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I notice two things when I step inside the house.
First up: it is nowhere near as close to finished as Riley said. The sound of a drill echoes off the spackled sheetrock walls and ceiling. Sawdust covers the floors. The windows are dotted with stickers and permits.
Second, there are a ton of people here. So many I wonder if Riley asked every single resident of Harbour Village to lend a hand this morning. Mrs. Dixon is measuring the length of a nearby room, while Marsha runs a shop vac over the hardwoods (they tell me they left Tom at home so he doesn’t step on any nails). A man who looks like he could be in ZZ Top—beard, biker boots—lugs in a stack of coolers, each one marked with BAITY’S TACKLE & MORE est 1991 in peeling blue ink.
Meanwhile, Marianne’s people, all wearing the same uniform of a black T-shirt and pants, haul a little bit of everything inside: tables and chairs, stacks of china, wilted floral arrangements.
“The florist had to drop them off yesterday afternoon,” Marianne explains with a frown. “He’s located in South Port, and he was worried he wouldn’t be able to get over here on the ferry with the weather being so bad.”
Mom pulls back her hood. “I’m on it. Lu, bring those mason jars over. Let’s see if we can’t revive these poor flowers with a little rearranging.”
“I got this.” Riley appears, smiling as he takes the box from me. “Morning, y’all. We really appreciate you comin’ out to help.”
“Least we can do.” Lady goes up on her tiptoes. “Is Joe here by chance?”
Riley smiles. “He’s helping the electricians finish up some wiring in the primary bath.”
“Oh, great. I’ll . . . go wipe down the counters in there.”
“That’d be helpful, thank you.” Riley turns to Mom. “Oh, thank God, you brought lights! I guess Coop and Goldie weren’t going to use anything but candles and those bistro lights at the club, so Marianne didn’t reserve much from the tent company. And as luck would have it, the people who are building this house didn’t want to install overhead lighting, so we’ll need all the extra illumination we can get.”
We head into the soaring main living area. Heavy beams crisscross the space, and I get how it will eventually look like the inside of a whale.
Right now, though, it just looks like a construction site.
Tuck is on a ladder to my left, trying to hang a swag of ivory organza across the length of the room.
“Still way too tight,” a tiny woman in a pair of high-waisted shorts and a sweatshirt is saying from the bottom of the ladder. “Seriously, Tuck, just let me do it.”
“No fucking way you’re gettin’ on a twenty-foot ladder. I got it.” But when Tuck glances down at the woman, his grip on the organza slips, and it slumps almost to the floor. “Damn it.”
“You know, if you’d just let me—”
“No.” He tugs on the organza. “Tell me how it looks now.”
“Like shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Maren, could you give me some guidance that’s helpful for once?”
“I am tryin’ to help, but you won’t let me!”
Tuck glances at her over his shoulder. “You know, you got a big mouth for someone so little.”
“I do know.” Maren folds her arms. “I also know you like it.”
Tuck grins. “Is that so?”
I grab Riley’s arm. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“They been like this all damn morning.” He sets the box of mason jars on a nearby bookshelf. “It’s cute, right?”
“So cute.”
“Too bad she’s his nanny.”
“That’s a problem?”
“Yeah. For that reason and plenty others, he won’t touch her.”
“Honestly, I think the nanny/single-dad thing is hot.”
Riley slides a hand into the back pocket of my jeans, pulling me close. “Also gets in the way.”
“I hate when things like real life and real employment get in the way.”
His eyes meet mine. “Me too.” He takes his hand out of my pocket. “Here, come meet Maren. Maybe you can convince her to make the first move, because Tuck sure as hell won’t. Maren! This is my friend Lu.”
“It’s so nice to meet you.” I take her hand. “And thank you for helping Goldie and Coop out.”
“Appreciate your help, sincerely,” Riley says.
Maren smiles. “Tuck said it was all hands on deck. Katie had a playdate this morning at a friend’s house, so I was free. And this beats the hell out of studying.”
“You’re in school?” I ask.
She nods. “Getting my master’s. Luckily my classes this semester are mostly virtual, which means I get to stay on Bald Head and torture this guy”—she points to Tuck—“with my little body and big mouth.”
Even from twenty below, I can see Tuck’s jaw tick. Same way Riley’s does when he’s turned on, angry, or both.
“You got no idea,” Tuck says.
“Do you know how much of that organza we have?” I ask.
