Until There Was You (3 page)

S
HILO, DON’T BE AFRAID
.
It’s just Al,” Posey said, trying to woo her dog from underneath the statue of Arpad the Archer, patron saint of Hungary, that currently graced the front yard of Irreplaceable Artifacts. “We love UPS! Don’t be scared.” Shilo whined, his tail wagging, but the truth was, the dog was a coward.

“I have a cookie,” Al said, kneeling down. Shilo whimpered and backed up, ramming his massive haunches against an old birdbath.

“He’s already eaten three donuts,” Posey said. “You have to up the ante, Al. Maybe a filet mignon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Al said, getting back into the giant brown truck. “Have a good day, Posey.”

“You’re such a baby,” Posey told her dog. “Some watchdog you’d make. You’d hide and watch the killers hack me to pieces, wouldn’t you?” With the UPS truck safely gone, Shilo gave a fond woof and licked Posey’s wrist with his massive tongue.

Last year, Posey had made the mistake of going to the pound. Being adopted herself, she’d taken one look into Shilo’s red-rimmed eyes and just couldn’t say no. Bad enough that she’d inherited three cats with the church she’d bought, now she owned a 150-pound black-and-white Great Dane whose talents seemed to be sleeping, baying and cowering from deliverymen. He was, however, deeply devoted to Posey during his waking hours and didn’t quite realize that he outweighed her by a third; he often tried to sit on her lap (and succeeded more often than not).

Now that he was safe from Big Brown, Shilo went to sniff the pair of giant concrete lions from the old library up in Maine. Though her parents often frowned over why Posey had devoted her career to things that had outlived their purpose, Posey felt just the opposite. Salvage was practically a religion to her. Someone would want these things—the barbershop pole all the way from the Bronx, the wheel from an old tugboat, the stained-glass windows from an old Victorian, the chipped gargoyle from a church in Winooski—and they’d be cherished and enjoyed once more, and Posey’s job would be done.

But now it was donut time. Today was Thursday, the day when her two closest pals came over for goodies after school. Jon, her brother’s longtime partner, and Kate, Posey’s friend from grammar school, were both teachers at Bellsford High. Jon taught home-ec and was quite adored by the students… Kate, as phys-ed teacher, was not. Each year without fail, the seniors would dedicate the yearbook to their beloved Mr. White, something Jon enjoyed lording over the other teachers.

“Hi, guys!” Posey called, holding the door for her dog, who trotted happily inside, licking his chops. Three cream-filled pastries had apparently not been enough.

“Hi, Posey! How are you?” Elise Wooding, one of Posey’s two employees, beamed at her as if it had been years since they’d seen each other, not two hours. “How was Vivian today?”

“Well, she was Vivian,” Posey answered. “She didn’t love my haircut. And she didn’t sign anything, of course. Down East Salvage is taking her to dinner on Friday, as she told me three times. She showed me the date on her BlackBerry, just in case I was getting cocky.” Though a hundred and one years old, Viv was quite current when it came to the latest tech.

Vivian Appleton was the owner of The Meadows, a glorious old Victorian home on ten acres of land. The house was stunning—a three-story Victorian with ornate fireplaces and a butler’s kitchen, curved staircases and window seats. Every corner seemed to offer a treasure, whether it was an iron heating grate or a slipper tub as pretty as a calla lily. Viv didn’t live there anymore, having moved to a swanky elderly housing complex in Portsmouth. For more than two years, Vivian had been dangling the rights to The Meadows in front of every salvage operation in New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont.

Vivian’s heirs, four grand-nieces and-nephews, planned to tear down the beautiful old house, the caretaker’s cottage and the barn and sell the land, with its orchards and stream, to a developer. It was a tragedy, Posey thought. But the heirs—or the Vultures, as Viv called them—would get more for the land than they could for the house and property, and Vivian was determined to let them do as they wished—some sense of Yankee familial duty or something. But if the house
was
going to be torn down, Posey wanted to be the one who did it. It would be like giving last rites to a much-loved friend, and she and Mac, her pathologically shy carpenter, would take the time to do it right, with care and respect, and yes, even love.

Despite being something of a diva, Viv recognized Posey’s love for the place and had given her the code to the alarm system. About once a week, sometimes more, Posey went out to The Meadows, just to walk around the empty house and still-lovely grounds, check the roof in the winter, make sure the place was untouched by vandals or kids.

