“Movement,” Linda repeated. “What does that mean?”
“That it could be groundwater. It could be a soil shift or even a tree root from one of the older oaks. We’d need to drain the pool, dry the structure, and do a full inspection before we could give you a final cause.” Peter told her, and all Linda saw were dollar signs with wings flying away from the hotel and into Coastal Engineering’s pockets.
“How long would that take?” Linda kept her voice steady.
“The draining and drying takes about ten days. The inspection takes one. The repair, depending on what we find, takes anywhere from two weeks to two months. If it’s a simple crack and the foundation is stable, you’re looking at a quick reline and reseal. If the foundation has shifted, you’re looking at potentially excavating around the pool and stabilizing the substrate before any patching can happen.”
“And the cost.” Linda swallowed as her throat started to feel dry once again.
He glanced at Daniel. Daniel handed him the clipboard. Peter wrote a figure on the top sheet, tore it off, and handed it to her.
Linda looked at the number. Her stomach dropped. She didn’t let her face change.
“That’s the low end?” she asked.
“That’s the low end if it’s a simple crack. The high end, if we have to do substrate stabilization, could be three or four times that,” Peter warned her.
“I see.” Linda nodded, and the winged dollar bills suddenly tripled as they flew away.
“I’ll send a formal quote through to you this afternoon,” Peter continued, handing her a small business card. “Take a day or two. Talk it over.”
“Thank you, Peter.” Linda gave him a tight smile.
The two men packed up their equipment and walked back through the gardens toward the front of the hotel. Linda and Martin walked them out. Peter shook her hand again at the gravel drive, climbed into the passenger seat of a small white work van, and they drove off.
Linda stood at the edge of the drive, watching the van disappear down Bay View Drive.
The morning sun lay quietly and warmly on her shoulders. The bay glittered beyond the line of palms. A pelican drifted across the blue.
Her stomach had been at her feet since the moment she’d read the figure on the slip of paper.
A small white delivery van pulled into the drive.
Linda blinked.
The driver climbed out, walked over with a clipboard and a slim cream envelope, and held both out toward her.
“Is Mr. George Heart here?” The man asked.
“No, but I’m his niece,” Linda told the driver, who nodded. “I can sign for this.”
She signed. The driver handed her the envelope, smiled politely, climbed back into the van, and drove off.
Linda turned the envelope over slowly in her hands.
The same heavy cream paper. The same discreet logo. The same return address.
Wayne Group International. 1 Brickell Bay Drive. Miami.
Her hand began to shake.
“What is it?” Martin asked from beside her.
She didn’t answer. She slid one finger under the seal and pulled the heavy, folded letter from inside.
She unfolded it.
She read.
