Page 3 of The Sound of Harmony

“I don’t need to see the kitchen,” Luke spat.

“Yes, you do. And I want my coffee.” Maude’s voice had an icy edge that Emma had never heard before. Maude moved toward the kitchen and called over her shoulder, “You can tell me all about your plans for this dumpster that’s coming, so I can cancel it.”

Luke turned to his father. “Dad, you’ve got to talk some sense into her.”

Murray held up a hand. “I’m not saying another word. If you want to keep arguing, you’d better go after your mother.”

Luke let out a strangled grunt and stomped off to the kitchen.

Emma and Murray stood in silence for a moment. Murray tilted his head toward the back of the house. “Maude will handle him.”

“Is he here for a long visit?”

Murray smoothed the sparse hair on top of his head. “Three weeks.” The words were as neutral as he could make them, but the implication was clear. Two weeks too many.

Clashing thoughts clanged in Emma’s brain. This sweet couple needed her help. Her bank account needed help too. So did her website and Instagram feed and her online reviews. The before and after pictures of the Zelinski home would be epic—a real boost to her reputation.

But one thought was louder than all of them. There was no way she could be in the same room with Luke Zelinski.

“Let me check my schedule.” Emma pretended to consult her calendar. “I might be able to squeeze you in after Labor Day.”

“Because you can’t work with him.” Murray had a sharp mind, and he’d immediately grasped the situation. “Maybe that’s right. Maybe you shouldn’t try.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“Before you go, can I get your advice about a couple of things in my office?”

“Yes?” Emma’s voice fluttered upward. “Yes, go ahead.”

Her heart tripped a fast rhythm as she followed Murray through the house. She made sure to give him a big head start.

She’d spent two weeks with the Zelinskis, but always both of them at the same time. She’d never been alone with Murray. He was eighty years old, unsteady on his feet, and weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, but she still made sure he didn’t stand between her and a door.

She’d been fine this morning. Absolutely fine. And then Luke showed up, breathing fire, dredging up fears she wanted to keep submerged. Now she was afraid of this frail old man. Yet another thing to talk about in therapy this week. Such fun.

The office was a small room off the formal dining room. It might have been a butler’s pantry, but instead of cabinets for dishware, it held a small desk and bookshelves. Reminders of daily living filled the space. Papers were tacked onto corkboards at least five sheets deep. Sticky notes framed an ancient desktop computer. Birthday cards and invitations were propped on the windowsill. Receipts, bills, and mail overflowed the desk.

Murray maneuvered himself into the far corner and sat down, releasing his cane. Emma left the door open, one foot outside.

“How long do you keep old tax returns?” Murray asked.

“Seven years.”

“Bank statements?”

“One year.”

“Receipts?”

“One day, unless you’re expensing for a business.”

“Oof,” Murray said. “We’ve got some shredding to do.”

“I’ve got a shredder in my truck,” Emma offered.

“Can we borrow it?”

“Of course you can. But it’s noisy.”