“Check.”
She lifted her hands and shrugged. “That’s it.”
“Then we’re good.” He crossed his arms, set his feet wide, and looked around again with a heavy sigh. “I’m ready. Throw it at me.”
Delaney had given Trace only the very barest of facts about the job over the phone, which had been easy since she didn’t know what it entailed yet. All that was left to do now was line out the details and see how Trace handled it.
She dusted off her hands and set the safety glasses on another table. “I’ve done a preliminary on everything—foundation, framing, electrical, plumbing. Of course everything in here needs something, right? Go figure—the place is a century old. But, believe it or not, I’ve seen worse, and I’ve renovated worse. Granted, I used someone else’s money, but still.
“I thought I’d walk you through, room by room, tell you what needs repair or replacement and what I had in mind for the space, and have you work up a bid for me. I’d also really appreciate any creative cost-cutting options that come to mind.”
Just getting that part of this mess square in her head made her feel better. Now she was on level ground. This mess she understood. The mess inside her, the way she couldn’t stop thinking about Ethan—that she didn’t understand. At all.
Delaney took a deep breath, planted her hands at her hips, and smiled at Trace. “Does that work for you?”
He was frowning, mouth propped open as if he was going to say something, but his mind didn’t seem to be cooperating. “Uuuuuuuh . . .” He got that pained look again. “We’re not talking about demolition?”
A split second of confusion ended with a cold streak straight through the center of her body. Then, like a divining rod, that streak turned red-hot.
She clenched her teeth, but that wasn’t enough to hold in her anger. “That fucker.” Delaney wrapped her hand around the top of the nearest chair and stared at the floor, shaking her head. “When could he have possibly—”
“Okay, now this is getting interesting.” Trace wandered toward a table, dragged out a chair, and plopped down, then kicked his feet up on another. Trace and Ethan knew each other growing up through Ethan’s mother and Trace’s grandmother. Then as adults through their work, before and after Trace’s prison sentence. “What in the hell is going on here, girl?”
She growled in answer.
God damn him.
“What’s going on is I’m trying to make a decision on whether to risk renovating this place, hoping I don’t drown in a financial black hole or throw away every penny I’ve saved over the last decade by demolishing it. And it pisses . . . me . . . off”—she punctuated the words by stamping the chair against the hardwood—“that everyone is trying to make that decision for me.”
“Ooooo-wee.” Trace laughed. “You’ve still got a temper that matches your hair.”
Actually, she didn’t. Normally she was very level-headed. Normally she was flexible and easygoing and cooperative and nice. But there was nothing normal about this situation.
“Yeah,” he said, scratching his jaw. “Ethan gave me a totally different picture.”
Ethan’s casual little visit the other night had obviously been more about checking up on her and less about getting to know her. After all these years and all she’d been through, how could she have believed he’d sincerely cared? God, she was so stupid.
With no other outlet for her rage, she strangled the back of the chair while she tried to calm down enough to think.
“Are you going this alone?” Trace asked. “’Cause you’re talking at least two or three times the amount to renovate as it costs to tear it down.”
“Phoebe’s offered to help, but I’m not thrilled with the idea of using her money. It’s one thing to risk my own money, but it’s another to risk hers when she’s done nothing but give to us her whole life. And there’s a lot more than money churning up trouble in this place.”
“I’m sure there is. When Ethan called and talked demolition, I didn’t think anything of it, but this . . .” He gazed at the floor and rubbed his jaw, then shook his head. “He really ought to find a way to bow out of this. I don’t see how he could be objective.”
“Thank you.” A burst of gratification straightened her spine. “That’s exactly what I said.”
“What with everything he gave up after Ian died, he’s got to want to see this place plowed into the ground more than just about anyone.”
“I’m so glad someone else—” Delaney suddenly realized she and Trace weren’t talking about the same thing. “Wait. What? What did Ethan give up after Ian died?”
Trace’s distant gaze refocused on Delaney. “Ah, that’s right. You left town as soon as you were cleared by the cops. But Ethan didn’t. Ian’s death put Ellen into a tailspin. I mean, she was a little”—he made small air-circles at his temple—“to begin with, but she took a serious nosedive. And you know Beth and Ellen are so close. It hit Ethan’s mom pretty hard, too. She made herself sick with worry over Ellen. And when Ellen tried to commit suicide—”
“What?” Horror swamped Delaney. She slapped a hand against a sudden pain in her chest. “Ellen what? When?”
“Gosh, must have been . . .” He clasped his hands behind his head. “I don’t remember exactly, but within the first few months after Ian died.”
“Ian’s death changed everything. And not just for me.”