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“Well, I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “Then we can figure out the plumbing situation.”
“Uh, Lace?” I clear my throat awkwardly.
“What?” She stops mid-stride and turns back to face me.
“No water. Remember? I turned off the main water valve.”
“Shit!” She smacks her hand to her forehead with a wetthap. “Of course. I’m such a dope.”
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.
“You really should have gotten that leak fixed earlier.”
She glares at me, her irritation clearly mounting now that she’s realized she’ll be stuck without a hot shower.
“I’ll go ahead and call a plumber,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Yes, please,” she huffs as she sinks back down to the living room floor.
I head to the kitchen and find the number for Pete’s Plumbing. I pick up the old landline phone, which is mysteriously still connected after all these years. Elliot Kincaid is so rich, he’s probably been paying for it for over a decade without even realizing.
A gruff voice on the other end of the line tells me that a plumber can come out… tomorrow.
Shit.I hang up the phone and pace the kitchen. I’m eager to get Lacy out of here. When I told her I came to Rose Manor to get away from the public eye, I was only half telling the truth. The actual truth? I have an album to write and a killer case of writer’s block. Rose Manor is supposed to be my private little songwriting retreat. Now, it’s turned into an episode ofFixer Upperon HGTV? No thanks.
“What’s the word?” Lacy strolls into the kitchen, her wet Converse sneakers making a squishing sound with each step.
“Well, they can send someone out—”
“Great!” Lacy cuts me off enthusiastically.
“Uh, tomorrow. They can send someone out tomorrow.”
She gives me a withering death-stare in response.
“So, no running water until then?”
“Not unless you want that geyser in the living room to go off again.”
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters under her breath.
I start in surprise. I don’t ever remember hearing Lacy curse when we were younger. It’s like hearing the F-bomb from a kid.
“Okay, well let’s get into dry clothes. Then maybe you can give me a tour of the house and show me what else you’ve let fall into disrepair since you’ve been squatting here,” she says icily.
“Fuck, Lace. I’m notsquatting. I’ve got a key.”
“Whatever you say. Change and meet me back here in ten?”
“Sure.”
Ten minutes later, we’re back in the kitchen. Lacy is wearing denim shorts and an oversized sweatshirt. I give silent thanks that she’s out of that wet t-shirt from before. But now that I know what she’s hiding underneath her baggy clothing, it’s hard to forget. I’ve changed into a dry pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt. Well, notfreshper se, since the washer-dryer is broken, but dry, at least.
“Shall we?” Lacy’s voice is clipped and business-like. She taps her foot impatiently, which would be intimidating except that she’s now barefoot.
“What’s with the notebook?” I ask, nodding to the small journal she holds in her hand, along with a pen. “Planning to write some song lyrics as we go? Or wait, it was poetry, right?” I’d noticed the handwritten scribbles of verse when Lacy dropped her books earlier.
“Poetry,” she says huffily, clasping the notebook closer to her chest. Her dark eyes look at me sternly from behind her glasses.
