I fall into a fitful sleep and dream of endless fields of purple sweet peas swaying under the summer sun.
When I get out of bed at 8:00 a.m., the sky is a dull, heavy gray, which perfectly matches my mood. I stumble downstairs in my robe, my head thick and my eyes bleary from hours of tossing. I get the coffeemaker started and stand there yawning as a cup brews. When the phone rings, I answer it absentmindedly.
“Hello?”
“You’re not going to believe this!”
I yank the phone away from my ear, because Suzanne’s excited shout just pierced my eardrum. “A little warning would be nice before you break the sound barrier, Suzanne,” I grumble, reaching for the mug.
“I just saw on the local news that Capstone Construction’s headquarters was destroyed last night!”
I freeze. “Destroyed? What’re you talking about?”
“It was hit by friggin’ lightning! Can you believe that?”
My brain is having trouble processing her words. I squint at the coffeemaker, not entirely sure I’m not still upstairs in bed, dreaming. “Lightning,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes, lightning! You heard the storm, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer before plowing ahead. “Apparently a big-ass bolt of lightning hit the building and started a fire, which destroyed pretty much everything before the fire department arrived and put it out. Turn on the news and check out the pictures—the building is a smoking pile of rubble!”
By now, I’m wide awake, adrenaline acting much faster than coffee could. “That’s awful! Was anyone hurt?”
“Not according to the news. But that building is toast. I hope Craig had good insurance.” Her tone is gleeful. Obviously, she hasn’t forgiven Craig for his diss at the restaurant. “Way for the universe to help with your decision on who to hire to rebuild your house, right? It’s like it was fated! What a fluke!”
A strange sensation comes over me, a dark kind of déjà vu. I recall something I thought when Theo came out and showed me his Buttercup Inn book, and I was so overcome with emotion.
It’s not fated. It’s a fluke. It’s just life, doing what it does best.
An army of goose bumps marches up and down my arms. Distracted, I murmur, “Fated and a fluke are two different things.” Then my attention snaps into focus, and I get practical. “I’m sure the fire won’t have that much of an effect on Craig’s ability to do business. Maybe temporarily, sure, but he’s probably got all his files and everything backed up remotely, and the actual work is handled by subs—”
“Capstone hardly uses any subs. Craig handles most everything in-house, with dozens of specialists certified for everything from electrical to A/C. All those guys are employees, and he owns all his own equipment. Owned, I mean.”
That takes a little wind out of my sails. “Oh. Well, he’ll just have to find a location for a new headquarters. How long could that take? A few weeks?”
“Are you kidding? The market for commercial real estate in Portland is tighter than the Pope’s asshole. I did an extensive search only last week for a client and something the size of what Craig had is practically nonexistent.”
I’m starting to get irritated because Suzanne is taking way too much pleasure in the demise of poor Craig’s business. “Then he can buy or rent something smaller until a bigger place becomes available. He seems like a very capable guy. I’m sure he’ll land on his feet.”
“His size-sixteen feet,” she says in a new, throaty tone. “Did you see those puppies? They were like skis—”
“Were you drinking before you came to pick me up Saturday night?”
A brief silence follows my question. “Hello, awkward segue.”
“Hello, awkward beatdown of my real estate agent if the answer is yes.”
More silence. “I only had one glass.”
“Bullshit. You were way too wasted by the time dinner was finished to have had only one glass before you left. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Suzanne’s sigh is a long, pained exhalation that doesn’t sound nearly as contrite as it should. “It was only a few miles to the restaurant, Megan, and I was totally under control. You would’ve noticed if I wasn’t in shape to dri—”
“My husband was killed by a cop who only had one drink in his system before he got behind the wheel of his squad car, Suzanne,” I interrupt, my voice hard. “Don’t you dare talk to me about control.”
Now her silence sounds shocked, and I’m damn glad. I let it stretch out way past the point of uncomfortable, because it’s her turn to say something—and that something better include an apology, or I’m never speaking to her again.