“Yes, I did. And you left some nice footprints right there in the mud. So I measured one.”
I’d said, “I’m usually better at not being seen.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Anyway, thanks. Let me know what I owe you.”
“I’ll invoice you.”
I’d known he wouldn’t, but I’d let it pass. I’d glanced along the scaffolding instead, and said, “It’s looking good.”
“It’s getting there.”
His crew had started working on removing all the north end siding, sorting out the clapboards between those too damaged to be used again and those that didn’t need replacing. With the timber frame exposed, Sam could make structural repairs and reinforcements where they needed to be made.
We had been lucky with the weather.
For the whole month of September there’d been hardly any rain at all, just days of warmth and sunshine, and this first week of October had been following the same path.
Lara, coming up the walkway from the parking lot that morning, had shown from her fashion choices that she’d started to embrace the fall. Her woven sweater held the warmer hues of autumn, and her knee-high boots had been fringed suede.
She’d whistled at my boots and hardhat. “Hey, great outfit. Very Vogue.”
“Thank Sam,” I’d said. “He picked these out.”
“Good eye,” she’d praised him, careful to keep clear of all the scaffolding so that she could avoid both falling boards and safety lectures.
I’d begun a silent mental countdown, waiting for our stonemason to magically appear, as he’d begun to do whenever Lara turned up on the work site. I had only counted to eleven when I’d first heard Willie’s heavy steps, and then his cheerful Scottish voice had greeted Lara, “Morning, gorgeous.”
“Morning.”
Willie, I knew, had been making good use of the warm weather. Having found all the places where water had made its way into the stonework and washed out the lime mortar over the years, he’d drilled into those voids and filled them with fresh mortar and was now back to the job of repointing the faces of all the foundation walls. He’d also trimmed his beard and had been wearing shirts that looked as though they had been newly ironed. With a smile for Lara, he asked, “Come to help me with the pointing up?”
“As tantalizing as that sounds,” she’d told him, “no. But I do have a favour to ask you. And you, Sam.”
Sam, who had begun to sidle off along the scaffolding, had turned halfway around again. “What kind of favour?”
Lara hadn’t been put off by his suspicious tone. “For our Fall Harvest Festival we have a wheelwright coming out, and there was supposed to be a blacksmith, but the blacksmith had to cancel, so the wheelwright’s on his own, and I was thinking it would really be much better to have more than just one craftsman, you know, giving demonstrations. So—”
Here Willie had cut in with, “So you thought a handsome Scotsman with a hammer and a chisel might be just the thing you’re wanting?”
“Yes.” She’d answered his flirtation with a warm smile of her own. “And Sam, Malaika says you have these antique tools, and she said if you’d be our woodwright for the festival, she’ll let you have that leaded window she’s got in her shed. The one you wanted.”
Sam had briefly smiled and pulled his work gloves from his belt so he could put them on. “I’ll think about it.”
He must have decided the window was worth it, because when I’d arrived on site this morning for the start of our Fall Harvest Festival, he had been here already, dressed in an old-fashioned work shirt and trousers that, although not purely Colonial, still looked a lot more in tune with our period than Don Petrella’s TV costume.
Don had me looking towards the blue sky now, too, searching for storm clouds.
I didn’t see any.
But Don assured me his scar never lied when it came to predicting the weather. “You don’t always see a storm coming,” was his sage advice as he made sure again that his vampire teeth were in place before heading back into his booth.
He was one of our best-loved attractions today, second only to Dennis the donkey, who, over in the shade beside the barn, was giving rides to children in a patient, constant circle. Dennis’s owner, Isaac Fisher, was one of the Fishers Malaika had told me about when we’d sat on her sailboat—the family that once had owned most of Cross Harbor. The family resemblance between him and Frank was even easier to see when they were standing close together, interacting with the ease of men whose ancestors had intermarried over generations. They were working as a team today, since Frank had set his cider press up over by the barn as well, where he could demonstrate the way it worked and hand out paper cups of cider to the people lining up for donkey rides.
The length of that line was apparently bothering Sharon and Eve. The barn was their domain—its airy, dim interior decked out with tables lined with crafts for sale by local artisans, while all down one wall Millbank’s Spinners and Weavers Club hosted a display that showed the steps of turning wool to cloth, complete with an actual sheep at one end and a loom at the other. Which Sharon felt—as she had said at least three times already—should draw bigger crowds of people than a donkey.
Frank had pointed out that bringing in the donkey had been Sharon’s own idea, but that hadn’t helped.
I’d stayed out of the argument. In fact, I’d stayed out of the barn as much as possible and focused on the great swirl of activity outdoors. There was a storyteller over by the picnic tables, keeping people entertained. A pumpkin-carving booth beside another one where kids could try their hand at making scarecrows. And Harvey, always keen to be the centre of attention, had rented a full re-enactment uniform and was dressed as an officer of the Revolution, right down to the wig and the sword and the high polished boots, strutting around with a false air of leisure to let everybody admire him. He’d strutted across my path too many times today for me to think it was purely coincidence. With Eve and Sharon confined to the barn, I suspected they’d deputized Harvey to keep a close eye on me so they could pounce if I made a mistake. The plan, I gathered, was to gather evidence to back their claim I wasn’t the right person for this job. I hadn’t acknowledged their constant surveillance but I was aware of it, so when I saw Harvey now standing a few feet away with his back to me, talking to Willie and Sam and the wheelwright, my first instinct was to go straight past, and quickly, while he was distracted.
Then I heard what he was saying.
“But with these zoning changes, now, the mayor’s just gone right off the reservation.” Looking straight at Sam he added, “No offence, Chief.”
I stopped walking. “Harvey,” I cut in, my voice professionally level, “could I see you for a minute?”
All four men had turned their heads to look at me, but Harvey seemed the most surprised. “Sure.”
Leading him a little distance off till we were out of earshot of the others, I said, “Look, I can’t control what you do on your own time, but when you’re here representing our museum, could you please try not to be a total racist?”
Harvey’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“What you said just now to Sam—that was completely disrespectful.”
Harvey looked at me like I was crazy. Then he told me so. “You’re nuts. Sam didn’t mind. Besides, I told him, ‘No offence.’?”
The condescension in his tone was making it a challenge for me not to lose my temper, but I managed somehow. “First,” I shot back smoothly, “Sam is way too nice to tell you if he minds. And second, anytime you need to make a point of saying ‘no offence,’ it means that what you’re saying is offensive.” I was done, so I dismissed him with, “Just don’t do it again, okay?”
And then I walked away.