“Won’t fit together anymore,” Paul said. “There’s some scrap wood around but nothing like that.”
“Got to make it work, then,” Arlen said, eyeing the uneven fit of the broken wood. “If we shave it down and smooth it, we can drive nails in like this”—he indicated the angle with his index finger—“and make it solid. Will it look perfect? Nah. But it’ll hold. Problem is, we’ll lose some length, so we’ll have to cut a block to put between this piece and the rail. Maybe put it between this piece and the roof, actually. That’ll hide it better.”
It was nearing noon and had been, much as Arlen was loath to admit it, not an altogether bad day. He enjoyed working with the boy, and they’d made swift progress. All things considered, he was in fairly good spirits when he went around the side of the house in search of a drill and heard the clatter of an engine and saw the visitor approaching.
Rebecca Cady was also on the south side of the house, using a shovel to move sand out from under the foundation, where it had been heaped by the wind. Give her this much: she’d worked hard and without complaint alongside them. At the sound of the car, she straightened without much interest, but when she got a glimpse of it, her body went tight.
It was a steel-gray Ford coupe, and it rumbled right down the hill and into the yard, parked beside the truck. The engine shut off and the driver stepped out, and when Arlen saw who it was, he cursed himself instantly. They shouldn’t have lingered to give Solomon Wade another crack at them. It was begging for trouble.
The only thing that reassured him was that Wade appeared to be alone, not accompanied by Sheriff Tolliver.
Wade had a cigarette in his mouth, and now he removed it and blew smoke and studied the house with a quality of ownership. He removed his white Panama hat and fanned himself and shifted his gaze their way. He took his time walking down to them, looking around the property and smoking his cigarette and not saying a word. When he was close enough, he came to a stop and stared at Arlen. Behind his glasses his eyes were gray, reminded Arlen of the color of the sea as it had crawled up the beach in the storm.
“I expected you would have left my county by now.”
“Hurricane slowed us down a touch,” Arlen said.
Wade showed no reaction. At that moment Paul rounded the corner, half of the broken porch support in his hand, and everyone turned to face him. He pulled back and swung the piece of wood around in front of him, as if to ward off their stares. He looked as thrilled at the sight of Wade as Arlen had been.
“They’re helping me with repairs,” Rebecca said.
“I gathered that.”
“And their money was stolen. Sometime after Tolliver arrested them, all of their money was stolen.”
“Is that so?” he said without apparent interest. “How’s the dock?”
“Nearly ruined. Same with the boathouse.”
His scowl said that was of personal annoyance.
“There’s a lot to be done,” she said.
“Well, get the tavern cleaned up first, and get it done fast. You’ll be having visitors soon. Friends of mine.”
“Solomon”—she waved her hand at the building behind them—“you see what this place looks like? I can’t be ready for anyone.”
“They won’t mind the condition.”
“There was a hurricane—”
“I am aware. But it’s gone now.”
Paul Brickhill shifted the piece of wood in his hands and frowned at Wade, disliking the judge’s tone. Arlen watched it and saw what he’d already suspected—the boy was beyond smitten with Rebecca Cady.
“I don’t have electricity,” she said. “No lights, no icebox, no—”
“Then put out some oil lamps,” Wade said. “They’ll be down Monday evening, and you need to be ready to receive them.”
“Hey,” Paul said, “she just told you…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Both Arlen and Solomon Wade turned to him with daggers in their eyes, daggers carried for different purposes, and Rebecca Cady laid her hand on his arm, the word “stop” clear in the touch.
“Son,” Wade said, “do you remember that cell?”
It seemed a rhetorical question, but Wade held the boy’s eyes until it became clear he wanted an answer. Paul managed a nod.
“I hope that you do,” Wade said. “It would serve you well to remember.”
They all regarded one another in silence, and then the judge dropped his cigarette into the sand and ground it out with his shoe.
“Becky? Be ready for my guests.” He turned to Arlen then and said, “Mr. Wagner, walk on up to the car with me.”