Crowned and Moldering (10 page)

That would give me five days to work on the bid. I could do that. “Okay. How about
if I swing by your office Monday morning with my completed offer?”

“Perfect.” She’d thought for a moment. “Call my office before you make the drive,
will you? I want to be sure I’m here to personally accept it.”

“I really appreciate your confidence in me.”

“You’ve proven yourself more than capable of handling anything thrown your way,” she’d
said, smiling with an assurance I wasn’t sure I felt. “Now we just have to make sure
you get the job.”

*   *   *

I’d gone home that night and begun the process of bidding on the job. Since the bid
would be presented to the school board, a local government agency, there were a lot
of hoops to jump through.

I spent an hour studying the solar company they’d hired to do the work. I was impressed
by their Web site, and even more so with the testimonials written by their clients.
By the time I shut down my computer for the night, I was determined to get this job.

My father had taught me that while my good reputation was essential in obtaining any
job, my skill at presenting a winning bid was just as important. It helped to have
all the details in hand before starting the bidding process. I gathered as much information
as I could, but since I’d never worked with companies that installed solar panels
specifically, I would have to rely on my own past experiences and do the best I could
with the facts and figures I already had.

The solar company, as contractor, had provided its own customized bidding form for
me to fill out. On most jobs I was dealing with an individual homeowner, so I usually
created my own forms. In a way, this was easier. But I was still determined to present
an organized and realistic summary of the job I wanted to win.

On the front of the form, I included information about myself and my business, my
professional qualifications, and a few references from satisfied homeowners who had
previously agreed to sing my praises. Much of that information was available on my
own company Web site, but I included a few new quotes and details I hadn’t had a chance
to upload yet. I wrote down my contractor’s license number and those of my crew members.

The solar company had attached a table with a long list of every job they expected
the subcontractor to perform. There was a column for me to fill in my cost estimate
and another column in which to justify that cost. In other words, how much labor I
expected to employ and what sorts of supplies would be needed, plus a reasonable markup
for my profit. The last column was my time estimate, where I gave my best guess as
to how long each phase of the job would take.

I went down the list, filling in my estimates. I allowed some flexibility in case
of unexpected costs or delays. My goal was to give good value, not price myself out
of the job or, worse, lose money.

It took me three extremely late nights, reworking numbers and man-hours, to finish
the bid. Even though she’d allowed me more time, I really did want to get it to Ms.
Barney before the weekend.

Once I’d completed the bidding forms, I made a copy for myself and placed it in a
new file folder I labeled L
IGHTHOUSE
C
OVE
H
IGH
S
CHOOL
P
ARKING
C
ANOPY
. As I put the original bid into a business envelope with Ms. Barney’s name on the
front, I wondered who my competition might be.

The following morning I had called Ms. Barney bright and early and she’d told me to
stop by anytime, so I drove straight to the high school to drop off my envelope. Before
I’d handed it to her, I’d removed the completed form and taken out my pen.

“I’m writing down the time I gave it to you,” I explained, “in case the company has
any questions.”

“Good idea,” she said.

Yes, it was. In rare instances when two contractors came in with the exact same bid,
the contract would be awarded to the one who submitted theirs first. And that’s why
I’d stayed up so late those three nights, finishing the paperwork. I wanted to beat
the competition and get this job.

*   *   *

Now, almost three months later, Ms. Barney and I were standing at the edge of the
small crumbling parking lot again.

She shook her head in dismay. “It still shocks me to realize how interminably slow
the school board can be when it comes to making decisions like this.”

“Everyone has an opinion, I guess.”

“Of course, and it’s like pulling teeth to get a consensus.” She clasped her hands
together. “But I’m happy to say that they’ve promised me they’re ready to choose the
construction company and they’ll let me know the result this week.”

“Hurray,” I said. “You must be thrilled about that.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’ve still got
my heart set on your winning the job.”

We reached my truck and I turned to her. “Whether I get the job or not, I want to
thank you for considering me, Ms. Barney.”

