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WHITNEY

The following Tuesday morning, Collin and I met up at the fifth potential wedding venue on our list. With his dark hair, green eyes, and lean, athletic build, Collin was much more attractive than the gruff, swarthy detectives often depicted in television shows and movies. However, he was just as clever as those weathered investigators. What’s more, he was smart enough to listen to me when I speculated about his cases. More than once, a hunch I’d had paid off.

After I slid out of my red SUV, he greeted me with a smile and a soft, warm kiss on the cheek. I gladly accepted his kiss before turning to the building and exhaling sharply. “Let’s hope this place works out. We’re running out of options.”

While any of the four proceeding venues would have been wonderful places to hold a wedding, none had available dates that would work for us. Prior to Collin’s proposal, my parents had booked a two-week cruise on the Italian Riviera between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Collin had a training conference in Chicago in late October. Buck, Colette, Collin, and I had tickets to see Kacey Musgraves in concert on a Friday in early November, which meant that weekend was out. We’d need to have a rehearsal and rehearsal dinner the evening before our wedding ceremony, after all. That didn’t leave us many dates in the near future to work with, and Collin and I didn’t want to wait until next year to tie the knot. Even the Joyful Noise Playhouse was fully booked on weekends through the end of this year and well into the next.

We took the stairs up to the wraparound porch, entered the beautiful Victorian home through beveled glass doors, and checked in with the manager, who took us on a tour.

When the tour ended, Collin turned to me and took my hand, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “What do you think, Whitney?”

I gave his hand a squeeze. “I love it.”

The house had sprawling grounds, a picturesque pond, and plenty of space to invite everyone on our list. It was also booked until kingdom come. “Our next available Saturday is in August of twenty twenty-six,” the woman said. “Would you like to reserve it?”

My jaw dropped. “I was told on the phone that you had an available Saturday this fall.”

“We did,” she said, “but that date was booked this morning.”

I put my hands over my face and groaned.

Collin exhaled sharply. “August twenty twenty-six is over two years from now.”

She shrugged. “It takes nearly that long to properly plan a wedding.”

I certainly hoped not. Collin and I had just three months to pull ours together.

Before we could respond, she said, “If you’re willing to have a mid-week ceremony, we can get you in much sooner. There’s a Wednesday open in mid-October.”

Collin and I exchanged an exasperated glance. There was no way we’d hold our wedding on a weeknight. Had we known it would be so hard to get a wedding venue, we might have just eloped and been done with it. Our mothers would have thrown a hissy fit, of course. They both wanted to see us walk down the aisle and have a proper ceremony, be a part of our big day. I couldn’t blame them. I’d feel the same way if I had a child one day. We declined the offer of a Wednesday evening wedding, thanked the woman for her time, and walked back outside.

“What are we going to do?” I asked Collin.

He pulled me to him and held me tight, stroking my hair to calm me. “There’s dozens of chapels in Vegas. We could treat our guests to an all-you-can-eat buffet and a show.”

I put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. “That’s not happening.”

“I know.” He heaved a sigh. “But it was worth a shot.”

A backyard wedding wasn’t an option. None of our family members owned a house that was big enough. What are we going to do?

I’d silenced my phone during the tour, and it now jiggled in the pocket of my overalls, letting me know someone was trying to reach me. According to my screen, that someone was Betsy Peabody. Buzzing with anticipation, I raised a finger to let Collin know I’d be quick, and accepted the call. “I hope you’ve got good news for me,” I said without preamble. “I could use some right now.”

Peabody laughed. “I do. Another buyer outbid you by five grand, but they planned to turn the firehouse into a gym with an outdoor rock-climbing wall. The committee didn’t like that it would cover the building’s fa?ade.”

I pumped a victorious fist and grinned at Collin. “We got the fire station!” He held up his hand for a high five. Meanwhile, Peabody said they could close on Friday afternoon. “Great!” I said. “I’ll let our mortgage company know.” I was glad things were moving rapidly. I didn’t like to lose momentum on a project.

I thanked Peabody and we disconnected. As I slid my phone back into my pocket, an idea occurred to me. The truck bay on the bottom floor of the firehouse could easily hold a hundred and forty chairs. Rather than proceed down an aisle, my father could escort me down the spiral staircase we planned to install. Tables could be set up along the sides of the bay and, while guests ascended to the rooftop patio for pre-dinner cocktails after the ceremony, the tables could be moved onto the garage floor for dinner. The upstairs kitchen would provide an on-site base for Colette’s team to cater the event. The living room could serve as a dance floor, while a few tables and chairs could be set up in the bedrooms for those who preferred a quieter place to engage in conversation. There was room for about twenty cars to park at the fire station, but the café next door served only breakfast and lunch, and closed at three o’clock in the afternoon. For the right price, surely the owner would allow us to use their parking lot after hours.