“She’ll sign with us? Right? I just know it.” Elise had the habit of making all her comments into questions, but she was a sweet girl—only six years younger than Posey, but seeming much more. “Oh, right? I forgot? Brianna’s here already. With Mac?” Elise blushed from her cleavage on up—she’d had a crush on Mac since the day she started here two years ago.

Posey went to the back of the barn, where Mac, balding, stoic and solid, did restoration work on pieces that needed repair or refinishing. He was talking (a rare occurrence), his voice low, telling Brianna how to see the difference between oak and maple. Brie looked up in relief.

“There you are. You’re late. I’m reporting you.” Brianna folded her chubby arms across her chest and glared, then relented when Shilo trotted up to her and licked her elbow.

“Hi, Mac,” Posey said. Her right-hand man nodded at her. A man of few words, Mac, but the reason Posey could run Irreplaceable. “You guys hungry? I brought donuts.”

“Duh. Yes. Aren’t you? Aren’t you always hungry?” Brie said.

“Drop the attitude, twerp.” Brianna had been her little sister through Big Brothers/Big Sisters for two years now, and despite the fact that the girl was thirteen, Posey loved her. “Mac, you want a break?”

“I’m good,” he said, glancing up to the front desk with what could only be described as fear. Elise waved. Mac looked away.

“How was school today?” Posey asked Brie.

“It sucked. As usual. The teachers all think I’m dumb.”

“I find that hard to believe.” She reached out and touched the girl’s shoulder, which Brie tolerated. Brianna came over after school at least a few days a week—the kid’s home life was crap. Her mom was only twenty-nine and had an endless parade of boyfriends living with her, so Posey was more than happy to have the girl with her.

“So when does coffee hour start?” Brianna asked.

As if on cue, the barn door opened, and in came Jon and Kate, bickering amiably. Posey’s two best friends were as opposite as could be—Jon was sleek, graceful and charming and made everyone around him feel like his favorite person on earth; Kate tended to view her whistle as a primary form of communication, was built like a Brahma bull and had no issues with, ah, personal boundaries.

Kate’s fourteen-year-old son, James, was also there, as Kate tended to drag him wherever she went. Like Posey, James had been adopted, though at the ripe old age of seven, whereas Posey had been only hours old when Stacia and Max had taken custody. The lad seemed to be developing a crush on Brie, which Posey thought was wicked cute.

“Hey, guys,” Posey said, feeling a warm flush of pride. It never failed to thrill her, having her friends drop in. Made her finally feel like a cool kid after all these years. Not that she could blame them—Irreplaceable was a great place to hang out. Shilo woofed happily at the sight of Jon, then collapsed on his back, jowls flapping to reveal his enormous teeth, just in case Jon was in the mood to rub his tummy.

“Hi, Jon, hi, Kate!” Elise sang. “How are you?”

“I’m a little yeasty,” Kate answered thoughtfully. James winced.

“Elise, sweetheart, please don’t put our names together,” Jon said. “People will think we have eight children and hate each other. Bad enough that we work together, right, Kate? Hello, Brie, you beautiful thing.”

“Hey, Mr. White,” Brianna said, blushing. Most straight females had a crush on Jon, and Brie was no exception. Jon poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the counter, which was from a diner, and spun around on the stool.

“Oh, donuts!” Kate lunged for a cream-filled pastry. “I’m starving. James, want a bite?”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“Take a bite. You’ll love it.” Kate waved the donut in front of her son’s eyes as Shilo watched, hypnotized and drooling.

“I’m fine.”

“James! A bite!”

“Okay!” James gave Posey a dark look—
see what I have to put up with?
—then took a bite of his mother’s donut. “I love it. My reason for living has been revealed. Hi, Brianna.” Brianna didn’t deign to answer, simply looked at James until his face went from pink to nearly purple. “Okay. I’ll go do homework. Oh, hey, Posey, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot, kid.” She chose a chocolate-covered donut and took a huge bite.

“Did you ever look for your birth parents? I have this workbook…?. Did you ever do anything like this?” He pulled a book out of his backpack.
Before You Find Them.

“No, I never did,” Posey answered, glancing at Kate, whose concentration was still on the donut. She flipped through the book. “But this is cool. How’s it going?”

“Well, I haven’t really started yet,” James said. “This is just stuff to think about. Some wicked cool horror stories in here. Some nice ones, too.”

“What are the horror stories?” Brie asked.