“What can I say? You’re the best.” She patted my shoulder. “Keep a good thought, and
with any luck, I’ll be calling you this week with good news.”

I was bowled over by her enthusiasm and trust in me. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
Thanks again.”

As I drove home, I tried to tamp down my excitement at the possibility of winning
the job. But I couldn’t help it. I was as competitive as the next guy, and after all
the work I’d put into drafting the bid, I’d be bummed if I didn’t get the job.

*   *   *

I’d forgotten all about my mental tirade over Whitney until I got home. Then I remembered,
and it reminded me of two things: one, that I was starving, and two, that I hadn’t
gotten my nails done in weeks.

The connection to Whitney and my nails was obvious. To me, at least. Whitney and her
crowd used to criticize my raggedy fingernails, among everything else. Working on
construction sites, I always figured my shabby nails were an occupational hazard,
but I’d discovered a way to do something about it. So from one angle, I had the Mean
Girls to thank for my appreciation of the mani-pedi experience.

I called on my way home to see if Paloma, the goddess of manicures, was available
and, miracle of miracles, she was. My stomach was still growling—again, thanks to
Whitney—so I took a quick detour into the Yummy Burger drive-in and gulped down a
burger and milk shake. Then I drove home and ran inside to change into something more
casual. Within minutes, I was walking the three blocks to the town square, where Paloma
had her shop.

Two hours later, I awoke in a fragrant, waxy haze. I was still sitting in the massage
chair at Paloma’s, having been fluffed and massaged and buffed to a fine sheen. The
image of Whitney had vanished from my consciousness, and it wasn’t until I was strolling
home that I even recalled that phone call Mr. Jones had received from his wife, Denise,
earlier that day. I pictured his distraught expression and wondered if they had recovered
from the shock of being questioned by the police in a murder investigation. I hoped
so.

I’d known Denise Armstrong—now Denise Jones—my whole life. We’d always been friendly,
though not especially close, because she was a few years older than I. But I liked
her. Her family owned a small chain of upscale nurseries up and down the Northern
California coast, and I did all my garden shopping there. They made their own mulch,
and it was the best I’d ever used.

Denise had been Lily’s best friend from as far back as I could remember, and for that
reason alone I liked her. I figured her only flaw was that she was now friends with
Whitney. Sadly, that was enough to make me question the woman’s judgment, but the
fact that she’d had the good taste to fall in love with and marry the wonderful Mr.
Jones mitigated things somewhat.

Back in high school, my friends and I were shocked when we heard the news that Mr.
Jones had married Denise barely a month after she graduated from high school. It was
the biggest scandal ever. Well, besides Lily’s disappearance a few months before.
Denise was only two years ahead of me and my friends. And Mr. Jones was a teacher!
They had been very discreet, though, and nobody had ever suspected a thing. That might’ve
made it even more shocking than it would’ve been had we been gossiping about them
all along.

In the end, we girls reluctantly accepted the fact that the match was a good one.
Mr. Jones was just a few years older than Denise, after all, and they made a very
cute couple. We finally had to admit that we’d only considered the marriage a scandal
because we were all so jealous of lucky Denise.

It was dark by the time I got home and let myself in through the kitchen door.

A loud bark greeted me and I saw Robbie shivering deliriously at the sight of me.
I set my purse down on the table as Tiger, purring loudly, wound her furry body around
my ankles.

“Hello, my darlings,” I crooned, stooping down to give each of them a hug and then
tussle and pet them. “I’m excited to see you, too. Did you miss me? Of course you
did.”

Robbie barked twice.

“Yes, my fingernails are pretty, aren’t they?”

He barked again, as if to say,
Get real. Feed me.

“I know, I know, it’s dinnertime.” I gave him one last scratch behind his ears and
stood. “I promise I won’t let you starve.”

I chuckled at my own conversation as I grabbed their empty water bowls. At the sink,
I rinsed them out and filled each with fresh water.