I took Collin’s hands in mine and looked into his eyes. “What if we got married at the fire station?” I ran through my thoughts. “It has everything we’ve been looking for in a venue, and it would cost us nothing.”

His shoulders relaxed in relief and he gave my hands a squeeze. “It’s a perfect plan. But forget coming down the spiral staircase. You should slide down the pole in your wedding dress. It would make for a spectacular entrance.”

I slid him a grin. “I’ll think about it.”

Friday afternoon, after Buck and I signed our way through a virtual mountain of paperwork, the fire station was ours. We drove straight over to start the demolition. Collin and I had decided to get married on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, which meant Buck and I had three months to complete the rehab. It could be done, but only if we worked diligently.

Buck pulled his toolbox out of the back of his van and set it on the fire station’s front drive. He reached into the bay again and pulled out a metal yard sign that read WHITAKER WOODWORKING. He carried it over and jammed the support posts into a narrow swath of soil between the sidewalk and the curb.

I had no problem giving Whitaker Woodworking some credit for this job. After all, it was Buck’s father—my uncle Roger—who’d taught us carpentry and employed us for years. But with five projects under our tool belts, maybe it was time for Buck and me to come up with a name for our house-flipping business. When I mentioned the idea, he asked, “What would you want to call it?”

I raised my shoulders. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think it through.”

His eyes narrowed as he pondered. “What about Two Tools Renovations?”

“That name would get people’s attention for sure, but I’d prefer a name that’s less self-deprecating.” I chewed my lip as I thought. “Two Cousins Transformations?”

Buck snorted. “That makes it sound like we turn into werewolves on a full moon.”

He had a point. When no other name immediately came to mind, we decided to shelve the discussion for later and headed inside with our toolboxes. While I worked in the kitchen, removing the cabinet doors to be sanded and painted, Buck toiled in the bathroom. His voice echoed in the space as he sang along to Tim McGraw playing on his phone.

I was working to remove a stubborn screw when a finger came out of nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder. Gasping, I spun around, my screwdriver raised in an instinctual act of self-preservation. With Buck’s caterwauling, I hadn’t heard the two strangers walk up behind me. Fortunately, the woman who’d tapped me on the shoulder whipped her head back in time to avoid losing an eye. I lowered my tool and put a hand to my chest in a vain attempt to still my pounding heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

With their arms hanging loose by their sides and mild-mannered expressions on their faces, the two appeared harmless. The woman held a shiny green and white rectangle in her left hand. My first thought was cell phone, but when my nose detected a slight smell of smoke, I realized it was a pack of Newport cigarettes. Her thumb held a white disposable lighter tight against the pack. The woman’s hair had probably once been blonde, but she’d let it go natural and now it was the same gray shade as sun-bleached driftwood. Her hair and the crow’s feet around her hazel eyes put her in her mid to late sixties. She wore minimal makeup, just enough to give her face a touch of color but no glamour. She was likely retired, in light of her age and the fact that she wore a green V-neck T-shirt, denim shorts, and a pair of wedge flip-flops on what for most folks was a workday. In addition to the scent of cigarette smoke, she’d brought the gangly man along with her. He was best described as a gargoyle come to life. His hair was the color of concrete, his skin pale, his facial features oversized. His deep-set pewter eyes gazed out from under a protruding browbone. The man looked to be about her same age, pushing seventy.

Evidently, Buck and I had forgotten to lock the door. While I didn’t appreciate people wandering into the place, I supposed the fact that it was a former firehouse made it seem like a public building. I made a mental note to post signs that read Private Property—No Trespassing.

“Sorry,” the woman said. “We didn’t mean to startle you.” Her accent was all Mississippi, with elongated vowels, a playful lilt, and an “aah” sound replacing the letter r in her words. She offered me her hand. “I’m Joanna Hartzell.”

I slid my screwdriver into my tool belt, tugged off my work glove, and gave her hand a shake. “Whitney Whitaker.” At least that was my name for now. Once Collin and I married, I’d become Whitney Flynn. I’d debated keeping my maiden name or hyphenating Whitaker-Flynn. We’d even discussed combining surnames, but we didn’t want to be known as the Flakers or the Whitlynns, and could only imagine the red tape that would be required. In the end, I decided to share the last name of the man I’d chosen to share my life with.

