“It’s not too bad. You have the integrity of the walls holding and there’s no visible fire damage to the rafters.” The insurance claims adjuster who accompanied her to survey the damage sounded almost cheerful as she pointed upward.
Carly stared up at the jagged hole in her ceiling. She vaguely remembered the fire chief explaining to her the night before, as he helped her secure her store to keep away looters, that old buildings have cocklofts, a word that sounded medieval. It was a narrow crawl space above the ceiling, what she would have called an attic. Fire went up, he’d explained. Heat, smoke, and embers from a fire in a room below naturally spread up into the cockloft. Firefighters had gotten on the roof and pumped water into the cockloft above the burning shop. Old buildings like this one often didn’t have a firewall between each shop cockloft. Flawless shared cockloft space with the shop next door, so the water had flowed along the rafters above her shop as well. Water equals weight equals ceiling collapse. Total disaster for her shop, and her immediate dreams.
Carly did not cry as her gaze lowered to the mangled space she rented. But she sucked on her lower lip. Hard.
“Your landlord will need to get a structural engineer in here to verify that the integrity of the shop remains sound. That’s his responsibility to his tenants. But I see no reason your insurance won’t cover this damage.” The arson investigator had signed off on the paperwork stating that “nothing in your store was the cause of the fire.”
“I know the cause of the fire. I was here.” Carly grabbed her lower lip again with her teeth. Not. Going. To. Cry.
The woman blinked. “That was you? The woman who called in the blaze? You’re a witness then.”
“I guess so.” No one had said anything about her being a witness. Not yet, anyway. More involvement was the last thing she needed.
“What happened?”
The agent’s suddenly avid expression warned Carly to be careful. She’d already tangled with the supposed victim this morning. She’d been relieved to find her name wasn’t attached to the scant news reporting of the blaze the night before. But raising the suspicious hackles of her claims adjustor by telling her side of the story didn’t seem like a good idea. “I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about it until the authorities say.”
The agent frowned. “In any case, I’ll have to check with the fire chief. To make certain—well, to cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”
Carly moved to pick up the soggy remains of an organic cruelty-free chicken-feather headband. She’d hoped that confronting Noah Glover would make her feel better. It hadn’t. Her shop was in even worse condition than she remembered from the night before. But by the time she’d locked up with the fire extinguished, she was past feeling much of anything but relief that she was alive. Now every sense was being bombarded with the full impact of what she’d lost.
She held up the headband by its leather thong. “What do you need me to do? I have no idea where to begin.”
“Collect and make a detailed list of your damaged merchandise, along with their individual value. Photos and receipts will greatly help us. Since you’re a brand-new business, you shouldn’t have trouble categorizing what was in the store.”
“Then what? Most of my inventory is ruined beyond repair.”
“You may be surprised.” The agent offered her a gentle smile of reassurance. “We have a list of remediation companies that do a remarkable cleanup after fires. Of course, you can choose your own, providing the company meets our standards. I’m really sorry for your loss.” She glanced around. “I’ll be one of your first customers when you reopen. So many lovely things.”
Carly wasn’t at all certain that she would be a reopening. “Most of the items I have—had for sale were handmade crafts. Not replaceable by simple reorder from a warehouse. I’ll reimburse my suppliers for their loss from the insurance. But replacing things could take months.”
“You might be able to save this.” The agent fingered the dripping feather headband Carly held. “Chicken feathers, right? My sister had a bohemian-themed wedding last August and the bridesmaids wore head wreaths decorated with chicken feathers. One of the gals accidently dropped hers in the outdoor fountain at Sundance Square while participating in the official wedding party photo shoot. My sister rinsed it thoroughly then popped it in a pillowcase and tossed it in the dryer. She’d read about the technique online. Turned out great. The bridesmaid got to wear it for the ceremony.”
Carly inspected the headband anew. “I had no idea.”
“Check with your vendors. They will know their products better than anyone else. And how, if possible, to salvage them.”