Robbie and Tiger sat patiently until I set the bowls back down at their respective
dining spots. They lapped up water as I took their food bowls and doled out their
small evening meals.

While they nibbled at their dinner, I thought about making a salad, but I wasn’t hungry
after chowing down on that burger a few hours ago. I did pour myself a glass of wine,
though, because I deserved one after the day I’d had.

As I took my first sip, I heard a heavy
thump-thump
sound and glanced out the window. It was Mac Sullivan, wearing a black leather jacket,
dark jeans, and boots, jogging down the garage stairs.

“Wonder where he’s going looking so darn hot?” I asked myself aloud, then felt foolish.
Especially since my knees had gone a little weak at the sight of him. But honestly,
what woman would blame me? The man was ridiculously handsome.

Tiger bumped up against my leg and I leaned down to pick her up. I was so lucky to
have a cat who was willing to snuggle with me once in a while.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I murmured as I buried my face in her soft fur. “You’re
thinking that if Mac’s so great, why was I semiswooning the other day when Chief Jensen
was sitting right here at the kitchen table?”

Tiger just purred, obviously used to my reading her mind.

It’s a good question,
I thought. Did it matter that I found both men so darned attractive? I didn’t think
so, and I wasn’t going to worry about it. Not yet, anyway. Neither of these two friendships
had developed into anything serious . . . yet. I was happy just to have them around
to talk to and flirt with.

Mac and Eric had become friends, although they weren’t at all alike. Mac was definitely
the friendlier of the two, which had been a surprise at first. As dangerously dark
and edge-of-the-seat thrilling as his novels were, I hadn’t expected to find that
he was actually an easygoing, fun-loving guy. I enjoyed spending time with him because
he was open and honest. He liked to talk and laugh and go on adventures. And in case
I hadn’t made it clear enough, he was absolutely gorgeous, with dark hair and midnight
blue eyes. I’d already been halfway in love with him before I ever met him, thanks
to his amazing photograph on the backs of his books.

Eric, on the other hand, had a dark side. I sometimes wondered if he’d been hurt badly
in the past, because he was so circumspect when it came to talking about himself.
He was tall and blond and had the world’s greatest smile—when he allowed anyone to
see it, which was rare. Most of the time, he scowled. Still, there was something to
be said for the tortured-hero type.

I set down the cat and watched her shake herself off and stroll away to the comfort
of the living-room couch. I wiped down the kitchen counters, emptied the drying rack,
and filled the coffeemaker for the morning.

My mind drifted back to my life before the two men moved to Lighthouse Cove. I hadn’t
been out on a date in almost four years, for good reason. Ever since high school,
I just hadn’t had a lot of luck with men. After my shattering breakup with Tommy,
I’d withdrawn for a while. I spent most of my time working on construction sites or
gardening. I had girlfriends, and I felt as though my life was full enough without
a boyfriend around to mess up my mind.

The pitiful fact was that, until recently, I’d had exactly two dates since the breakup
with Tommy, both of which were disasters. One guy turned out to be gay and the other
one turned out to be a felon. I figured the universe was telling me to avoid men,
and I was happy to take its advice.

But a few months ago, I reluctantly decided it was time to dip my toe back into the
dating pool. I agreed to go out on a blind date set up by the ever-matchmaking Lizzie.
The date ended very badly, with the guy trying to attack me on the beach. Sadly, his
life ended badly, as well, a few days later, when he was murdered in the basement
of a house I was working on.

“Wow, grim memories,” I muttered. Where had those awful thoughts come from? Shaking
my head, I finished my wine and went upstairs and got ready for bed. Robbie and Tiger
both jumped onto the bed to join me, and I switched on the television to catch a few
minutes of one of my favorite old sitcoms. I needed a good laugh after rehashing my
pitiful dating life. The three of us fell asleep within minutes.

*   *   *

Early Thursday morning, as I was drinking my second cup of coffee, Ms. Barney called.
“You got the job! You won the bid. I’m so happy.”