After I’d shaken hands with Joanna, the gargoyle offered his hand, as well. “Gideon Koppelman.”

“We live in the neighborhood.” Joanna gestured in the general direction of the back wall, which I took to mean they lived in the residential area behind the fire station. “We saw your sign and the van out front. Are you rehabbing this place?”

“Yes. My cousin and I plan to turn the station into a residence.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gideon’s thick gray brows lifted. “Can’t wait to see how it turns out.”

“You and me both.” There was nothing more satisfying than stepping back once a project was finished and feeling proud of what my cousin and I had accomplished.

Joanna cocked her head. “Any chance you can take a look at a townhouse around the corner? It could use some work and I’d love to get some professional input.”

At work less than half an hour, and already my progress had been derailed. It could be seen as a bad omen, but I preferred to think of it as an opportunity to help someone. I didn’t mind doling out some free remodeling advice now and then so long as people weren’t cheapskates looking for free repair work. “I’d be happy to take a look.” I returned my screwdriver to my toolbox. “I just need to tell my cousin that I’m stepping out.”

Gideon grinned. “He the one singing in the shower? Good thing he knows a trade. He’d have starved to death as a performer.”

A total stranger insulting my cousin didn’t sit well with me, but the man wasn’t wrong. Buck could benefit from a voice lesson or two.

The two followed me out of the kitchen and into the hall, where I stopped at the open door of the large bathroom. Buck danced a little two-step as he made his way across the floor of the shower. “Hey, Buck!” I called over his music. After he turned around and turned down the volume on his phone, I held out my hand to indicate our visitors. “Joanna and Gideon are from the neighborhood. They want me to take a look at a townhouse around the corner.”

Buck tossed his wrench into his toolbox. “I’ll go with y’all. Give you my two cents, too.”

We followed Joanna and Gideon down the stairs. This time, I remembered to lock the door of the fire station behind us so no one else could venture inside. We took to the sidewalk and circled around the end of the block, turning left onto a residential street lined with the townhouses Germantown was known for. Though some of the construction in the district was new, most of the townhouses on this street were in structures built in the early 1900s and originally designed to house multiple families, each on a separate floor. Back then, the residences been filled almost exclusively by European immigrants. These days, the diverse neighborhood was home to people from all sorts of backgrounds.

The first house on the left sat perpendicular behind the fire station. Parked at the curb in front was a bright green tow truck with a yellow light bar atop the cab. A crumpled silver sedan was hiked up behind it, an old model from the early 2000s. The tow truck faced away from us, against traffic. Brake lights flashed as the driver started the motor.

Joanna cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered. “Lane! Wait up!” But it was too late. The loud putter of the engine drowned out her cry and the tow truck pulled away from the curb. Joanna’s hands fisted in frustration at her chest and she stomped her right foot on the sidewalk. “I wish he’d tell me when he plans to come by so I don’t miss him.”

“There might be a reason he didn’t tell you.” Gideon cut her a sour look. “You’d better check and see if anything is missing.”

Joanna lowered her hands and watched as the truck disappeared down the block. Her chest heaved in resignation before she tossed her friend a glance of equal parts shame and irritation. “He can’t get in. I changed the door code after what happened last time.”

Who’s Lane? And what happened last time?I wanted to ask, but it was none of my business. I’d only been asked to take a look at the property.

Joanna stopped in front of the house. The towering three-story structure was painted fern green with ivory trim and shutters. It was split directly down the middle to form two townhouses with identical covered porches on each half of the first floor. But the paint and porches were where the similarities ended. The half on the right was well kept, the porch adorned with a welcome mat, a hanging basket of pink petunias, and two wooden rocking chairs with a small table between them. Yellow lantana filled the flowerbed. Bumblebees buzzed around the tiny blooms. The small lawn in front of the townhome on the right side was filled with lush green grass, the kind that felt wonderfully soft when you stood on it barefoot, making you want to dig your toes into it. The left side looked like its evil twin. The flowerbed was likewise filled with yellow flowers—dandelions. What grass remained in the front yard was overgrown, while the rest of the patch was bare dirt. Three shutters on the upper floors hung askew. One of the front windows on the second floor was covered with a large piece of plywood. The porch steps were rotting, the edges uneven, one stair tread broken through.

Joanna pointed to the right side of the house. “That’s my side.”

I pointed to the dilapidated left half. “Is this one vacant?”

