Home for the Haunting(70)

“You still with me?” Graham asked, interrupting my reverie and bringing my mind back to the smells of pot roast and the clatter of dishes.

“Um . . . sure. Sorry.”

“So, Lawrence took his tragedy and translated it into poetry,” said Graham. “While his sister tried to dull the pain with drugs and alcohol?”

“So it seems. Still, she was the one who saved Hugh that night. She saw her father shoot her mother but had the presence of mind to run to his room, block the door, and help him out the window.”

“I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. Is there anything more traumatic as a kid than to have something happen to your folks—and to see your father kill your mother, then himself . . . ?” Graham shook his head and let out a loud breath.

His own father had died when Graham was only five, so he knew the pain of growing up without a dad. In fact, I was sure that was one reason he felt so close to my own father, which occasionally made our relationship a little too incestuous for my comfort.

“Dinner’s on!” yelled Dad, though a simple spoken announcement would have sufficed. We took our seats in the dining room tonight, since we didn’t all fit at the kitchen table.

“So, Graham,” said Cookie, “I am so thrilled to finally get a chance to get to know you. But you know, Mel is so tight-mouthed. She hasn’t told me a thing about you!”

Cookie had been around when Graham worked for our father, back when we were in high school and college. But since she rarely spent time on the jobsites, she never interacted with him. I had kept my teenage crush to myself, thank heavens.

I stared at him across the table: Don’t say a word. His lips curled up in a slight smile.

“I’m in construction, like Mel,” said Graham. “But I specialize in ‘green’ techniques.”

“Oh, like solar power? I have one of those emergency radios that runs off solar power. It’s miraculous, isn’t it?” said Cookie as she served herself a thimbleful of mashed potatoes and passed the dish along. I had to hand it to her: She was the only person I’d ever met who could eat just one potato chip—or one dollop of mashed potatoes—and then stop for fear of gaining weight. “I think it’s so important to consider the future of our environment, don’t you? Just the other day I was taking BART home from San Francisco and thinking to myself, If only we all thought about taking public transit rather than burning fossil fuels, just imagine how much progress we could make if we all pitched in.”

Everyone nodded, mouths full. We were Northern Californians. We knew the drill.

When no one took up the conversational mantle, Cookie tried again. “Tell us more, Graham. I’m fascinated with green building.”

“Mel’s not so thrilled with it,” he said as he served himself another slice of pot roast.

Cookie looked at me as though I’d suggested kicking kittens.

“It’s not that,” I said. “As Graham knows perfectly well, I use as many green techniques as possible within my projects. It’s just that they don’t always work with historical renovation.”

“She’s still smarting over installing solar panels over the decorative roof tiles on the union   Street Victorian,” said Dad.

“And the new vinyl windows on that conservatory in Piedmont,” offered Stan.

“Those weird water-saving showerheads didn’t help,” put in Caleb.

“Yes, thanks, everyone, for those examples,” I said. I was all for the environment and included a lot of passive techniques in my work, but unfortunately applying green technologies to historic homes often meant sacrificing authenticity for the environment. I get it—the future of our planet and all that. Still, it made Graham a frequent thorn in my side. “But as I like to point out, renovating old homes is almost always much more environmentally sound than new construction. Much smaller carbon footprint. I just don’t like it when people discuss green technologies with my clients outside of my presence.”

Graham grinned at me. “Well, the shoe might well be on the other foot soon. My Marin County client wants to meet with you. He’s building that inn out of historic bits and pieces he’s bringing over from Europe—could be a real challenge.”

“Mmm.” I made a noncommittal reply and took a huge bite of broccoli casserole so I didn’t have to answer. I was looking for future projects, and from what I knew of Graham’s mystery client, I would normally give my toolbox for the opportunity to win the bid. But it would mean working closely with Graham for months on end.