“Um…come on, I’ll show you the worst ones.” He gestured toward a Victorian sofa, and after a long stare, Brie sighed and got up.

“Very smooth,” Jon murmured as the two teenagers walked away.

“A few more decades, and she might like him back,” Posey said, a trifle proudly.

“So, Kate, how do you feel about that?”

“What? Oh, the birth parents thing? Go for it, I say,” Kate answered blithely. “If he wants to know, I’m all for it.” She licked some cream off her pinky finger.

“So, like, Posey?” Elise said, dragging her eyes off Mac, who continued to work silently in the back. “I heard your cousin’s coming back? The Barefoot Fraulein? Seriously? Because I’m a huge fan. She’s so pretty, right?”

Posey exchanged a look with Kate and Jon. “Yeah, she’s very pretty,” Posey said.

“Also, a bitch,” Jon said.

“Seriously?” Elise breathed. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yeah,” Kate confirmed.

“Gretchen hates Posey,” Jon said.

“How could anyone hate you?” Elise looked like Jon had just bitten the head off a kitten. “No way!”

“Way,” Jon said. “They’re rivals.”

“She’s not my rival,” Posey corrected. “But she always seems to be gunning for me, it’s kind of true.”

“I blame Gretchen’s mother,” Jon said.

“Well, she’s dead, so that’s not very nice,” Posey murmured, reaching for another donut.

But it was true. Ever since Posey could remember, Gretchen had been doing her best to make Posey feel inferior. Why, Posey had no idea, because Gretchen sure seemed to have it all. Stacia and Gretchen’s mother, Ruth, were identical twins. The Heidelbergs also had a German restaurant, but in New York City, which they considered vastly superior to Bellsford. Both Stacia and Ruth had had trouble getting pregnant. The same year Max and Stacia adopted Posey, Ruth and Ralphie had had Gretchen, and the comparisons began. Ruth would call Stacia, detailing Gretchen’s list of many triumphs, from losing her first tooth to baking her first batch of pfeffernuesse, often remarking on Gretchen’s great beauty and strong resemblance to their mother. And Gretchen
was
beautiful. Posey was not. Gretchen was tall and confident, with long blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a generous, curving figure she’d been showcasing since she’d bought her first bra at age nine.

As a kid, Gretchen had always been full of advice when the families got together—“Posey, you should let your hair grow so people can tell you’re a girl. Posey, if you eat more cheese, you might get boobs.” As they got older, she’d simply ignore Posey—unless the adults were watching, when she’d be saccharine-sweet and utterly fake.

Then, horribly, Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ralphie had died in a car accident. Gretchen and Posey had been seventeen, and Gretchen came to live with the Osterhagens. All through senior year, Posey had tried to be kind, trying to include Gretchen in her own meager social life, telling her she looked pretty in a certain shirt or sweater. But Gretchen had been too good for all that. She loved Stacia—her mother’s twin, after all—and Max, and was pleasant toward Henry on the rare weekends he came home from medical school, but as for Posey, she had nothing but veiled insults and fake affection.

“Should I, like…hate her now?” Elise asked.

“Yes,” Jon and Kate answered.

“No!” Posey said. “She’s…you know. She’s fine. It’ll be nice for my parents to have the help. And who knows? Business might pick up a little.”

“Why is she leaving her show?” Elise asked. “No offense to your parents, right? But it’s kind of a step down? Was that rude to say?”

“Probably ratings,” Kate said. “Up against Rachael Ray? Please.” Kate was a veteran of food and cooking shows, owned literally hundreds of cookbooks and knew every celebrity chef out there. Not that she cooked—another thing Posey and she had in common.

“Not according to her,” Jon said. At Posey’s questioning look, he added, “She sent Henry an email last week. Oh, is that the new model you’re working on?” He got up and went over to Posey’s work area, where a half-constructed model of a Colonial home was underway.

“Yep,” Posey answered. “That’s the Austin house. Mac and I took it apart last fall, remember?”

“Right, right,” Jon murmured. “We should have you come into class sometime. Well, maybe the art department should have you. This is gorgeous, Pose.”

Before Posey had gotten into salvage, she’d been a model-maker for an architect. The tiny details, the precision of the work, the lovely, warm idea that she could condense something so big…it was addicting. When she opened Irreplaceable Artifacts, she’d kept it up. Now, instead of creating a replica of a building that would someday be built, she made models of buildings that would soon be demolished…her gift to the owners, and a way of preserving the past.