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Union Hill

T he screen door squeaked open, and Lydia stepped out onto the porch. Her eyes were red and puffy, as was her nose. But her shoulders were squared and her back was straight.

Rory waited in silence while Lydia locked the door. There was no reason to, of course. The home would be a pile of rubble within the hour. But maybe it was a habit, muscle memory. Or, Rory allowed, maybe the woman simply wanted to experience the ritual of securing her home one last time.

Lydia turned away from the door just as the hard-hatted crew arrived in several mud-splattered pickup trucks, followed by a bright yellow excavator that slowly ground to a stop in the front yard. She stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Rory. She radiated anger like heat.

Rory snapped a photo as a stocky man with close-cropped gray hair emerged from the passenger side of the lead truck. He wore a fleece jacket and clutched a clipboard. The driver hopped out and grabbed a pair of blaze orange safety vests from the truck bed. After shrugging into one, he offered the other to his passenger, who tugged it on over the fleece. Then the pair retrieved hard hats from the footwell of the truck. Behind them, the rest of the crew was doing the same.

“Sam,” Lydia muttered the name as if it were a profanity.

Rory lowered her camera and turned toward the older woman. “Pardon?”

She jerked her chin toward the approaching man and flared her nostrils. “Sam Folger. He’s the supervisor of the county construction crew. More like destruction crew.”

Sam came to a stop in front of the steps to the porch. “Come down from there, Lydia. We’re on a schedule.”

Rory’s eyes widened at his gruff, unsympathetic tone. Lydia seemed unsurprised.

“Go to hell, Sam.”

Sam grunted and gave his head a rueful shake. Lydia made a low noise in the back of her throat. It sounded like the warning Rory’s childhood cat used to give before she attacked.

The foreman waved Rory and Lydia over. “You ladies need to get out of this area. It’s not safe.”

Lydia seemed unable to respond, so Rory said, “We’d like to watch.”

He frowned. “Not much to see.”

In return, Rory gave him a bright smile and waited.

He scratched his neck under the collar of his flannel shirt. “I suppose as long as you cross the street, you’ll be safe enough, but you got to keep an eye out for flying debris.”

“We will,” Rory promised sweetly. “I just need to be close enough to take some photos for Mrs. Hudson.”

The man’s gaze shifted to Lydia and her stony face. “Why are you are doing this to yourself, Lydia?”

Lydia croaked out a laugh. “Funny. Thought you were the one doing this to me, Sam.”

His shoulders slumped. “Come on, Lyd. I don’t make the decisions. My crew and I are just doing our job.”

Lydia’s neck muscles twitched and her jaw tightened, and Rory placed a gentle hand on her elbow to lead her across the street before she exploded. They settled atop the low brick wall that fronted the yarn shop. As Rory shifted and folded her long legs lotus-style, Lydia gave her a sidelong look. “You always get what you want?”

Rory shrugged. What was the point of having a face card, if you weren’t going to play it? She was beautiful—objectively. It was an accident of genetics. It didn’t have anything to do with her; it just was. People fell over themselves to please her. It had been that way her entire life, or at least as long as she could remember.

She tried—especially these days—not to misuse it or rely too heavily on it. But she couldn’t deny that when she wanted something, almost invariably a bright smile and a sweet voice got the job done. Lydia watched her, waiting for a response.

“You know what they say,” she finally answered. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

Lydia laughed. “Catch those flies while you can. Believe me, one day your looks will fade and you’ll be invisible. Happens to us all.”

I can’t wait, she thought fervently. She meant it with her whole being but refrained from saying it aloud.

Instead, she nodded and pointed toward the house. “They’re getting started.”

The older woman turned to watch, and they both stood up as the demolition crew confirmed the utilities had been disconnected and set up a row of orange cones. A pair of workers lowered the tailgate of one of the trucks and headed out to the intersection to stop traffic, while Sam consulted the papers on his clipboard. Rory photographed it all, conscious of Lydia standing ramrod-straight beside her.

