caleb was my ex-husband’s son by his first marriage, but I had raised him for years and thought of him as my own child. To my delight, my father had come around to the same conclusion, so much so that I was starting to think Dad considered Caleb the son he never had. Blood relative or no, Caleb was now a full-fledged member of Clan Turner.

I leaned over and ruffled his hair, then let my hand linger on the nape of his neck, where the dark hair met his smooth olive skin. Caleb squeezed his shoulder to his ear, as though to slough off my hand.

“You need a haircut, bud,” I said, unable to stop myself. At some point I had switched from the cool stepmom who engaged in sword fights and made pirate costumes to the annoying stepmom who nagged about haircuts and homework. “Come by the house and I’ll trim it for you if you want.”

He shrugged. Caleb’s hair was dark and wavy, curling at the neck. He wished it were straight, and boy, did I know that feeling. Since we weren’t related by blood, Caleb hadn’t inherited those genes from me, but I still felt vaguely guilty, as though associating with my curly-headed self had somehow rubbed off on him. Occasionally, Caleb would agree to let me cut it, though only because his father threatened to take him to a fancy place on union   Square, where they would charge a fortune to “style” his hair so that he would look, in his own damning words, “like someone running for class president.”

“Bill, Ms. Lee’s looking for you,” said Caleb.

We turned to see the homeowner making her slow way down the front path toward us. Etta Lee was in her seventies, and though she walked with a cane, she had a look about her that indicated she was of hardy stock. Lively, light brown eyes held an undeniable sparkle. She also looked as though she’d spent a day at the beauty parlor to look “put together” for the volunteers who had descended upon her house. Her gray hair had been carefully set and tightly curled around a pleasant face. She was the picture of graciousness, oohing and aahing over what the volunteers had accomplished.

Me, I got stuck with “Hey, Mel?” Monty.

Ms. Lee stepped carefully, the sort of tread that suggested she knew a fall might cause a hip fracture from which she would never recover. I felt a stab of regret, remembering the elderly woman from the last big Turner Construction project. She had not met with a good end, and the memory still haunted me. Figuratively speaking.

“Bill Turner,” Ms. Lee declared, “you are a darling man. Has anyone told you that?”

“Not recently. In fact, I’d like to introduce you to my biggest critic, my daughter Melanie.”

“I go by Mel,” I said, offering my hand. “It’s wonderful to officially meet you, Ms. Lee. I’ve heard so many lovely things.”