The Guest House by Erika Marks Page A

mattered. It was understood he’d use it to propose to Florence when she arrived with her father in August. Tucker wondered what other arrangements had been made on his behalf regarding his future fiancée.
    “Oh, and Horace wants you boys in Boston first thing next week,” said Garrison, waving away a cloud of smoke. “I assured him your grades were top-notch, but he feels strongly that ya’ll will benefit from a refresher before you take the bar.”
    Next week? Tucker swallowed his disappointment and forced an agreeable nod. He rose and left his father already engaged in a lively phone call with one of the partners by the time he’d closed the door behind him. Upstairs, Jim slept on; Tucker left him a note explaining his absence and slipped out through the kitchen.
    As soon as he reached the bottom of the steps and looked out at the driveway, Tucker saw that the red-haired girl had stationed herself in the crescent of space he would need to pull out the roadster. A fierce charge of excitement or dread—maybe both—ran through him, knowing he’d have to approach her and ask her to move her work. She had her back to him as he came closer, her thin frame hunched over a board, biting her lip as she pounded at the point of a nail to drive it out the other side.
    “Hi,” he said tentatively, not wanting to startle her, especially not while she was wielding—swinging!—a hammer.
    She paused briefly, shot a quick assessing look at him over her shoulder, and returned to her work.
    Tucker took another step forward. “Look, I really hate to ask you to move all this, but, you see, I have to pull out. So if you might could—”
    “It’s fine,” she said, lowering her hammer and already shuffling loose boards into a pile.
    “At least let me help.” This time Tucker didn’t wait for her answer before he started gathering the rest of the boards and carrying them to the edge of the lawn.
    He handed her the hammer, wondering what had become of her hat.
    “What is it you’re doing here, if you don’t mind my asking?” he said. “See, I thought builders were supposed to put nails
into
boards, not hammer ’em out.”
    “They are.” The girl blew a lazy tendril out of her face. “But some
dumb ass
put up a partition wrong, so all the boards had to come down, and I’m taking the nails out so we can use them again. The boards, not the nails,” she clarified.
    Tucker smiled. “Yeah, I figured that.”
    She squinted up at him, considering him in a way that Tucker couldn’t quite make out.
    He slid his hands into his pockets. “I really am sorry about your bike.”
    “Hey, Edie!” someone called out from behind them. Tucker turned to see a tall, dark-haired man with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Kyle needs more spade bits!”
    “Tell him to hold his goddamn horses!” the girl shot back at him.
    Edie
. It suited her, Tucker thought.
    “Must be hard working with all these guys,” he said.
    Edie swung her braid testily over her shoulder.
    “Are you the only girl?” he asked.
    “Do you see any others?”
    Tucker glanced up to find the same dark-haired man scowling at him from behind a stretch of studs. “That must be your brother, then. He’s giving me one of those big-brother glares.”
    “Hank’s not my brother,” she said.
    “Boyfriend, huh?”
    “No,” she snapped, but her glance back to Hank made Tucker suspect he wasn’t the first person to wonder. “What’s it to you, anyway?”
    Tucker frowned, exasperated. “Look, did I do something to offend you?” he asked carefully. “I mean, besides the whole business with your bike. Because I swear, you’re at me like I ran over your favorite pair of shoes.”
    Edie Worthington considered him a moment; Tucker watched a shift in her expression, softness glinting in her gray eyes. “Well, I don’t see how you could have, since I don’t
have
a favorite pair of shoes.”
    “Oh.” He saw the smallest hint of a smile creep up her lips. “Then