Then he raised one hand and gestured for the driver to start the excavator. The engine growled to life and the vehicle bumped over the hard earth until the huge bucket attached to the end of its hydraulic arm was lined up with the side of the house. The digger reversed, and its arm rose with a whine until the bucket was high, hovering over the roof of Lydia’s home.

It began its slow descent and plowed into the shingles, smashing into the roof and sending a cascade of tar, nails, and wood raining down onto the ground. Lydia inhaled sharply. Rory kept snapping pictures.

Over and over, the bucket slammed into the roof until it collapsed. Then the driver moved on to the walls, loudly maneuvering around the house as the bucket swiveled on its track. Dust and debris filled the air. When the excavator stopped, the house was less than a shell.

A worker waved on a gleaming white SUV, which was followed by a roll-off truck carrying a pair of dumpsters. The SUV came to a stop on the road, and the truck swerved around it to park on what had been Lydia’s front yard.

The driver’s door opened, and a woman emerged from the SUV. She wore oversized sunglasses and a blue tweed designer pantsuit that Rory immediately recognized as a St. John. But not until she pushed the sunglasses up on top of her honey-colored hair did Rory recognize the woman. What was Julie Mason doing here?

“Witch,” Lydia spat under breath.

Rory turned to her. “Julie?”

“You know her?”

“She’s my landlord. Why would she be here?”

“Because she’s the developer who wanted my house. I hope she’s happy now. I have half a mind to rip that bottle-blonde hair right out of her head.”

Rory blinked and tried to process the news that Julie was behind the eminent domain proceeding. Her brain refused to make sense of it.

Lydia trembled with anger and started to push up from the wall.

“Where are you going?” Rory asked the question even though she was pretty sure she knew the answer, unfortunately. She didn’t relish the thought of pulling the woman off Julie. Of course, Sam would probably break up the fight, right?

Before Lydia could answer or make good on her threat, the bell above the yarn door jangled and the owner stepped outside. The woman stopped mid-stride to gape at the ruins of the house across the road, shaking her head. Then she spotted the women perched on her wall and drew up short. Her hand went to the yellow crocheted scarf at her throat and she twisted the fringe around her fingers. After a moment, she pasted on a brave smile and made her way down the walkway. She stopped at the edge of the wall.

“Lydia …,” she began. Then she faltered.

Lydia turned her attention away from Julie and gave the woman a long, blank look. “Kim,” she finally said in a flat voice.

Kim flushed. “I’m so sorry about, well, you know.” The scarf fell from her grasp and she twirled her hand toward the demolished structure in a vague gesture.

“Are you, though?”

The woman’s flush deepened, and she blinked rapidly behind her glasses. “Of course, I am.”

Lydia’s gaze flickered over Kim’s head and settled on the whimsical front window display at Tangled Skeins. “Seems like you’re doing okay. I’m sure having new luxury lofts with a bistro and coffee shop on the first floor will only make business even better for you lot.”

Kim, who apparently had no response to this, scurried to her car.

After a long moment, Lydia turned to Rory. “I’ve seen enough. I’m leaving.”

“Where will you go?” Rory asked.

“My daughter sent me a bus ticket. I’ll stay with her while I figure it out.”

“I’ll call you when I have prints.”

Lydia nodded and seemed to deflate—all the fight leaked out of her and her entire body softened and sagged.

Rory watched her walk away. Then she packed up her camera equipment and unlocked her bike from the rack beside the pottery studio. Before she mounted it, her eyes flitted once again toward Julie, who was gesturing toward the house and giving Sam animated instructions about the disposal of the rubble. As if Julie felt the weight of Rory’s gaze, she turned and peered toward Rory, raising a hand to shield her face from the sun.

Rory threw her leg over the bicycle and pedaled off before Julie could cross the road and engage her.