“Vacant and abandoned.” Joanna said a couple called the Bottiglieris had lived there for decades, even before Joanna and her late husband bought the adjoining townhouse, but they’d since passed away. “Mrs. Bottiglieri went first. Kidney disease. Her husband lived here by himself another two years before he moved to a nursing home. He passed on three years back.”

“Who owns the place now?” I asked. “Did he have any heirs?”

“He left the house to his children,” Joanna said. “All seven of them.”

“Seven?” As an only child, I could hardly imagine what it would be like to grow up in a house with six siblings. I supposed it would be awfully crowded, and they’d likely had little privacy. But it could have been a lot of fun, too. There’d always be someone around to play with.

“Seven kids,” Gideon confirmed, frowning. “And not one of them willing to lift a finger to help their father maintain the place. The grandchildren wouldn’t help, either. They’re just as useless as their parents. The house declined nearly as fast as Mr. Bottiglieri did. He couldn’t keep up with it himself. Us neighbors did what we could, which wasn’t much. He was on a fixed income and didn’t have the money to pay for the bigger repairs it needed.”

“Damn shame.” Joanna frowned and shook her head. “Anyway, shortly after their father died, the oldest daughter rented it out. The other kids got in a dither about Mary Ruth leasing it without getting their okay first, but she offered to split the income with them and that shut ’em up. Problem was, everyone wanted a share of the revenue, but nobody wanted to fork out any cash to keep up the place. One thing after another went wrong, nobody would take responsibility for fixing anything, and the tenants got fed up. They moved out before the end of their lease.”

A townhome like this would sell in an instant if it were in good condition. Heck, at the right price, it would sell quickly despite the sorry shape it was in. “Why didn’t the Bottiglieri children just sell the place? Get it off their hands?”

Gideon snorted. “’Cause they’re idiots. All they do is bicker, bicker, bicker.”

Joanna sighed. “I keep my side looking nice and in good repair. It’s the neighborly thing to do. But with the Bottiglieri kids not keeping up their half of the house, it puts my half at risk, too. Mold could spread. Wood rot, too. Not to mention the negative effect on my property value.” She gestured to Gideon. “He and I put that plywood in the window after a limb fell off their tree and broke the glass. If it wasn’t for us, the place would be in even worse shape than it is.”

The situation was horribly unfair to Joanna. “Have you reported the issue to the city’s code enforcement office?”

“I did,” Joanna said. “But the house is still in Lorenzo’s and Giorgia’s names. The citation was issued to them, even though they’re deceased. The code office said that’s all they can do since they’re legally required to go by the names on the deed.”

Buck hooked his thumbs in his tool belt. “You thought about suing their children?”

“I sure have,” Joanna said. “I even talked to an attorney about it. He said it would be difficult for me to prove an amount for damages since my house is still in good shape now. He also told me that just because somebody leaves property to a person in their will doesn’t mean it automatically passes to the heir. The children could disclaim ownership and walk away without paying me a cent. I might be able to get a judgment and file it as a lien against the property, but trying to foreclose on the lien would be a heap of trouble since there’s no living owner of record. Dragging the kids into court would cost a small fortune and Lord only knows how much time.”

What a mess.Buck and I had bought the roadside motel we’d rehabbed at a tax sale. I wondered if this place might eventually go on the auction block. “Have the taxes been paid?”

Joanna raised her hands, palms up. “Who knows?”

Buck’s gaze had roamed the front of the townhouse since we’d arrived, taking in the foundation, roof, and siding. He turned to Joanna. “Any chance you’ve got a key to the place?”

She shook her head. “They left one with me a few times over the years so I could feed their dogs while they went on vacation, but I always returned the key when they got home.”

Buck walked over and stepped up onto the porch, stretching his long legs to bypass the broken step. He tried the front door and found it locked. Same for the windows.

Curious, I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Just thought we’d take a look,” he said. “If the Botticelli kids don’t want this place—”

“It’s Bottiglieri,” Joanna corrected.

Gideon added, “Botticelli was a Renaissance painter.”

“Whatever,” Buck said. “My point is, if the heirs don’t want this place, maybe someone else might. Especially if it’s fixed up nice.” He raised his brows and sent me a look—a look that said this property might be worth considering for a flip project.

It’s a good idea, isn’t it?With the fire station and townhouse on adjoining properties, we could use the dumpster we’d rented for the firehouse job to dispose of the townhouse debris, too. We’d also save time by working on similar projects in each property in succession, while we had the appropriate tools and materials already rounded up and ready for use. I raised my brows, too, and sent a message back to him. I’m willing to consider it. But before we made a commitment, we needed to figure out exactly what we’d be getting ourselves into.